9760/Path of Glory: Wisdom of Ein-Sof

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Path of Glory: Wisdom of Ein-Sof
Date of Scene: 05 February 2022
Location: Central Park
Synopsis: Lydia, Phoebe, and Meggan focus their efforts to erect the Sefirot Seal in order to remove Michael from the battlefield. It works... but at what cost.
Cast of Characters: Michael Demiurgos, Lydia Dietrich, Johnny Blaze, Clarice Ferguson, Raven Darkholme, Phoebe Beacon, Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine, Tim Drake
Tinyplot: Path of Glory


Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The darkness of night hangs heavy over Central Park, but there is a light in it's heart. Many lights in fact. The work has been exhausting but it's ready. The miniature Sefirot, a painstaking endeavour in itself was drawn as a perfect replica of the greater tree laid over Manhattan proper.

    Between the greater circles built in secret about Manhanttan, the materials used in empowering such circles (mystical metals, fluids, and direct will) and the time put forth in Central Park--all while ensuring that no notice was given to the activities therein; it has truly been an undertaking of immeasurable skill.

    Even harder, was keeping as much of tonight's final touches under a tight lock and key. Anything in the geographic center of the park would be at the botton of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onnasis Resevoir, and while there was certainly mystical power there, (the memory of a pillar of humanity in United States history, as well as the innnate power of water that served the park itself,) some of the participants would be hard pressed to truly survive the casting at the man-made lake bottom. So the undertaking would be done above ground, at the Great Lawn. This came with its own issues.

    The wide open space of the lawn provided no cover from visibility of prying eyes and the enemy, the Hosts of Heaven were all capable of overhead flight. But slowly and surely the act was done. Each of the eleven circles of the tree was fixed with a spike of orichalcum in its center to link it to the larger circles transcribed over the whole of Manhattan. And even now, without the power funneling through the whole of the tree, they each shown with a phantom light.

    The Brotherhood of Mutants is out in full force tonight, a contingent of them patrols the outer line of the middle of the Great Lawn, a sheidl against any who dare attempt to disrupt the workings this evening.

    At the moemnt, nothing stirs. It seems that Michael and his forces were focused on the Seal of Gaea being placed to the North, in Isham Park at this very moment.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
This has been the most exhaustive work that Lydia has ever done in the field of magic, in many senses of the word. This has stretched her understanding of the kabbalah and has taken her and Phoebe many long nights piecing it together. But finally, finally it is done. All that's left now is its casting.

She had done her best to pare down the number of casters it would take to cast the seal. She had managed to go from the full compliment of eleven down to just three. She takes her place at Binah, the top left of circle of the tree. Meggan will take Keter, the top, and Phoebe will take Chokhmah, the top right.

Meggan will be drawing from the power of Gaea herself, using the ley line that runs underneath the Park. She, herself, will be taking that power and feeding it into her ectoplasm, which will be the stuff used to form the seal. Phoebe's job will be to give form to that ectoplasm, giving the spell the instructions it needs to function properly. From there, there will be a cascade effect as the power of the other circles of the Sefirot come to life.

She stands in her circle, looking up at the skies. Clear of angels, good. This means that they'll be able to start without interruption. However, when they start, it'll be obvious to what they're doing and they'll need to continue casting until the rite is over. She estimates that the casting will take about a half an hour to complete. That's an awful long time under normal circumstances. Trying to do this while being assaulted by angels will be a spectacular feat if they can pull this off.

She nods to Meggan and Phoebe as they take their place in their circles. "Ready?"

Johnny Blaze has posed:
It was time.

Johnny stood outside of the magic that Lydia, Phoebe, and Meggan were attempting to cast. With the Brotherhood of Mutants helping out the JLD, hopefully this was going to go a bit smoother. But the angels...the Host? They're legion. There's so many of them it's obnoxious. It's like they can keep killing them, and keep beating them...but somehow? They keep coming back and keep coming back.

That's what happens when immortal beings like them don't know the concept of death.

