8086/1000 Faces: Disirtations on Mortality

1000 Faces: Disirtations on Mortality
Date of Scene:	02 October 2021
Location:	The Sing Sing Karaoke Bar
Synopsis:	Is it just a random disir attack? Not a chance. The hunters seek flesh and life to slake their hunger. But why are they here?
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Sara Pezzini, Cael Becker, Jessica Drew, Brunnhilde, Michael Erickson
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Jane Foster has posed:
Sing Sing Karaoke Bar in Little Italy hosts a vibrant, active performance every Friday night. For those who like to sing, it's a fine opportunity to show off skills to an audience representing everyone from Latinx drag queens to black beat poets from the Bowery and Asian grandmas. Tourists aren't so common looking for a gag; this is a cross-section of society coming together for live stage backup, saucy improvisations, and actual talent now and then.

Or cheap drinks. They do a heck of a deal on well drinks, deep fried ravioli to sigh for, and some decent beers.

Tonight's theme: The Queen's Zeppelin. Said zeppelin is actually a foil thing hung from the ceiling. Led Mercury, a versatile tribute band skilled in shredding their callused fingers and glamming it up. Led Mercury's attire are jeans, a lack of shirts for the men, and Stratocasters galore. The speakers will pump out licks and riffs to support anyone who wants to try their falsetto or others who want to stomp around under the limelight.

The song of the moment: The Show Must Go On. The singer is somewhat mediocre, but makes up for it in enthusiasm and back-up, with two 5-foot-tall Italian women absolutely belting the chorus while their poor nephew or son swaggers around with a microphone, chomping at the syllables.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
A night out. It was a rare thing for Sara to have a night that she wasn't either working in the field, working for the NYPD, or just plain working by going over reports. Thanks to having taken a week off to ensure Cael wasn't brain damaged from her concussion, there was no work and so it was that Sara put on a nice outfit, some actual heels and headed out to have a drink.

The Sing Sing had a reputation, one that she actually approved of, so where better to go for drinks, music and not the deep fried raviolis, her Italian mother would disown her if she ate those.

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael, thankfully, doesn't have an Italian mother - and has no qualms about ordering deep fried foods of most any description. She walks alongside Sara - having seemingly taken exactly no pains to get dolled up for this evening out. She winces as one of the singers manages to hit not-quite-the-right-note, and gives Sara a 'really?' look - as they bair make their way over towards the bar.
    At least it's been a while since she got a serious headache following her concussion. If listening to this racket doesn't cause her headache to return, then she'll officially be in the clear.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The discussion about Pablo Neruda and poetry continued during their dinner in a local Italian restaurant known for the authenticity of the food. Jessica had laid on the Italicus aperitif, and the owner had plied them with homemade limoncello. Two of the party were well lubricated. Jess would plead the curious kick that alcohol can give you when you have been burning the candle at both ends, spider stamina be damned. She has switched to whiskey, which may be a tactical error because she is already humming along with the awful karaoke.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Who doesn't love a cheap drink? The stack of empty glasses in front of her says that Brunnhilde certainly does. And will put up with some absolute caterwauling to imbibe as many as possible. She signals to the bartender for another. And grimaces at the warbling backup singers. "Cheers," she says to no one in particular as she lifts her glass to her lips. The long island ice tea disappears more quickly than it should. The Valkyrie needs another drink.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael, out and about with Jessica and Jane, gets pulled into the Italian restaurant with them (hurray, Florentine steaks) and several rounds of cocktails - which he drinks gamely, sidecars aplenty for him, but doesn't /really/ seem to have given an inch to the alcoholic assault. Instead he sits quietly next to Jessica at their table, another sidecar in his hand, looking like cold fish in the face of the Faux Freddie-Thon. Swirling with motes of light from the Zeppelin, a creature from the stars in discotheque glory.

    "You like this," he asides to Jessica, "You would've loved Studio 54. I saw the actual Freddie Mercury there a couple of times when it was really moving."

Jane Foster has posed:
Sara and Cael can find a spot at the bar or small table squished near a pillar vacated by a flight crew. The Italian trio hop down at the song's end to enthusiastic applause. As the bassist strikes a slick riff, heavy beats slinking down an aural catwalk, the bartender shoves a glass in front of Brunnhilde. "You gotta slow down," he warns her and adds water to her Long Island.

