8681/Murders of London: Mars in Opposition

Murders of London: Mars in Opposition
Date of Scene:	15 November 2021
Location:	Brick Lane, East End, London, UK
Synopsis:	A great big mess as domestic terrorists wearing footie jerseys and symbols wreak havoc on London. But a darker purpose stirs....
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Tim Drake, Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Zatanna Zatara, John Constantine, Thea Queen

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
And all hell breaks loose,
Yeah, my heart is a-breaking loose,
Yeah, my whole world's breaking loose.
Yeah, and evil is as does and who,
Yeah, but who but me could write this book of cruel?
- "All Hell Breaks Loose," Misfits

Brick Lane possesses more character in a block than most bestselling novels and Hollywood movies. The one-way, skinny road charting a path through former slums and squalid medieval side streets is notorious, a reputation slightly worse than John Constantine's, and not undeserved. Tightly packed buildings still get tagged. Prickly locals turn a gimlet eye on outsiders and tourists. You will certainly be roughed up behind Mother Clucker for wearing the wrong shirt, having the wrong accent, or just because.

But that's much changed with gentrification over the past decade or so. Londoners flock to hole-in-the-wall eateries serving up authentic curry from across the Subcontinent. Trendsetters fog up the windows of The Famous Curry Bazaar and squeeze into Eastern Eye Balti House for mouthwatering, searing meals. Who cares about scribbles on the brick walls or stinking garbage bins in the alley when you've got Bengali or Tamil curry /this/ good?

Trouble starts on the south end near a convenience store and a tattoo shop. A pair of men procure bricks from their backpacks and fling them into a parked Vauxhall windscreen. Six more start smashing up a bagel joint, Raj Mahal sweet shop, an Italian restaurant across from a mosque. Some kid in a hoodie tags the gates with a smear of bright orange spray paint before being chased off. A girl slashes the alley wall with a great inverted V ringed in a circle.

A wobble in the leylines ripples through London before panicked messages crisscross Insta, Twitter, TikTok. Alarms are wailing and sirens blearily chirping out the melodies of the world gone bloody mad. Brick Lane doesn't offer many ways out, and all it takes is one burning car in the right spot to block escape to the north.

Tim Drake has posed:
    While Tim doesn't explain the extent of his search efforts into the CCTV cameras surrounding the Tower, the work he does is... considerable. With Alfred's help, he manages to get swift access, but it soon becomes apparent that the real work has only just begun.

    There are terabytes of video data to go through. Of course Tim doesn't do this manually; he runs it all through an advanced AI-driven algorithm that utilizes both facial recognition and lip-reading software, cataloguing visit patterns, comparing against several governmental databases, and isolating potential candidates for further investigation.

    Unfortunately, the Tower is a tourist hotspot to the point that even after tweaking the algorithm's logic several times over and letting it run for literal days, he's still left with upwards of 50 suspects.

    So he gets creative. He expands the search out wider, into the City of London and the East End. And that's when he finds the pattern.

    Which he then explains, via a rapid-fire series of texts with embedded pictures, to the League contacts he has. Petty crimes over the last week have begun to form an almost geometrically perfect set of arcs when plotted on a map. The Tower of London falls within this 90 degree arc, and the Thames River dock is its center point. He's already extrapolated where the next crimes will occur.

    There's a big red X right over the map. Spitalfields. Smack dab in the heart of the East End.

    At the moment, Tim is settled in one of the chairs of the cafe they've chosen to hold a rather informal stake-out within. He holds a cup of tea within his hands, more for the warmth of it than the caffeine content (though he's not against that, either, naturally) as he stares down at his phone.

    He's just waiting for the notifications to come in. The Roost's computer systems have been set to scan all social media and press originating from the UK. When things begin, the smart watch on his wrist begins to buzz almost non-stop.

    "That's... more intense than I was expecting," Tim admits, once he's shared the relevant details of the ongoing crime spree. And then he stands up, laying down a rather considerable amount of banknotes. Sure, the tipping culture overseas isn't quite the same as it is in America, but they've been camping at these tables for a good while now. He downs the last of his tea and then nods to everyone, before he makes for the door.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    In between everything /else/ he's been doing, Jon's been going through the information he got from the books he flipped through in the Oxford library. This is what he does, often, while researching: flips through a book to get all the information in his head, then goes over it again at leisure. It means he can research in the bath or while on the back of a motorcycle, and it's one of the reasons he often seems half-distracted--he's going through his mental notes about a subject.

    what he got out of that, which he relayed to the group, is that there've only been seven official Ravenmasters. Usually a yeoman was appointed to the position instead, and before the Victorian period it wasn't even clear who was what. The number of ravens has never gone below six, not even during wars or pleagues--Jon makes a comment here about the Blitz, having grown up on stories about it from his grandmother--and the ravens have always lived well. There was a /lot/ of information about food and roost repairs and chicks and burial ceremonies. Nothing about spells, but there are very specific requirements like 'must have 3 blood-soaked chunks of venison from this VERY SPECIFIC place in Devon, or plump pheasant breast from this estate in the Midlands that must be delivered on the third Wednesday in November absolutely and always.' The specificity is archaic, exact, and recorded up to around 1850, when the records probably stop, Jon figures, because they're housed somewhere in the City or whatnot. He figures the requirements are magical in some fashion.