But hopefully, with this ritual? They can deal a crippling blow. Johnny takes a breath, zipping up the front of his leather jacket as he moves to immediately take a defensive stance around the sorcerors. Johnny puts a hand over his chest, taking a slow, slow breath.

This is gonna be a -fight-.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Clarice stands a short distance from the strange magical symbols that Lydia and her friends have painstakingly created, staring away from them, out over the park. She was itching for a fight with the angels - frustrated over certain developments in her personal life, and determined to keep her adopted-sister safe from harm.
    Oh, and saving all of reality would be a nice bonus, too.
    She spots several members of the Brotherhood, on their patrols at the outskirts of the lawn, some checking their weapons one last time, others ready to put their powers to good use. Lydia had warned them how long this would take to achieve - and the thought of keeping threats off of her for that long was daunting.
    Good thing she always has her portals if things get //really// bad.

Raven Darkholme has posed:
The importance of this ritual is paramount in Mystique's mind. Yes, she is concerned about Lydia being involved and thus a target, and that is why she is there with the Brotherhood to ensure that the love of her life, along with Meggan and Phoebe, are protected. Having known where the battlefield would be before the battle, she and the other members of the Brotherhood had scouted out the best locations to place themselves with their grenade and rocket launchers, buried some mines in the grass, and done their best to create a perimeter around the place the magic was going to be worked.

Standing now outside the magic, wearing full tactical gear and armed to the nines with numerous kinds of guns, the cobalt mutant continued to study the field and tried not to think about what could happen. Even if things got really bad, Lydia has to stay inside the circle... which means no being teleported out. She would hold the line to protect the casters, that was the only choice. This wasn't her first battle, it wouldn't be her last.

"Don't worry ladies," she offers to Lydia, Meggan and Phoebe. "We got you covered."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Balm was here tonight, her hood pulled up to hide her identity, midriff-baring, sleeveless top showing her scarred and burned left arm, the puckered scars on her right side hidden by armor.

    She peers out of the darkness of the oversized hood she's wearing as she assumes her place, brushing her hands off her lower torso armor and leg armor, looking around her. They'd already lost so many. She could still smell the tang of blood from trying to save who she could, and tries to push the tall angel out of her mind as she gives a nod to Lydia, and looks to Meggan and gives another nod.

    "We have one chance to get this right. No pressure." she attempts a lsight joke, levity, though her expression was grim.

    She knew nearby the one person she trusted more than anyone in the world was going to watch her back.

    And she looks, momentarily to Red Robin, and with her lowered hand she signs 'be cautious'.

    ANd then back to the building of the spell.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The snow naturally wants to melt in Meggan's vicinity, aided along by an ambient air temperature much warmer than the usual winter doldrums of February. Might be possible the Tuath de Danaan didn't bother looking at a calendar given the light choice of dress. She hasn't bothered to wear shoes, standing barefoot in a patch of grass greener than it has right to be. A pair of crocuses adorn a braid looped around her head. Under other circumstances the Great Lawn might be a perfect venue from a folk festival or an environmental rally.

Lydia's immaculate circlework all but seems to hum around them. The handiwork fashioned from her and Phoebe's careful calculations melds into the sinuous landscape. She hugs herself for a moment and smiles to the other women from the central pillar. "It feels right. You have done a bang up job on this."

Pressure takes different forms. She shows little signs of knowing its anticipation or the withering crawl of fear. A deep, slow breath attunes her to the rhythms and tides of the twinned elements; earth and water. Fire and water are almost in reach. "Take what you need, I can manage the rest," she tells Constantine. Her smile shines. "I trust you." Oh, how many have been stung by that.

Her arms drop, the Sorcerer Supreme's elaborate fretwork locked into place. The scar she rarely shows, the broken brand of Hell attained on her liberation, is perfectly visible on her naked heel.

"I'm ready."

John Constantine has posed:
John sticks close by Meggan. He doesn't bother to speak up right away, he's got not role in the ritual besides back-up and support. He reaches into his pocket, producing a set of brass knuckles which he threads his fingers through and takes a few practice swings through the air. He's even foregone a cigarette in the moment, that's how serious he's taking his assignment.