Jane has few opinions on liquor, which probably denies her a promotion within her Big Employer since the lot of them drink like fish. Jess knows her business, and the brunette sips a limoncello a little too fast. "Now I want lemon bars. And leather pants. Why?" They have a good vantage on the stage, giving her ample opportunity to take in other guests. Yes, she will wave at Sara and Cael if spotting them. People-watching vies with taking in the greatest glam rocker wannabes alongside her cool coworkers. "Song change is coming up. Now's your chance," she encourages Michael and Jess equally. "Wife beaters and short-shorts are back in style again?"

Authenticity has the next singer so dressed and in a trucker hat climbing the stairs. He clutches the mic like a lover.

    "Steve walks warily down the street,
    With the brim pulled way down low,
    Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet
    Machine guns ready to go..."

Sara Pezzini has posed:
The bar is a good place to sit, so Sara heads that way. She offers Jane a wave, and another is offered to Michael, as they are the people she knows. Her clothing isn't all that fancy, just nicer than her normal quick pick suits for work. A majority of her clothing ends up in shreds, so she's learned to purchase cheap and settle for what sort of looks good. A pale green mock-silk blouse with a black vest over the top for pockets to hold her badge, and to conceal her weapon. Plain black slacks and a pair of strappy pumps to finish the look. Really the pumps are the only 'dressed up' part.

Taking a stool at the bar, she orders herself scotch neat, and starts looking around at the crowd. You can take the cop out of the office, but you can't stop that cop from being a cop. Instinct always has her looking for signs of trouble and indications of something out of place. She's trying to pretend that band was good, but honestly...

"So Cael," she comments, looking now toward the stage. "Going to sing?"

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael nods towards the table where Jane, Jessica, and Michael sit - her only acknowledgement of the trio before she takes a place at the bar beside her friend, her gaze likewise idly scanning the occupants to see if she spots anything or anyone that appears out of place, or dangerous. Nothing seems to catch her attention, however, as her attention turns towards the bartender. "I'll have the same, actually," she remarks.
    The question from Sara, though, gets a snort in response, and a shake of her head. "Not bloody likely. I'd have to get pretty drunk, first. How about you?" she asks. "What tune are you going to belt out to the detriment of everyone present?" Honestly, she's not sure if she's heard Sara sing before. She could be good, who knows?

Jessica Drew has posed:
A bit lit from the drinks, she grins at Michael, shaking her head. "I hope you're discreet about telling people things like that. At the least, they'll think you're a nerd, or who knows? A kinky nerd. Studio 54!" A thrill of danger licks her spine like a hard guitar riff through the haze of noise and alcohol. Since the terrigen accident, she feels the intimations of trouble acutely.

Ignoring the tingle of intuition, she leans over to Jane so she can hear her through the music, raising her voice "Queen never goes out of style, does it? Did you catch the other agents at the bar? It's SHIELD night out." She lifts a finger in greeting to Becker and Pezzini, then returns her gaze to the stage.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde snarls at the watered down liquor and glares at the bartender. He's certainly lost most of his tip, but at least he won't feel the tip of her blade. Or a blade, anyway. She's better behaved than that.

Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone and another one gone

The air thickens, dust molecules glint in the stage lighting as time seems to slow for Brunnhilde. She's not that drunk...is she? Surely this watered down earth liquor hasn't affected her so much that she'd missed Glam Rock Boudicca's ascendance to the stage.

"Where the bloody hell did she come from?" she mutters. She looks over to the person who'd filled the barstool next to her. "Are you seeing that?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Upping the ante a good big, a beefy lad in leather-daddy duds and a pair of screamingly twinky boys come sidling up onto the stage, doing their best to be shirtless fey backup singers to his absolute unit of a Tom of Finland character. The synth rhythm of 'Body Language' starts over the sound system as Daddy Man stands with arms crossed, snapping his fingers in time and mouthing Freddy's sultry strains while the slender boys use him as their very own pole-dancing practice iron.

    Body language
    Body language
    Body language

    You got red lips
    Snakes in your eyes
    Long legs, great thighs
    You've got the cutest ass I've ever seen
    Knock me down for a six anytime

    'Hot Space' was a Hell of a divergence from Queen's normal musical flow, and it had Freddie's signature scribbled /all over it/.