    That was all relayed by text before they even came to England. He goes through a couple cups of tea while listening to Tim, actually drinking them, and stands when he does. "Well. Suppose we'd best get on with it then."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin has been working with Tim almost nonstop. He found the young man's ingenuity inspiring and seemed genuinely comfortable in his presence working on a *job.* When the messages start scrolling on his phone he nods. "It's started... hasn't it?" he asks, as Tim rises and akes for the door.

    He finishes the last of his tea, (so good to get proper nonimported tea in proper London) and slips his gloves from his coat pocket. He's tugging them on when the wave hits him and he staggers a bit. "Oh... oh God..." he says, lurching to one side and grasping a table for support. He's sweating and looks sick to his stomach. "I... I can feel it? Why... why can I feel it?" he asks, looking to Jon.

    This wasn't something he usually feels. But recent events have moved him more into the field of his mother's work. Things he had neglected for over a decade. "It's... wretched..." he's pale and looks like he's going to sick up right there. "Whatever this is... it's... like vinegar and grease and... just..." He swallows again, trying to fight back the bile rising in his throat.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The cafe is not a far walk from the family flat on Tottenham Court Road, where she joined Tim to have tea - having just shared with him that she can still see the lines linking the ravens when she visits the tower and catches up with his news concerning the CCTV. She nearly drops the heavy brown Betty that she pours from when the leylines go wonky.

The disturbance is like a 7.5 earthquake through London proper. Some places are 'leyline quake proof' like Saint Paul's and Westminster Abbey. But the little cafe rocks like a boat on high seas. Zee wants to hold onto her seat, but the 'muggles' would think her mad. Tim sees the manifestation of what she feels in the crimes that seem to burst across London spontaneously.

Martin and Jon feel it, too. She shares a look with the two, her face blanching at the disturbance. "It's terrible. We need to go."

She puts down the teapot, makes sure the bill is covered, before following the others out the door.

John Constantine has posed:
Down the streets strolls a man who seems well at home in the less glamorous, more working-class streets of Old London Town. His shoulders hunched against the chill, his heavy overcoat a tan colour that's been given a look all its own by years of stains both noxious and not. In both hands he holds something wrapped in greasy, near-transparent butcher paper. Flat bread, wrapped about meat and onions, the bottom end of the bundle close to dripping the contents all over the ground.

Kebab. Meal of Kings.

He'd said that he'd 'meet them there', and he has for the most part. By way of the Carpenters Arms on Cheshire Street, then a quick tipple at the Ten Bells. Around his neck is a red and white Liverpool scarf, the only change to his rather samey daily get-up.

"When you walk," he belts out at the top of his lungs upon finishing a mouthful, "Through the storm! Hold your he-e-ad up hi-i-igh!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Brick Lane by night can accommodate one car, and that's a stretch. When a car happens to be flipped over sideways, it totally snarls foot and limited vehicle traffic. Add some potted "holiday trees" knocked over for good measure and suddenly even crossing Princelet Street becomes a kind of urban parkour no one asked for. Least of all the diners trying to chow down on chicken tandoori or tongue-searing mango chicken and aloo. When a huge streak of red paint rips over a front window courtesy of a hoodie kid in heavy grey and track pants, the diners inside Eastern Eye Balti House jump to their feet. Another lurid line crosses the first, a wonky bit of graffiti.

The magical lines ripple. Something gives, tearing away slowly like a curl of string cheese.

Hooligans spread out how they will. Picking them out from other people in gray or black coats galore at first is tough. Actions speak louder than words, though cursing at "Damn immigrants" in much more colourful language or "f**king posh uppity bints" in equally rude patter is pretty much at 80 decibels to start with.

The group thus hasn't an easy time trying to navigate around people happy to throw a punch at their face or anyone else, for that matter. Across the lane from Eastern Eye, patrons react to spiderwebs forming on glass after a table is thrown at the Italian restaurant with screams and racing back through the kitchen. Unlike so many places in London, Spitalfields lacks back exits. The quick-footed find a squashed terrace full of cigarettes, balconies looming overhead. Nasty place to be trapped.