"Keepin' an eye open," John tells them, driving his fist into the palm of his hand.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Once the Titans had demonstrated that the Belief Engines are a credible defense against the Heavenly Host, the design was swiftly put into mass production. The manufacturing labs beneath both the Batcave and the Roost (Outsiders HQ) have been working non-stop, and several Wayne Industry resources have been brought to bear for the effort.

    The result: a network of the static units distributed around the park, their locations based on the best result of several large-scale simulations and then carefully obscured to avoid detection prior to the ritual. More units built into mobile drones are also in place, but remain dormant until their activation is required.

    Even then, the drones are a failsafe. The static units should be of sufficient number to, if not outright depower any angels that come within range, severely depower them.

    That had been the only change Red Robin had requested to be made to the initial build. While the Titans had successfully used this to transform angels into other objects, animate and otherwise. But the Belief Engines as they are now are set to project a reality much more insidious: the angels aren't angels, they're just EDBs (that's extra-dimensional beings) who like to cosplay. No holy power of creation, just a bunch of costumes made from thrifted clothing and foam weapons.

    Ridiculous, but not something that's going to be quite so obvious when the Heavenly Host arrives.

    Because it's certainly a question of when. There are cameras, directional microphones, motion sensors, and a whole host of intricate surveillance equipment in place to monitor Central Park's perimeter. Over head, the Batplane in stealth mode at high altitude watches for intruders in the airspace above.

    It may not be mystical in nature, but you know the old quote: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

    If anyone in the world has tech of that level and is willing to bring it to bear tonight, it's the Bats. And if there's any reason for one of them to do so, it's a threat against a loved one.

    Phoebe Beacon, alias Balm, is certainly deserving of such efforts.

    When she speaks, Red Robin's eyes open behind his domino mask. He's been sitting outside the ritual space, legs folded into lotus position, head tilted slightly upwards. Security warnings have been set to max audio queues should the angels arrive early, allowing him to sink into a meditative silence, unnecessary emotions and thoughts fading away.

    Meditation is a tool he's been trained to use competently, like most of the Bats. However, Tim has never seen much need for it, as it interferes with his ability to think on multiple levels as he is generally accustomed (and where he is best suited to function). But tonight, there is no more need for planning or strategizing. That's done now. All there is to do is wait, and what he needs is calm.

    Slowly he rises to his feet and signs an affirmative to Phoebe before he casts his gaze out towards the rest of the park, noting where he sees the Brotherhood patrols. Moonlight reflects off the blackened plates and chainmail that have been fused with his armor to provide extra protection, based on similar augments that once adorned the Dark Knight. His hands ball into fists at his side.

    He breathes in deep. Exhales out long and steady. Digs his heels into the soft grass. Then he nods.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    A voice comes over the comms in Mystique's ear. It's one of the Brotherhood scouts watching the permiter of the park. "We got some movement on the north east border. Doesn't look like anything serious, routine patrol, thought you should--" The voice cuts off in a burst of quick static and an explosion of gunfire, low booms, and explosions sound off to the north east.

    It looks like it was more than just a routine patrol.

    Just as the light show starts to the north east a number of the Gozer engines on Red Robin's readout flare as the angelic forcces set of their activation protocol. The inital scan reads out a number in the tens of thousands--typical of the angels to respond with overwhelming force--with an 95% successful conversion rat of the engines.

    More gunfire and sounds that are linked to mutant powers (screams of incredible volume, the rumble of the earth, and a myriad of sounds as energy projections in varying degrees) join the cacophony as the assult continues.

    "Here! They're here!" comes another call over the comms, before it too cuts out in static. Another alert: "South patrol is engaged. They brought some of those fucking eyemonsters? How do we sto--" it too cuts off. Even so, the scan of enemy combatants from the Gozer readouts in Red Robin's control is quickly reducing despite the calls for assistance and the myriad of battle around them.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia shakes out the nervous tension in her hands and catches Mystique's eye. She blows her lover a kiss before turning back to focus on the task at hand. She's surrounded by people she inherently trusts with her safety. If anybody can keep her alive (relatively speaking) it would be these people.