    "I don't sing," Michael offers to Jane with a hint of apology. "But thanks." He takes another sip from his cocktail, grinning faintly at the homoerotic display being carried out on stage in living color. "Speaking of Studio 54," Michael says, nodding at the lads. "That /absolutely/ reminds me of those days. I was there in '77 doing security for Mick Jagger's thirtieth birthday party. People say that Bianca rode a white horse in, you know, but that isn't true. That horse was already there. She just hopped on for a photo." He looks past her to the ladies at the bar, to whom he offers a toast. "Looks like you're right." He, of course, does not see yonder Glam Gael Gal. All that leather, man. Really draws the eye.

Jane Foster has posed:
The bartender's not impressed by Brunnhilde entirely because a state bust is scarier than her, for now. Beside her, a finger-snapping barfly blinks. "Huh? Oh, that's Teddy." He rolls his eyes. "So /typical/ but what can you do? I like him as Maria Passionata, the drag queen, better."

Sara could be a great lyricist. Led Mercury more than makes up for the follies of all but the worst singers; they actually know how to play, they adore their material, and boom with enthusiasm. Squashed in a booth, a guy in a grey hoodie knocks his knees into the table and growls, "Fuck, it's a ghost!" While bassist and guitarist trade licks, the drummer pounds the kit, swatting over her shoulder with a stick in hand. Some in the crowd finger-snap or clap along ton Daddy and the Fey dancers.

The lights flash as he grins, staring at the faces in the shadows. "Mm, ha, look at me, I got a case of--" A step to the side and the singer promptly trips, knees buckling until he catches himself. A dancer narrowly misses hitting the bassist before careening down the stairs.

A Korean woman two tables back jerks upright and yelp loudly. Another man staring at the stage abruptly grabs a server's arm. "Are those knives for show? That's not a legal costume!"

Jane has the limoncello downed, the glass bouncing from her fingers to hit the tabletop. "No unicorn horn?" she asks, distracted from Michael's security detail long enough to shift in her seat. Not fast enough to stop or even call out about a dagger sailing past her face to bury itself in a brick pillar. Or the two that get lobbed at the bar, smashing into the damaged mirror and dislodging more shards. Another goes wide of Brunnhilde, more Sara-and-Caelward.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Sara nods to the bartender as a thanks as she picks up her drink, but that's all the further it gets before the lovely outfit she was wearing stops existing. Witchblade reacts on it's own in defense of the wielder and does not care if secret identities are a thing, so where one moment Sara was sitting there holding a drink, the next moment metal tendrils explode from the bracelet on her right wrist. First to form is the gauntlet, but in that same span of a few seconds, the rest of her body wrapped by the tendrils to form armor that covers her entire body and in the process destroying her clothing. Five seconds, maybe ten, and the armor if in place.

That same minute amount of time is all Sara needs to shift herself from her seat and stand, putting herself between the incoming blade and Cael. "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas any more," she states, already mourning the blouse. It was a gift from her mother. "Time to get out!" She bellows, hoping to be heard over the music, but seriously doubting it as she heads for the stage. Now the wings erupt from the back of the armor, not with any intent to fly but they make fantastic shields to block weapons from hitting innocent people.

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael only gets a few sips out of her drink before all the chaos breaks out, and rather than taking the time to set down her glass, she simply drops it - her hand going for the pistol she always carries hidden beneath her jacket. "At least we don't have to listen to the singing anymore!" she quips, not arguing with Sara's instinct to shield her as the pair advance, her pistol coming up in a two handed grip as she searches for a target.
    "Ladies and gentlemen - stay calm and exit quickly and quietly! Thank you!" she orders in her most commanding voice. Will the drunken crowd listen? Of course not. But you've got to try, don't you?

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde vaults on top of the bar and runs for the dagger that pierced the brick pillar. With the blade in her hand, she turns to face the stage, scouring the confusion for that strange woman. The snarl on her face shifts into a grin. Looks like she'll have some fun tonight after all.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jess narrows her eyes at the glare of the stage lights and sips at the whiskey, making them water. With a nod at the glam boys, "Not a thing where you come from?" She lip-syncs the chorus, "And another one, and another one, and another one bites the dust." She stops long enough to waggle an admonishing finger at Michael, "Did you just name drop Mick Jagger?"

Fixing her eyes back on stage, Jess steadfastly ignores the tingle at the back of her neck until someone yelps in pain. Then, as a flicker of light resolves into the gleam of a keen-edged knife flying past Jane's face, she reflexively ducks, pulling Jane with her to the not very clean floor.