Thea Queen has posed:
Informal for some! But for Thea, who still keeps her secret identity she is dressed for 'business', which in this case means the red and black leather outfit of the Red Arrow, hood up, mask on. Bow on her back. Ready to rumble. It also means she isn't exactly inside the caffe but outside.

"I got some info through the grapevine." she sends through comms to the others, "Regarding a couple of men who work at the Tower of London. They should be at the Eastern Eye Balti house."

As the rest starts vacating the caffee she follows through the rooftops.

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's true that Tim can't feel anything. None of the magical aftershocks touch him, because he has exactly zero mystical sense. But he sees the way it ripples through the others.

    Which is a strange thing to see, from an outside perspective. He shoots a concerned glance at Martin, who seems to struggle with it the most, and his hand hovers near the door handle. But they all recover, and Tim nods as he leads the way outside.

    He glances upwards to acknowledge the info Thea provides over comms, though it's brief, not wanting to alert anyone to Red Arrow's location up above should it prove necessary for her to swoop down for a save.

    Instead, he makes for the epicenter of the ongoing crime spree, phone gripped in his hand and map auto-populating with more location marks as reports continue coming in.

    Tim really wishes he had his HUD, right about now.

    The car hardly provides an obstacle for him. He's made the wise decision to dress down in comparison to his previous trip to London, so: jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, heavier jacket overtop that. Sensible shoes to run in. And he takes a running leap off of a trash bin, onto the overturned car, and then down into the thick of it all.

    "Hey!" he shouts, as someone tries to acquaint their fist with his face. Naturally he ducks down and out of the way, but it doesn't bode well for making further forward progress.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon turns to Martin as he stands from the table and staggers. He reaches out instinctually to grab his husband, to try to stabilize him. He felt it too, but he's more /used/ to that than Martin is, inasmuch as 'two months' is time to get used to these things. Maybe holding Martin up is half an excuse to hold on, himself, as the ley lines ripple and tear. "Good lord," he whispers. Closes his eyes, and /very/ deliberately does a thing he does not like to do, at all.

    Jon forces himself to be /calm/, holding in the flavor of the tea and the feel of Martin there in his arms, Tim's quiet confidence, the steadiness of Zatanna. Calm, calm, calm. /Calm/.

    Then he pushes it out, an aura about him as far and strong as he can manage. To try to quell some of the violence in the /very/ immediate area, to give the others room to work. And to help keep himself and Martin, darker-skinned as they are, from being /targets/.

    "How do we /fix/ this?" he asks as the group moves, the calm threading through his voice still too. "Just get the men who work at the Tower out of here?" He's staying near Zatanna and Martin, to give them the benefit of the aura.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    As the calm washes over Martin some of his color returns and he takes a slow breath. "I'm... I'm alright. Just... I'm not used to this sort of thing... it's been... well... my mum." He gives Jon a look that he knows the man will understand and he nods as he straights.

    "One of two avenues. Stop the source, or last stand at the end... usually I would go for the former." He tugs on his gloves tightly and the sigils and formulae etched into the leather flicker with turquoise light as the contact with his skin activates the amplification spells in them. "But given the situation out there..." He winces as Tim barely dodges a swing. "I'm not sure if we could even get to it. Especially if it's part of the mobile crowd."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The streets thrum with the disturbance the farther they penetrate into Spitalfields. The leylines rumble with aftershocks, visibly throwing Martin and Jon off balance until Jon exerts himself to be calm and extends that aura to those around him.

Without overthinking it, Zee mirrors the calm he radiates by murmuring, "mlaC. "mlaC," over and over.

A voice sings to high heaven over the shouts of the crowds. The rasp of the voice recognizable to her any place on earth, turns her head and puts a stop to her augmenting Jon's calm.

"You! Are you /ever/ on time?"

Or not three sheets to the wind, she thinks, but she doesn't waste her breath on the obvious.

"Did you feel the first attack? It's bouncing off the warded areas around the City and the Tower. We need to find the source."

John Constantine has posed:
"Steady on," John cries out as one of the hooligans half-falls bodily into him, "Piss off!"

There's nothing elegant about it, but John swings a leg through the air and sets the hooligan stumbling unassuredly away from him. For good measure, he brings that same foot up to plant it right between the man's legs. There's a little yelp, and he tumbles down to be lost amidst the rushing feet and crushing press of the crowd. Before he vanishes, John notes the shirt he's wearing and mutters: "Why are these cunts all wearing the same thing?"

"Oi!" Constantine calls, in a voice oddly timorous and resounding - prompting the mischief-makers to part just enough for him to squeeze through. He nonchalantly walks towards the House, picking loose bits of lamb from the kebab and popping them into his mouth.

Riot or not, he doesn't seem at all fussed by it. And the chaos seems to move around him like a raging river around a stone.