"Okay," she says, nodding at Meggan. "Let's do this." When Meggan starts pulling up the energy, the circle directs it simultaneously to Lydia and Phoebe. Lydia grunts as the sheer immense power hits her and starts drawing out her ectoplasm at an enormous rate. Normally, she can fill a small apartment with the stuff within a matter of seconds, but this is drawing out so much... so much. It takes all of her concentration to keep it going.

Then Phoebe starts with the incantation. Lydia had taught her enough Hebrew so the girl will know what it is that she was saying, so she could put her will into the words. And, just as God spoke the world into being, the chant shapes the spell into being, flooding all eleven circles with power, and the paths that connect them together.

Out in Manhattan, the corresponding circles flare into life, shining like beacons into the night. Paths of power connect them all, flowing through buildings and streets alike. Power like this has never been wrought on this scale before. It's enough to light up the city in a way that can be seen from space.

It has begun.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Clarice makes brief eye-contact with Mystique, nodding to the boss - and then she disappears in a flash of purple, appearing near one of the besieged teams. With a moment's thought, she opens a small portal into the steps of space, positioning the entrance near the center of the thickest group of angels. The more they can thin the ranks - the better chance they have at protecting Lydia and the other casters while they work.
    It takes some concentration to keep that portal running while angel after angel ends up sucked through - but she still has enough to spare to open an even smaller portal just in front of a grenade launcher. "Fire," she commands simply, causing the grenade to exit from behind a pair of Seraphim - landing the weapon in their proverbial laps.

Raven Darkholme has posed:
Go time.

A nod is offered to Clarice before she blinks out. The patrols were meant as early warning and to begin the battle at the fringes of the area, to eliminate as many as possible before they could get in close. The loss of comms being reliable was unexpected, but something the Brotherhood was trained to deal with, they'd fight no matter what.

All the same she says, <"Hold the line people, we got this. Aim for large groups, take out as many as you can with the launchers."> over the comm to those who can still hear.

Mystique then pulls her favorite pair of modern pistols and sets her stance to prepare for those that will break through. The numbers were overwhelming, so many against the few, they were going to get through, but she was ready and at the first signs of angels getting past the patrols, she opens fire with precisely aimed head shots. There would be no wasting bullets here.

"Like shooting fish in a barrel," she comments, knowing full well the lowest rung of the heavenly host had no say in what they were doing. They'd just charge forward as ordered.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe has more than a little Hebrew. She has stolen Celestial Will. She has used it to stabilize her connection to The Light. As she begins the incantation, her eyes closed as she pictures the text in her brain, and she forces her Will, imbued with that stolen essence, into the spellwork. Her words echo, her feet shoulder width, calloused hands lowered, palms up. She envisions the Hewbrew script in her mind's eye, the chainmail, cool against her skin, rattles as she gains aura, her fingertips glowing their rose-gold.

    Red Robin was at her back, defense was being run by those who had a vested interest in keeping their loved ones alove.

    Surely, to Fate, it had to count for something.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Her mother's energy keeps their water garden planet alive. The top five kilometers of rock host the diverse civilisations down to cyanobacteria. Meggan stretches her senses down and far into the Green, the vibrant metaphysical ocean unto itself. Everyone near her is part of that web, floating sparks in her psyche. Never can she possibly tire of dipping a toe or plunging headfirst to the life force, extending her hands to meet the vast flow.

However much Phoebe and Lydia can possibly siphon off of her, she sends spilling through them in a reasonably even current. Spikes whip through in places, tremors in the ectosphere.