"Was that meant for you?"She asks pulling back under the table to avoid being trampled.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I did," Michael says, "And no, well. Not dancing. But I can appreciate a handsome man." He's about to say something else when the knife comes hurtling by - and rising, tracks the stage in teh direction of thr hurtling dagger. Perhaps from the outside, he just looks like G. Random Billy Badass in the making, looking to tackle someone. Because that's what big men looking to prove themselves do in jolly old America, right?

Jane Foster has posed:
The daggers hitting brick or wood are pretty strange: long, wider at the top than the bottom, lacking a handle. They instead have a flat shaft that makes them better for throwing. Mostly metal, they have a shiny finish. When Brunnhilde pulls it, the metal seems to give under her hand like it isn't wholly in the world.

Jane hits the ground hard enough to utter an unhappy sound under Jess. "This is only fair after Bobbi, isn't it?" she mutters. It's hard to hear her under the table, but she ducks and covers like the best of them. Growing up in Seattle makes earthquake drills a thing.

Witchblade erupting to engulf Sara briefly stops the 'ghost,' a band member who wasn't there before. Mortals flee where they can. "They break so prettily! Come now, our time to dance." A woman advances, long hair in 70s-esque curls, wearing a shredded dress over chains and a belt of knives. The 'ghost' pulls another knife up, and her ghastly black-lipped smile stretches to show very sharp teeth.

But as the line goes, if you come at the king, you best not miss. Brunnhilde and Sara may be fast, but the ghost is a damn sight quicker than any human will have right to be. She whips another of those knives at Brunnhilde's snarling visage, and then another, as the pointy throwing daggers are hardly in short supply. Does Michael want to tackle that? That... that is blue-skinned, in a northern frozen pallor kind of way. The disir smirks. "I cannot wait to hold your sweet flesh to my lips."

Sara Pezzini has posed:
The length of a shiny bastard sword forms from the tendrils in Witchblade's right hand as she moves quickly for the stage, trying to ensure to put herself between the disir and innocents.

"Disir," she reports, listening to Witchblade rambling in her head.

"Cael, get the people out of here, there's likely nothing you can do to this thing." Now she looks to the disir directly, "Come on lovely, let's play!"

Cael Becker has posed:
    "Later you can explain to me what that means," Cael remarks dryly. This not what she'd planned for her night out but - well. You take the situation in front of you and you fucking deal with it - don't you?
    "Drop the knives! Drop the knives and get down on the ground! Drop the knives no-"
    That's as far as Cael gets before the person - creature? - //thing// hurls its blades into the fleeing crowd. She doesn't track their trajectory - there's nothing she can do about the knives in the air. The only thing she can do is try to stop anymore from being thrown. The loud pop for firearms fills the confined space as she squeezes the trigger, aiming for center-mass of her target. They were playing for keeps tonight.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Unapologetic to Jane, Jess pops up from under the table in time to see Michael menace the knife thrower with a snarl that she shares. Blue-faced knife-throwing women!

"Gnhhh," she growls, leaping to a table top to get height over the panicking patrons. Hands outstretched she volleys a blast of bio-electric energy at the out-of-style performer.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Unluckily for someone, Brunnhilde isn't human. This Aesgardian does not run away from a fight. The disir's weapon wobbles in her hand. She flings it towards the ghost with disgust. Then continues her forward momentum, leaping towards the stage. No plan, just violence.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    This thing that has manifested, hurling blades - it is not what he expected of an evening, and it is not what he /wanted/. Not that he would ever want such an event to take place - he was enjoying the show, Throne save him. "Okay," he murmurs as he drops to the floor behind the table, hiding him from immediate sight, and suddenly there is a flash of violet light and suddenly where Michael was stands now a figure of gleaming red chrome, a cross between an anatomical model and an Art Deco hood ornament. Long metal arms bear hooked raptor's claws upon their fingers, and the shallow 'v' of the otherwise faceless helmet's visor gleams with a seething violet glow that stands bright against the low light of the club.

    << Return to your home dimension or be discorporate, >> barks the sleek red figure in a stern, metallic version of Michael's baritone, and leaps over the table with terrifying strength and aims to rake across the ghost-woman's torso with those eviscerating talons.

Jane Foster has posed:
The disir, Togn, is fast enough to dodge a bottle of beer and three cups tossed at her by the barricaded karaoke guests. Led Mercury doesn't have a backstage, given the stage is a shored up wooden platform. They grab their instruments and follow police orders to get out of the way, running where they can. Another pair of knives in hand, she slashes at anyone getting too close. Kicking a chair completely shatters it to pieces, the table cracking into a ceiling beam and coming down in splinters. That's one way to open space.