Zatanna's voice draws him out of whatever deep (or shallow) thought he's in, and he turns slightly at the hips to glance at her.

"What's that shite about the wizard never being late? Lay on, MacDuff. Let's get the bastards."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Thea's rapid pace over the rooftops is partly due to the compact nature of buildings. Only at Princelet Street intersects Brick Lane -- a pretty narrow distance -- does she have to negotiate a long jump. Eastern Eye Balti House rears up ahead of her, three stories of urban apartments over the red-fronted restaurant at street level.

Scores of graffiti on the street corner below has an artful bend, currently being mauled by the amused hooligan in his grey hoodie and stripey pants. He chips away with a stolen length of pipe, probably ripped from a sign. His pace is no longer quite so hurried. Another fellow's almost desultory about using a wreath holder like a pick-axe, smashing at windows lazily, ignoring the glass on his charcoal sleeve.

Hiding Londoners aren't coming out from the buildings they've sheltered in. Their frantic efforts to barricade themselves slow, the hysterical weeping reduced to an enforced weepy stare in a distraught diner. Those without shelter slow in seeking it, at least nearby.

The caustic feel of the grating spells on any mystic's Sight begins to weaken, though the sensation of slow unpeeling continues at a much reduced rate in spots.

Where the effects haven't settled in -- Brick Lane's long -- the random acts of chaos indeed swirl, a river unleashed.

Thea Queen has posed:
With Constantine talking about them all being dressed alike Thea comments on comms, "Yea, what's with all the grey hoodies..?", she murmurs, "They also seem to be the ones causing more trouble." the long jump is perhaps a touch harder to negotiate. No one drops and breaks a foot or a neck though! Good.

"If you guys want to get through the chaos more easily come up here." She suggests, "Got to love London architecture.." such nice compact buildings! Perfect for vigilante adventures...

"The restaurant is assailed by more of those grey hoodies. Going to try and see if I can get them to scatter..." and she shoots an arrow down at the offenders near the restaurant, it exploding in a tear gas cloud.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Inside Tim's head, several paths forward sketch themselves out in his head. He's limited in his civilian clothes, though of course he's wearing body armor underneath all his layers. Every decision he makes, even the minutiae, has to first be run through a filter to determine if it's consistent with what Tim Drake should be reasonably capable of managing.

    Comparatively not a whole lot. He's pretty well restricted to being backup nerd support with a big wallet. So he times his movements to be slower, the telegraphed punch he could've avoided easily becoming a near miss, the fluidity of his vaults and tumbles purposefully made sloppy.

    If he didn't have the wash of calm from, he suspects Jon, it would be a lot more annoying.

    "Red Arrow's right, they're all wearing similar clothes!" Tim calls out as he moves, not making as swift progress towards the Eastern Eye Balti house that he's highlighted on his phone as their final destination.

    Which is much more ominous than it needs to be. He hopes.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Pretty low bar for toughness there, grey-hoodied hooligans spraypainting cars and scaring the local diners by throwing wreaths or flipping tables. A higher cut of thug burns a car. But who brings a badass tear gas arrow to the game? Red Arrow, that's who.

They weren't prepared for the hissing gas erupting in a stingy cloud, and one guy immediately starts wiping at his face. He pulls his collar up, revealing a band of blue and white from under his hoodie. Staggering away with streaming eyes, he spits and sniffles gobs of snot. Another throws himself at the cracked glass door to get inside. A third crumples on the sidewalk, scrambling on all fours to get away. Totally terrifying! He doesn't have a hope against Tim's controlled punch or block, partly because his eyes are watery with tears. A tattoo of three lions marks the guy's wrist as he takes a swing that even Tim's grandmother could conceivably have ducked.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You may have arrived precisely when /you/ meant to, John, but that's hardly when everyone /else/ meant you to," Jon notes to the wizard with a quirked brow. "You'll have to get the Cliff's Notes about what we're doing. C'mon then, just like old times, foot chases through streets not meant for cars." He actually grins. "At least it's not for trying to skip out on a pub bill for once."

    The violence that erupts in front of them would disturb his calm and thus the aura, but Zatanna's reinforcement holds it all. "Not everyone can leap across rooftops with such ease, architecture or no," Jon notes into the comm. "Up might be the better option, though, with tear gas!" He looks around for a moment, then turns to scramble up the side of the building, using a convenient drainpipe for purchase. Quite glad he's been spending most of his spare time in the SHIELD training courses.

    Once up on the rooftop, he stops to see who folloed him up and who's staying on the ground, then keeps moving toward their destination.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin watches as Jon scrambles up the side of the building and then sighs. He withdraws the ICER from its holster at his rib and aims at the rooftop. There is a soft pop sound as the grapple attached to the gun fires and latches to the ledge of the roof. After a few tugs of securing the line he presses the control to reel him up to it's fixed location. It's fairly quick and he's at the ledge just as Jon is pulling himself up.