Controlling the energy is another matter. In the first few minutes, wrestling the floodwaters into a single channel proves more than the English girl can handle. Too much to filter for half an hour, she soon realizes, a different kind of pressure than Lydia's ectoplasmic generation or Phoebe's manipulation. Xerxes' failed efforts to lash the sea into obedience amounted to the same liquescent mockery, waves flowing contrary to his wishes to the stony Greek shore. Gentler in nature here; still, she strives to keep the fathomless volume of energy from piercing through a forcibly opened breach, but her slender frame isn't up to the task of holding it back.

Failure is no option, not one conceded at all. Her artificial mask of humanity bleeds away, Gaean metamorphosis and her X-gene shifting the balance of her blood in a sublime dance. What seals diminish her crack open a far deeper reservoir to dwarf Jackie O's to call on. Not that it keeps Gaea's gift from being any less intense. Angels rise and fall to the tidal rhythms of violence conducted by their nearest and dearest. Tardigrades play the world's smallest violins for the Heavenly Host.

John Constantine has posed:
John frowns in the direction of the Park's borders, the battle taking place with the Heavenly Host. He glances back over his shoulder at the ritual taking place, clicking his tongue against his teeth and patting his pocket. He produces a packet of cigarettes, catching one between his teeth and drawing it out to light it with a metallic zippo that looks like it's been around for decades.

"As I was goin' over the Cork an' Kerry Mountains," he sings to himself, voice a low mumble, "I met with Capt'n Farrell an' his money he was countin'."

He flicks the lighter on. And off. And on again. The flame dancing in the chill.

Tim Drake has posed:
    One of the camera feeds at the northeast corner super-imposes itself atop the HUD in Red Robin's mask just in time for him to see the initial engagement. Several points on his mini-map light up at the same time, indicating the activation of the Belief engines.

    Without turning back, he lifts an arm so he can flash a quick hand-sign to Phoebe. Soon enough more points on the southern part of the map begin to flare red, too. The program monitoring the power draw of the engines generates a graph in his peripheral vision for quick reference, and Tim takes note.

    All readouts in the green, so far.

    Red Robin settles his weight and flexes his fingers within the unfamiliar weight of his new gauntlets.

    Up above, the Batplane registers the rapid increase in illumination from below, though Red Robin dismisses the notification with a quick flick of his gaze to the side. Going into this, he knew they'd be lighting up the magical equivalent of a flare, leading the Heavenly Host right to them.

    Still, maybe he didn't quite understand the scope. Even to someone without any inherent magical gifts, the power flowing through here and its corresponding visual affects is... humbling, to say the least.

    "Thrones incoming," Red Robin warns, from listening in on the patrol frequencies. Then a quick reminder: "They won't be affected by the engines."

    Like the others, he doesn't move to engage any of the enemies who meet the Brotherhood patrols on the borders. His place is right here, standing firm as a last line of defense between the angelic army and the three casters.

    Simple enough. You keep the squishy magic users in the back row. Anyone who plays RPGs knows that.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The first of the breaking enemy emerge from the treeline, and the effect of the Gozer engines is immediately apparent. While the rank of angelic hosts are almost uniform in their appearance: white surcoats over anachronistic armor that nonetheless is effective against modern weaponry and energy attacks, their eyes bound by black straps of leather that does nothing to diminish their visual ability; the Gozer devices produce something entirely different. Beings from every spectrum of media are represented in almost comical display. From white togas and obviously costume wings and halos with styrofoam weapons to fully actualized forms of angels from a video game about a witch with far too much hair: vaguely raptor like alien beings who are nevertheless immaterial in their abilites as they are simply projections of light and sound.

    A Throne passes through the treeline and is immediately destroyed in a seismic explosion by an RPG of another sort altogether. Even more break through and are felled by the ring of mutants in place to keep them at bay.

    A woman with dark skin and hair flies in and hammers one of the Principalities, (this one changed by the engines), with enough force to send it flying into the resevoir the armor on it's left side ablating away and its physical shell turning to a myriad of glittering sparkles. A Seraph, a six-winged humanoid with it's eyes and feet covered by four of the wings flies in low, flame erupting over it's form as it makes for the ritual site. It is stopped in place by a mammoth of a man in red armor who grabs it and by strength beyond most on the planet begins to force it away from the site.