"Who would dare command me? I answer none," Togn laughs right as Cael unleashes small metal rounds. Could be an answer to Michael-in-armour, too. The chain beneath her shredded bohemian dress absorbs the momentum, but weird plasma erupts out the other side. Her toothy mouth curves into a snarl, almost confused. Pelted with... nothing? The pain, though, is something to be pushed through as she snatches her own knife back from Brunnhilde with shocking alacrity by any mortal standard. Fast? /Really/ fast. The electroblast from Jessica she does feel more clearly, jerking and whipping one of those knives right at the woman standing on high practically while dodging and squaring up the Asgardian warrior coming for her.

Like she /wants/ to engage. Snappy teeth be snappy. Those talons should part her skin if she didn't twist in an apparently spineless backbend out of the way, though she smashes a table and the corner of the stage to do it.

Jane Foster has posed:
Meanwhile, Jane is very bravely under a table where Jessica left her. Secret identities count for something. She isn't about to crawl away, and dragging an ICER out gives a secondary advantage. "She smells awful. How about we get fresh air and never mention this ever again."

Sara Pezzini has posed:
This thing was fast, she moved like lightning and Sara was having troubles keeping track of the movements. That required more creative thinking. The thing about a magical gauntlet that could make any sort of melee weapons is that bull whips are a melee weapon. If she could manage to wrap the whip around the disir, she could get it standing still for everyone to take a crack at.

The bastard sword shifts to a metal bull whip even as she is considering the choices, a matter of second passing and she snapped the weapon out in an attempt to catch the disir. A real whip would have no chance, but Witchblade was made for this.

Brunnhilde has posed:
The ex-Valkyior is always ready for a fight. Though for the first time in a long time -- that she can remember anyway, -- she wishes Dragonfang were in her hand. She mentally calls for her weapon. It does not appear. She doesn't expect it to.

Instead she picks up a chair on her way up to the wooden platform. It serves as both a shield and a bludgeon. "Command this," she snarls at Togn, taking a swing.

Cael Becker has posed:
    The first bullet or two strike - to very little effect. Surprised, Cael keeps pumping bullets into her, trying to empty the clip. As Bruunhilde and Michael close on the woman, though, she's forced to take her finger off the trigger. Hell. If she keeps firing - she'll hit one of them. And who knows - the bullet would probably ricochet off that red-hued hood ornament. "Fuck," she mutters quietly, her gaze moving off the attacker to scan the crowd for a moment. "Everybody keep heading for the exits! Quickly and calmly folks - we've got this under control! Help each other- YOU," she singles out a woman. "Help him," she jabs her finger at a man who's had one too many, and is clearly struggling to leave.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Catching a flash of violet light, Michael's transformation wrenches a "Holy Hell," out of Jess. She nearly misses fanged-tooth's riposte, barely sidestepping the knife by dancing onto another table. But, it, She, must be stopped, much more important than giving her a boo-boo, Jess switches into more 'classic' spider mode, flipping a hand at her and shooting a web, then another intended to stick her arms to her body.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The thing - whatever it is - does not get further command from the red figure that once was Michael. His job is not to send it into some other dimension; his is to keep it very, /very/ nervous as he executes scything strikes with those terrible red talons; arms that can lift twenty-five tons move through space with such force as to emit a rushing whistle with every stroke. There are flanking combatants all around, and decades of military experience and training make it obvious: all he has to do is keep the fluid creature busy with fear of being gutted by overwhelming force, semi-physical though she might be. To make the extradimensional being feel fear.

Jane Foster has posed:
Togn is plenty happy to let the chair smash on her shoulder. The choice between the whip being hurled at the speed of sound or the wooden leg is clear, which is to try and snatch the Witchwhip or at least deflect it with sharp blades. That ought to give Brunnhilde something of an opening. This likely won't go well.

Each bullet cuts a new path. It rips through her shoulder, her chest, and a smoking wasteland cratered by holes through her armour. Wounds in her back from the bullets haven't registered to the disir as leaking out plasm, but they do leave injuries to be exploited. The ichor spilling won't be stopping any time soon. How do the dead heal? Further, the spider webs sticking to her from Jess' blasts do a number on her ability to move freely, making her a very fast, very strong battering ram. Unlike the Monty Python black knight, but still limited to kicking ass. Well, kick she shall.