    He looks down at the scene of chaos below and sighs. "I don't like doing it this way but we need to be careful, they're not in their right mind. Then, with practiced training of fifteen years, he starts firing nonlethal shots down at the rioters in grey below. He's not one of the best in SHIELD when it comes to marksmanship, but anyone who is anyone in SHIELD has to keep their skills sharp in order to stay on the team.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Well, they didn't know you, you bastard," she mutters mostly to herself, almost grinning, despite knowing better.

"Come on. Give me a break, John, and don't let someone hit me with a bin while I fish to see if I can find where this started."

The phone in her jacket pocket tings and she pulls it out for a quick look - Tim's area map updates with the Eastern Eye as their objective.

"Well, how mystic. John, we're headed for the Eastern Eye.

While the others go up, Zee elects to stay in the mayhem on the ground. At that moment, a grey hooded hooligan rolls a bin down the street like he is playing lawn bowls with pedestrians, aiming for a couple trying to beat a retreat from the Balti. She catches sight of three red lions tattooed on his extended arm at the wrist.

"!potS," she flicks her fingers, and the rattling metal bin tips upright, much to the boy's surprise. The couple never saw it coming and, run up the street.

Hands held palm up (she is not testing to see if it is raining) Zee closes her eyes against the gas stinging them, trusting John will keep destruction raining down on her .

Surprise her, John?

Tamping down her growing sense of menace approaching, she casts, "?snoiL eerhT eht fo dleihS eht sdael tahW" (What leads the Shield of the Three Lions?)

John Constantine has posed:
"You got anything on that magic radar of yours?" John asks of Zatanna, looking here and there. The benefit of Synchronicity is that problems sometimes seem to flow around him, leaving him untouched while the world goes to chaos. It's evident in how the hooligans seem to move about him, rather than actively bothering him. He does throw a bunch when one shoulders him too heavily and his kebab falls to the ground, meat and lettuce scattered on the ground.

"This isn't a regular riot," he explains with the air of someone who has experience in such matters, "They'd have rolled on to the pub by now."

He abides by Zee's request as best he can. He pushes some people over who are getting too close, and even at one point catches a thrown half-brick and tosses it back recklessly into the crowd.

"I reckon I'd like to go inside, luv. Bit noisy out here."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Being atop a four storey building helps when it comes to staying out of Thea's tear gas. The hoodlums don't have the same benefit until they think to pull up their collars or cover their faces. Adjusting for fashion and continuing to fight or beat down on random passersby, Christmas or holiday ornaments, or dingy storefronts isn't very easy to do when weeping like a girl seeing the Beatles in 1966. Therefore taking ICER shots at them is somewhat easier, though a few civilans trying to rush by are still at risk.

Martin is luckily trained to not accidentally knock out the public. Or maybe he can say it was for safety! Alas, no way to know. He drops a hooligan still carving up the front of a smokeshop, and now the miscreant lies in the street. When the door to the Balti opens, letting the couple out and ultimately freed by Zatanna, the fellow fighting with the door takes his opportunity to dash inside to relative safety. Or a lot of chaos and jumping under tables.

Mind, it makes it that much easier for /John/ to walk in, along with tear gas, no less potent than the chef's "medium spicy" curry for the people who order off a secret menu or belong to Deliveroo (may you suffer). It's a nice place with white linen-covered tables, Indian art on the walls depicting beautiful landscapes, tossed cutlery and dropped dishes while the coordinated defense of the kitchen comes thanks to two Yeoman Warders organized against the assault. Not that they're in uniform; they aren't. Thea's intelligence was good, though.

Further down Brick Lane the violence spills on. These were not the only troublemakers but certainly the center of it, by and large.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's eyes immediately water. It's in the name, after all: tear gas. He's tearing up, but he just blinks through the pain, zipping up his own (red, don't worry) hoodie all the way so he can tuck his face down into it.

    It's not much, but he's been forced to deal with tear gas straight to the face before. Exposure training, and all that.

    So he's still managing, shouldering his way through the crowd. With the smoke billowing around him, he stops putting as much effort into seeming innocuous. Under the cover of Red Arrow's trick arrow, Tim is free to move at his usual clip. He spins around as someone throws a punch, grabbing hold of his attacker, stealing his momentum and using it to put the man on the ground.

    Another goes down from a well placed knee in the stomach. A third Tim flips over onto a trash bin.

    "So," Tim says over comms, and he's definitely sniffling from the tear gas but otherwise sounds only mildly displeased as he continues knocking down any of the chavs cluttering up the entrance to the Eastern Eye. "Maybe my lack of local knowledge showing, but what's the significance of the three lions? Or the colors blue and white? Seeing some commonalities down here."