    Still more pour out and are engaged by the Brotherhood. A man in red with a pair of katannas and a woman in black with heavy caliber pistols take down a number of the Gozer modified angels who die as normal humans would and then slowly fade into the puffs of St. Elmos fire that their kind usually turn to in death.

    Another Seraph emerges from the trees and is met by a hail of construction materials manpulated by a man in red and violet armor; it seems the lord of Genosha has decided to lend his own powers to this endeavor. He wraps the burning being in steel bars and rebar before leaving it lying in a smoldering heap on the open field watching it die with the emotionless eyes of man not new to battles and war.

    As the combat rages around them two pulses of light burst forward at the head of the working. The first to emerge from the light is Michael, his eyes burning with anger and rage as he stares at the leading witch of the work being completed. To his left if the white clad, alabaster skinned form of the Metatron, a massive maul of silver metal in his hands.

    "How ingenious of you to disguise your effects under the veil of Jonathan's own working" Michael says darkly. "And yet ultimately futile. Goodbye Lydia, child of Abraham." He raises a hand, a point of golden light flaring to life at his palm, ready to burn down the leader of this working and end it prematurely if he is not engaged otherwise.

John Constantine has posed:
"This cunt," John says, loud enough to be heard and with a roll of his eyes, as he gazes upon the heavenly splendour and blah blah blah that is the Archangel Michael, "The most ostentatious, self-important slice of filth to ever slither its way out of the Great Celestial Minge." He gestures towards the Metatron, "And look! Joe Soap, his knob-jockey mate with the big stick."

He swaggers his way towards the angelic twosome, still flicking the Zippo in his hands on and off almost like a nervous tick or meditative habit.

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaysus," John crows, letting his head fall back and adding a touch of an Irish lilt just for fun, "And I thought you were ugly when you were wanderin' around in your Chas suit. But look at this! Disco Inferno and no mistake."

He opens the lighter again with a metallic lighter, this time keeping it open. He waves a hand over the flame, through it, prompting it to grow until it?s a veritable torch flowering from the small metallic rectangle. A fire that burns hot and sinister - the very fires of Hell, to which he has a special connection.

"Burn, baby. Burn."

He gives the flame a gentle blow through pursed lips and it roars off in the direction of the pair, howling with demonic glee.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
The Great Seal around the city thrums with life, a song of warmth and protection that, while unheard, is felt in the bones of every living being within Manhattan. Soon the warmth becomes physical as warm spring air blows across the spires and streets of the great city, starting to melt the snow. In the center of the lawn, in the center of the casting, in Da'at, the representation of the all, a sapling sprouts from the ground, pushing it's way through the snow, sending leaves to catch the energy being funneled to it.

As the three women work in tandem, they feel a connection between them brewing. Emotions bleed from one to the other as their consciousness expands, first to fill the smaller representation of the sefirot, but then to the larger one encompassing the city.

It's only then, from this perspective, that she's made aware of Michael's presence, and his intent to annihilate her. Helpless to protect herself, she can only spare a thought, a silent prayer to God to give those she loves the strength and means to protect her. To protect them all.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    As angels begin breaking through the lines and onto the line, Clarice reappears in a flash of purple - and only has a moment to assess the situation, and the threat towards Lydia. She immediately opens a portal beside Mystique - an open invitation to dive-through, easily recognizable by anyone who's worked with the young mutant for long. Through the portal Mystique would see the winged back of an angel just below - with one resplendent wing, and one wing a ruined, bloody mess.
    Trusting Mystique to be able to protect Lydia, she turns her attention towards some of the other angels moving into the park - opening a portal directly on a Throne, and snapping it closed, hoping to slice the angelic being in half like she has before.