Orders to get out cause the civilians to get out. Sing Sing only holds so many people, a benefit to the heroes' cause. Wisdom plants Jane behind the table until it's no longer safe, since stomping mechanized suits, dancing warriors, and spectral daggers are all problematic disabilities. Wait until there's an opening and then she gets up, scrambling for the door. Keeping low may be the smart move...

Sara Pezzini has posed:
The witchwhip strikes out straight and true, and though the disir attempts to make a grab for it, Sara shift her wrist and body just enough to wrap the metal firmly around Togn's body. Then the twist, to lock it in place, the tendrils forming solid metal bands that grow in width and thickness. The original whip stays connected as well, it had to remain linked to the gauntlet.

"Now's your chance!"

Cael Becker has posed:
    Cael keeps her eye on the fight, as she gets the stragglers out of the bar, and onto the sidewalk outside. One of them only makes it as far as the next storefront, before loudly losing his dinner on the pavement. Ugh - great. Cael ignores the man as she scans the crowd for injuries. "Was anyone hit by one of those knives? You," she points at another bystander. "Get on the phone to 911, and tell them to send ambulances - just to be sure. 911. Sing Sing Karaoke Bar. Got it?"
    Gun still in hand - she pops out her clip, which she'd nearly emptied, and slams in a new one just to be sure, glancing back towards the fight once more.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde beats Togn with the broken pieces of the wooden chair until they splinter into nothingness. Then she uses her fists. She punches the undead ghost woman in the face over and over again, ichor oozing over her knuckles. The Aesgardian's breath echoes loudly in her own head. Her lips curl into a satisfied grimace.

Jessica Drew has posed:
SHIELD women are more than party girls! Jess cheers them on. Springing to another table to bring her in closer to the fanged menace, Jess yells at the whip-wielder, "Good one, Pezzini! Between the eyes, Becker!" Impressed by the woman beating the menace with a chair, she urges her on, "Get her!" Too many are people are close to the target, so Jess adds another web to the whip entangling the thing, wrapping her legs, careful to stay out of Michael's way as he charges with his whirling scythes. She spares a glance behind her for Jane."You good?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The creature is bound well - webbed and shocked by Jessica clinched with Pezzini's whip and perforated with Cael's bullets. Brunnhilde upon her like a honey badger, beating her with chair and fists. Likely she will be secured, but long ago did Michael learn of the ways that traitors and insurgents might get away under their own power one way or the other. Can't have any of that.

    In the Imperial cadres, they taught a method of hand-to-hand combat called /theka'ann/, or 'wing-clipping'. A soldier's art, including fists and feet and such additions as rifle butts as part of its martial compass. As Brunnhilde pummels her face with those angry fists, Michael steps past the two quietly, coming in low as he turns and brings a bootheel down upon her thigh with all the force that he can appropriately muster against a creature composed of plasm as much as physical matter. Whatever analog of a bone is in there, it's still solid - or at least it is until his foot makes contact. It's not so much a crunch that emits from her leg as a squelching, tearing sound - whatever's in there is shattered from the force of the blow, a brutal act of disabling violence that stands apart from the graceful storm of death his claws had conjured moments ago. But then again, the cadres were not interested in beauty, they were interested in results. Sharp. Short. Final.

Jane Foster has posed:
Togn fights as any berserk creature would, lethal and driven by hunger and rage into a frenzy. The Witchwhip and its various bands hold her still while Brunnhilde beats her with the pulverized bits of wood, adding to the gaping tapestry of holes leaking plasm. The tacky, ephemeral substance doesn't act like blood so much as a gel sublimating into nothing when torn open. Sara might recognize it from her ventures to the Underworld. The further impeding force of the webbing doesn't let Togn entirely rip her arms free, though she certainly isn't beyond ducking or hurling herself bodily into the Asgardian or throw them both away from the big suit of armour burning brightly against the dim bar.

But there is a price for all that. Great strength without the agility to use it, agility pared down when burnt and shot and then facing whatever those horrible raptor claws are. The martial stance isn't so impressive when she aims to smash her forehead into Brunnhilde's, as the most available target. The armoured attack finds the disir herself isn't fully physical, passing like the jelly of her knives, but compressing that to crush and tear or twist in the Witchblade's cruel imprisonment will eventually have an end. It's just how much she takes down with her, hurling herself to the ground in frissons of violence. Down, torn and splintered, that body occupied by the disir is torn, shredded.