    He drops down, sweeping someone's feet out from underneath him. Tim himself doesn't need to make it into the restaurant. All he really has to do is clear the way for the mystic folk to get inside.

    The amount of groaning, curled up grey-hoodie-wearing bodies he's leaving on the ground should help in that regard.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glances at Martin for a momnet and smiles at him. He can compliment the man's aim /later/. Later. Right now? He lets the 'calm' aura drop, and pulls out his own ICER. In his suit he probably looks 'official' enough to make non-hooligans leave.

    "The Football Association," Jon says as he looks at the edge of the roof across from the Eastern Eye Balti House. "The governing body, in England, of what you Americans call 'soccer,' more properly called 'association football.' They were granted a coat of arms in 1949, similar to the royal arms of England. On each side a lion party per fess argent and azure charged on the shoulder with a Tudor rose and with the interior hindfoot resting on a football proper Practically anyone in England could tell you that, though." A pause. "I mean... they're /football hooligans/, of /course/ they're going to have the Three Lions, that's like... like..." He casts about for an appropriate American example.

    "...It's like some Southern redneck sporting an eagle holding an machine gun on their shirt," he manages finally. "...Wait, are you thinking there's a tie?" He blinks. It hadn't even occurred to him.

    Then he shakes himself, and climbs on back down to brave the tear gas and get into the Eastern Eye, pulling his jacket up around his nose once he's down on the ground. Eugh.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin listens closely enough to Jon, and sighs. "Of course they're football hooligans... what else is new in this part of London..." he mutters. He doesn't like the prospects of going down into even the residual effects of teargas but theres's no help from it.

    Luckily the grapple works just as well as a rappel line and he casually makes his way down the face of the bulding with practiced bounces.

    Honestly, Jon, there's a decorum to be kept around SHIELD agents...

    He tugs the line free and allows it to coil back into the ICER before moving forward into the target building with the others, covering what he can with the sleeve of his coat as he passes into the noxious fog.

John Constantine has posed:
"Aghh! Kweh!"

John frowns as the gas begins to spread, eyes narrowing against it. But there's something about Synchronicity that makes sure he's always prepared for the job as well. He reaches into his pocket to produce two sets of goggles, bound by a rubber band. Pilfered from a hardware store on the walk here.

He lifts the first pair up and unceremoniously wraps them around Zatanna's head, not pausing to ask permission. He then puts on his own. Finally, he unfurls his Liverpool scarf long enough to wrap it around both of their mouths and draw them together cheek for cheek.

"Don't think nothin' of it, luv," he says, muffled and partially drowned out by the din, "Keep lookin'!"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
If John hadn't roped them together with his scarf so they could dance cheek to cheek, her heart beating so hard she could hardly speak, her knees would have buckled under the torrent of magic that assaults her. Shocked by the tumult, she stands gaping under the scarf.

The Gherkin twists and explodes outward, the Thames leaps from its banks, engulfing people, cars, and buildings in its ravening path.

Tenements crash to the ground, and a spreading cloud of dust rings the Tower that rises black against the sky. Paens rise high as the birds that fly in a thousand languages.

The vision swirls around a yawning void.

"Inside, John. Inside!" She slips her arm under his, "Don't make anything of it, you. Damn, the footballers!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
New? Local residents might have said the community dog park round the way or that fabulous takeaway place doing vegan burgers. Maybe the doner place with Superman and Batman having a conversation with Black Widow and Hulk painted on the roll-up door!

The fewer hooligans in the vicinity of the Eastern Eye Balti House include the guy left groaning, hugging his midsection, the chap with the torn hoodie and the spit-stained white footie tee, and the bloke with a goose egg forming, also sporting a tattoo of the triple lions on his neck. Turns out actual combat finesse over being a brute from the pub has its advantages.

The interior of the restaurant, open to John already, doesn't feature much to worry about except the one tear-gas victim who decided to flee inside. Martin and Jonathan need only mosey after Tim in there. The hooligan's plans may go up in smoke when he's half-blind from Thea's work, though he manages to grab a pitcher of water and throw it over his own face before someone shrieks and another of those tugs bends backward on the peeling theatrical sign of a magical ward gives way.

Another snap frays whatever moored the subtle magic at a distance, but somehow connected to edges of the City. It's not completely unmoored, but definitely battered.

Not like anyone can just mosey into the kitchen without being threatened by a gauntlet of pots, warming trays, and angry soldiers. "So!" shouts the guy. He sounds very, very Londoner. "You bloody gits get the message? We don't want you foreigners here no more! This is your warning. Get out of our country. Fancy I burn the place to make a point, huh?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Once the way is mostly cleared, Tim strolls into the Eastern Eye casual-as-you-please, and goes immediately to the nearest napkin dispenser so he can wipe his face.