Raven Darkholme has posed:
It's much like clockwork, as if the entire thing was planned in the seconds that were allowed. Even as the portal opens the guns are thrust into the tops of her thigh high boots and a single, black metal dagger is drawn and Mystique leaps through it, coming out on top of Michael. The dagger was a gift from her other love, the only man she's ever loved, Azazel and it teems with the void energy of his native lands.

Her intent is to stab that dagger into the wrist of Michael's outstretch hand and pull that hand off the shot he is about to take on Lydia, all as she emerges from the portal. She will then move past him, and combat roll through the grass to land as far away as she can. Acrobatics are one of her strongest abilities, and there is no way she intends to stick around the archangel for long and give him a chance to strike back.

"Not today mother fucker! She's got back up!" she hisses as she goes by, then tucks and rolls.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe wasn't aware of the sharing of emotional information. The presumed 'mortal' one of the trio's emotional bleed is fear, pain, a dark disquiet, wrath. A deep and empty feeling of loss. Determination, and under the fog of that Pandora's Box of unpleasant feelings, bound up by Sandalphon's perfection of her Jar of Hearts spell, there was Hope. Phoebe keeps up with the chanting, unable to see the feeds on her own domino. She hears John's snark and Mystique's battle cry -- and if ever there was a time for the big guns, now was the time. They couldn't stop. She was defenseless unless she stopped chanting, all of her focus going into controlling the feed of Will through her body from her connection to The Light, borrowed from the Eldest and Most Alien of Egyptian gods, and the stolen and harvested Will of those angels she had brutally ended.

    See the characters in Hebrew, know their perfect pronunciation, focus the Will and Intent.

    Her hands shake.

    Call the Sepherot into existence, match on all the sacred geometry of the circles that have been placed around them. Her palms burned. Her nose itched.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Manhattan offers a presence unto itself to Meggan. Her empathy feeds on the small victories of impossibly quick or resilient mutants. Hope in every fight made and spell shaped quickens her heart. She thrills to the ignition of another circle at Phoebe's hands, and the young tree struggling to meet a winter sky pearled in fair, streaming clouds despite the season. Would that she could sing a Romanischal ballad from the fireside to encourage its hastening growth or a jaunty refrain from the world's most popular song at the moment.

God truly help the other two if they truly share that spiritual circuit for the empath has no filter.

Lydia's prayer haunts that shared connection, briefly lifting her gaze. Two points register simultaneously, the sorrow-stained disappointment at the archangels and the fierce, flame-annealed faith when Constantine lights up the night. <John.> Energy spindled through her fingers surges. Fear quivers in a pure note and she swallows.

The crowning sefirot is the unseen, hidden among the most hidden things. She stands in Keter, by its very nature intangible. The green patches and snow stretch before her downcast gaze. Energy swirls to encompass everything. She sacrifices herself to the wider ritual, becoming the conduit and knowing nothing else, form aglow or simply lost in the radiance.

Naught there but the infinite love and compassion of the Mother.

An act of trust to give all, labouring to bring a hope to fruition.

Tim Drake has posed:
    At this point, there is a ring of red markers active on the mini-map displayed in Red Robin's HUD, down in the corner of his view. The Belief Engines form an invisible barrier that the Heavenly Host has to cross in their approach, and while some of the more powerful beings aren't affected, by the sounds of battle surrounding them it seems to be doing their job.

    It only takes a quick tap at the control panel set into his left gauntlet for the drone units to fire up, the soft whirring of their blades joining the cacophony of noise as they take to the sky and form a dome of protection around the ritual site.

    The drones won't have any effect if the other Archangels think to make an approach by air. But for the rank and file, it'll help.

    And, inevitably, the line is broken. Even with several powerful Brotherhood members leveling the playing field, the sheer numbers that the Heavenly Host can bring to bear skews the likelihood of it in their favor.

    Which is not unexpected. Not a whole lot isn't expected by Red Robin, in one way or another. Especially not when he's poured hours and days and weeks into anticipating what could happen at this very moment. He's positioned in such a way that he can watch the flanks of all three women within the ritual markings, and his telescoping staff snaps out into his hand as he moves to intercept. The imagery and familiar invocation of a grey-robed wizard positioning himself between his fellowship of adventurers and a creature from the deep is called up almost instinctually to his mind's eye as he slides into place between Phoebe and the Archangels.