But to the ones who can sense the passing of a dead thing -- or an undead one -- the spirit isn't freed. There is no call for escort, which should be upsetting. The disir's being merely evaporates back into the aether, leaving a heap of goop on the floor. Ewww.

Is Jane good? Not physically maimed, not really, though certainly looking like she might enjoy being sick later.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
The lack of the soul not being at rest, that is what Sara notices first and foremost. No matter the creature it was, the soul should be permitted to pass on, return to the universe and this one will never get to. It angers and saddens her, but that doesn't show. Retracting the metal back to the armor as quickly as she released is, she starts looking around to see if anyone needs assistance.

"So here's the million dollar question," she says to those around her, or anyone who might be listening. "Why did it appear here, now, in this place? Who here was it's target?"

Cael Becker has posed:
    In the distance, sirens can be heard starting to approach. After all, you're never that far from a patrol car in New York. After ensuring that no one outside was in dire medical need, Cael heads back in - arriving in time to see the creature disolve into goo. "You know. If you've seen that once, you've seen that too many times." And this //isn't// the first time she's seen something like that happen.
    "The other question is 'does it have friends?' We can't exactly assume it was working alone. I wish I had the answers."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Another word for ectoplasm is icky, and that is coming from a sticky web-slinger. All animation has gone from the corpse; Jessica sorrowfully wonders whose unlucky body was borrowed for the being to take form in this realm.

She jumps down from her perch to join Jane, suspecting that she knows the answer to Sara's question. "So much for a night out on the town! Was that, whatever it was, out for you?" She scrutinizes the scientist's face, realizing that there is a lot that she doesn't know about her fellow agent.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Now that the fight is over, Brunnhilde slumps down to sit next to the evaporating puddle of goop. "Me probably," she admits, sighing. "And there are more disir, but they shouldn't be here."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael remains standing for a few long moments amid the gelatinous remains of the ghoul, claws flexing as he beholds his reflection in the cold, pallid surface of the nameless plasm. The long 'v' of his visor seethes with a glow that could well match whatever horrid realms from whence the now banished monstrosity came.

    << I just wanted to read poetry, >> he mutters, the words issuing from his body in a metallic sigh. And then there is a further flash of light as he walks away from the scene of the creature's passing, and he is Michael again, jacket and boots, jeans and t-shirt. Frowning. "Is everyone all right?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Getting to the door is the first point of order. The second is making sure none of those damned monsters lurk outside, snacking on all the karaoke goers or the band playing covers and tributes. Jane does that, at least, focused wholly on trying to feel for pain or death. And not a one of them out there, except for a Korean or a guy in a hoodie or a handful of others even know what the Hel happened.

The brunette's expression is distant and vaguely weary, those dark eyes turned to scouring shadows. No one outside is much injured. Those within, another matter; dagger slashes, kicks, battery. All that has to count for something. "It's not the first one," she says quietly. "Another this morning. Keep an eye out for headaches or erratic behaviour." No laugh comes from her lips; foremost, she is a scientist, and the situation is not funny. "Those are the only patterns obvious thus far." A blink and she's back to looking at Jessica, giving her head a good shake to clear dark thoughts away. "Don't blame yourself. We had a good time and everyone came out mostly all right, didn't they? I don't know why you would be a more popular target, ma'am, but thank you all for stepping in. Now if anyone is too opposed, I need a bath. And a fifth of whiskey, at this rate." Not drinking, really.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Armor still in place, the weapons no longer visible, Sara walks toward the door where Cael is. "You have my number," she calls back to the room behind her, then looks toward Jane. "This can't keep happening, so we need to figure out how to make it stop. Go home, bathe, drink, in the morning call me. We'll find a way to put an end to this."

Cael Becker has posed:
    "Don't suppose you have a change of clothes," Cael mutters, looking towards the others who'd been in the fight, then back to her roommate once more. The gun is finally holstered. "Or we going to finish this night by drinking at home - //again//?" Her lips quirk with a hint of amusement. Sure, nothing about this was funny. But you either find a way to make light of it, in little ways, or you go insane.
    "Com'on. I'll drive."

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunhilde looks up as the strangers disperse. So there are more disir. Interesting. But a fifth of whiskey sounds more interesting. Pushing herself back up to her feet, the Valkyrie makes her way to *behind* the bar. And begins to help herself to a generous pour.