    In fact, he picks up the dispenser and cradles it in his elbow so that he can continue trying to clean his face as he skirts around the counter and heads for the back, into the kitchens.

    Hearing someone being disgusting, as this particular hooligan is, prompts Tim to raise the napkin dispenser in one hand.

    Then something very strange happens.

    There, in the corner, is a familiar face. From the Tower CCTV tapes. Tim's reddened eyes blink wide, and he loses his footing on a piece of naan that has tragically fallen to the floor. His arm cartwheels, and the hooligan turns at precisely the correct time for his face to slam right into Tim's.

    Unfortunately for Tim, the height difference is such that the chav's forehead smacks right into Tim's nose, which immediately begins to gush blood.

    "Ffffffffffffffff" is all Tim has to say about that as he crumples, hand against his face. His other hand flaps dramatically in the air.

    ...wait, no. He's... pointing? To the corner? TO THE CORNER. At the Yeoman Warder standing there, shielding a civilian with his body!

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon strides on into the restaurant after Tim, moving to grab his own napkins, but then... stops. He's heard those kind of words before. Hurled at him, at his grandmother, at his cousins. 'Get out of our country,' as if England hadn't come to theirs first. 'I'll burn the place down to make a point' as if they didn't claim an immigrant creation as their national dish.

    So he's furious, is the point, and he has a /job/ to do, and he'll do it, but he's furious. So. He ignores the Yeoman Warder for now. Someone else can handle him.

    The ICER comes up, and it looks like a normal gun. He points it at the hooligan's back, fills his voice with telepathic compulsion. "/Stop/. /Turn around/." Simple commands, his voice filled with crackling static.. "/Tell me why you're here/." Maybe he can get some information out of the hooligan before shooting him.

    Not dead. ICERs don't do 'dead' really. But, you know. Headache at least.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin isn't as keen to draw on the men in the pub until he notices what Tim is pointing at. One of John Owen's staff. These men are after Owen's staff. His ICER is already in hand and he also points it. Another weapon trained on the number of men in the room. It evens the odds some, but not fully.

    "I would answer the man were I you..." he adds, his own voice only carries the authrority granted him by SHIELD, no mystic energy in it right now. After all, between Jon, Zatanna, and John there's an overabundance of mystical energy already.

    "You're already under arrest. Your answer might give you some room to lessen whatever sentance is going to be leveled at you for this act of *terrorism.*" That was always a word that got these sort of people's attention.

John Constantine has posed:
"I'm gonna take a look around," John offers, spinning on the spot so the scarf unfurls and remains wrapped around Zatanna, "You see if you can find out what's causing it. If anything."

That said, Constantine moves away from the sorceress and towards the kitchen. It's more open in here, so it's easier for him to move. He pauses near a table, picking up a bowl and sniffing the contents. A moment later he's shovelling a little of it into this mouth.

"Mmph," he calls back to Zatanna, "This is mint. Let's not let 'em burn the joint down, okay?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Gagging on the magical vision, she called down on herself; Zee is further assaulted by the insults hurled at Jon. She stumbles to a chair that happens to face the Tower's Warder, just out of range of Tim's cartwheeled pratfall into the hooligan. Wincing hard at the sound of his nose cracking, she has a ringside seat to Jon's anger as the footballer, under compulsion, slowly turns towards him.

"Oh, Tim," she groans.



"Criminy, John, stop stuffing your face and get back out here. Bring me a plate, too."

She stands as Martin threatens the Warder, adding strength to the command.

Face flushed with anger at the man's betrayal; she does not need to reverse her words, "Answer the man!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The Yeoman Warder doesn't know who Tim is. But headbutted by a racist hooligan? Not on his watch! "Oi! Red shirt, get out there, help that kid!"

Red shirt, a random diner, is forced to consider how to assist after gawping. "Wha? He's bloody mad!" Such heroism as he wields his sauce pan threateningly at the football hooligan. His interference doesn't much matter when everyone else more heroic than "IT security admin 2" gets into the fray.

Jonathan's threat gets the hooligan looking around, puzzled more than clear, not quite with it. "Wot?" His lip peels back. "Was I not loud enough? I'm here to tell all these bloody immigrants to get out of London and leave. Ruining our country, they are. Do you hear?" He swivels slightly. "Get. Out. You don't belong, none want you, go back to Poland or Sri Lanka or South Whateverica you came from. Right proper we take our country back and boot the illegals out." He really doesn't care about John moving off or Martin's warning, not enough to stop. Smugness boils off of him in that awful, blind assurance of someone certain they are right, doing the right thing, even kicking the crap out of others or threatening arson.

Maybe Martin needs to take that shot after all, computing angles or something.

The footballer just shrugs. His purpose is no secret. "/Leave/."

Tim Drake has posed:
    As it turns out, that kid doesn't need help.

    Tim's still clutching the napkin dispenser, which he's liable to need here shortly given the copious amount of blood currently trickling down his face. His shirt is already ruined, unless he swiftly gets it into the hands of one Alfred Pennyworth, the only man with the knowledge and skills to save it.

    But the shirt isn't his priority. Wadding up a bunch of napkins to shove against his face isn't a priority. As the hooligan continues his racist, xenophobic rant, Tim slowly straightens up. The hand pinched against his nose gives a quick jerk, resetting the bones into place, and then he blinks rapidly a few times.

    The napkin dispenser clatters to the floor as Tim takes one step forward and rams his forehead against the chav's nose in retaliation.

    "Fuck you," is all Tim has to say as the hooligan goes down like a sack of potatoes.

    Then Tim leans against the counter, swiping at the blood coating his lips and chin with the back of his hand. Belatedly, he mutters a "Sorry. Couldn't listen to him any more."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Well, then. If the hooligan isn't /aware/ of any mystical influences on his racism and xenophobia...

    Jon's about to pull the trigger on his ICER when Tim headbutts the man. "Bloody hell, Drake! I was--" He glowers. Not that it matters, but he /really/ wanted to shoot the guy.

    Then he sighs. "Thanks," he says. And sounds like he means it.

    "Bloody Empire doesn't need /help/ falling," he grumbles, and looks around at the others. The people the hooligan was threatening were... the Yeoman Warder? He sighs and shakes his head as he puts the ICER away. "Can't even go after the right people with his /stupid/ ranting. Martin, can you... help with Tim's nose?"

    He looks to the Yeoman Warder and says, "We're, ahh, here to help." He pulls out his SHIELD badge, flashes it briefly. "Looking into a terrorism threat." Martin had used the word, so... it fits well enough. "If you can help us arrest these men and answer some questions, we'd appreciate it." Sound official, that's the key.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin holsters his ICER and lets Jon deal with the authoritative stuff. It's good practice and builds the man's confidence. He moves over to Tim and looks at the man's nose. It's reset but there's clear cartilige damage involved there at just a prelim glance.

    "Come here..." he says, leading the young man to a seat. "This is going to hurt a bit. You set it but might've used a bit too much force... I'm going to have to restore some of the cartilege" he says and brings his hand up towards Tim's face.

    A soft blue-green glow surrounds Martin's gloved hand and the sigils there shimmer with more vivid light. He waves it over the young man's nose and there is a soft shimmering sound, like sequins being stroked in the proper way. Internally, the process of restoring cartilege is a long and often painful process. This is the same process... but accelerated to a matter of hours instead of weeks.

    There is a sharp pop internally as new material manifests in the man's nasal cavity. It's tender, and fresh and may even bleed a bit, but it's proper and won't take over a month to fully heal. Martin examines his work and nods. "There... just... ibeuprofen tonight and it should be good as new tomorrow" he says, giving the man a clap on the shoulder as the blue-light surrounding his gloves fades away.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Righto, I've got, what, nine people back here? It safe for them to come out?" One Yeoman looks tiredly to his partner and they step aside, though the gathered civilians aren't pouring out any time soon.

The other Yeoman rubs his weary head, brown hair cropped close. "I don't even know how to explain this one to the... right mess." He trails off, thoughts clashed, and finally crumpled together in pure exhaustion. "Bollocks. All of this is a mess."

John Constantine has posed:
"On it," John calls, moving to scoop up a bowl from the table when Zatanna calls him back over. He's balancing them both inexpertly on his forearms as he moves back across the room, holding them both as he takes his predetermined position alongside Zatanna.

John is still chewing as he watches the man get clobbered and go down. His eyes go from the crumpled body back up to yeoman.

"Freak typhoon on Brick Lane."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna whistles at the metamorphosis of her mild-mannered nephew into head butt expert supreme.

"Blood will tell," she observes to the room with admiration.

She snugs John's scarf down, takes the bowl, finds an unused spoon on a nearby table, and digs in.

"He's right," she says after swallowing, "it's a mess."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The same person who made Tim take a faceful of tear gas in training thankfully also taught Tim how to properly reset a broken nose.

    Okay, well, actually Bruce probably broke his nose in training and then Alfred taught him to reset it properly. Either way, the point is that Tim managed not to damage himself further in the process. Still, healing it is an uncomfortable few moments, though Tim just sits where he's told to and blinks through Martin's various magical gestures.

    When it's done, Tim carefully palpates the surrounding area, takes a slow inhale through his nose, and then nods. "Thanks."

    Then he looks up at Constantine. Specifically, at the bowls he's carrying. "Is that vegetarian?"