    He has no hellfire that he can summon, or portals that he can maneuver through. In fact there is really little in Red Robin's usual kit that he can put to use here in any meaningful way, but that doesn't stop him from throwing a concussive grenade into the mix.

    It's not as if he expects it to cause any damage, even if it is a particularly souped-up variant of the usual explosives the Bats keep on hand.

    Given that he aims it right at Metatron's noggin, though, at the very least he expects it to be really annoying.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    As the flame lashes out over Michael, he bellows in agony the baleful fires of Hell searing his material flesh and turning beauty into charred blackness. He turns his attention to John, redirecting the blast meant for Lydia to the Laughing Magician, which gives Mystique the opening she needs to tear into his arm and hand with the blade from a creature who, at times, calls himself the Devil. The blade's cut is true and another scream tears out of Michael as his boiling blood stains the snow benath his feet. "I will be rid of you all. You who employ the very fabric of Hell against the perfection of Divinity."

     With Mystique out of the reach, he turns his attention to the husband of the Constantine pairing. With his undamaged hand he spews forth holy fire in answer to the Hellfire the man himself utilized. "Your ever present smile will serve you little when you reach the gates of Judgement" He says washing the area in flames that rival the sun for heat, melting away at the snow and grass alike. "There you will find that Sychronicity holds no power in your favor."

    The Throne that Clarice directs her portal upon does indeed scream with discordant noise as its very fabric is torn asunder and it explodes in a ball of flame and light, the fires of its death not consuming the grass beneath it despite the heat being all too real. More of the rank and file fall under the barage of gunfire and destruction that the Brotherhood of mutants employ. Their own strength making quick work of the Gozer altered angels and letting them focus their offensive might against the higher ranks in teamwork that could make governments tremble to see it in action.

    The power of the leyline surges once as the intensity of the strife on the field increases, a counterpoint of a tremor as more power is fed into the Tuatha child and subsequently into Phoebe and Lydia. That power surges along the lines of the Sefirot, denoting the connective tissue of Ein-sof's Wisdom made manifest. They are about halfway through the construction. Just a little longer and they will have their victory... or at least they should if everything goes according to plan. Just a little longer.

    The concussive grenade does indeed explode next to the head of the Metatron. As the smoke clears it seems nothing has truly happened. It regards the man in red and tilts its head, white eyes flaring. "Were you my true objective, child, I would incinerate you where you stand. However, my quarry lies beneath you..." its mouth doesn't move as it speaks, the words just coming from the creature. It lifts the maul in its hands and slams the head of it down on the ground with mountain shattering force.

    There is the sound of an off tuned gong and the leyline, the source of the power for the spell wavers as if some tremendous hand grabbed hold of the hose that funnelled the power and squeezed it shut for a moment. The Metatron hammers the ground again, and again the surge of power from the leyline is disrupted by the blow. The Voice of God seems intent to destroy the flow of power more than the creatures directing that power. It seems not all angels are devoid of creative measures of victory.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
The rush of other emotions fill Lydia, causing her to whimper in their chaotic nature. To the mix her own emotions of deep and unconditional love for her lover and her adopted sister, and unshakable faith. She /knows/ that they'll succeed. They have to. One emotion they all have in common though is hope, and it's to this she latches onto. Hope for the future to come. Hope that humanity will come together and show unity. Hope that their universe will be saved from destruction.

She strains against the raw power being funneled into her and the will that shapes her ectoplasm. This is far more exhausting than she had imagined, and she had imagined a /lot/. When this is over... when they succeed... she will be drained. She can only pray that the resulting hunger won't send her to a frenzy.

Meanwhile, the tree grows. Roots dig into the ground, taking hold and fortifying the earth, both in a physical and metaphorical sense. The little stick poking out of the now snowless earth has started to resemble a tree proper, sending some early branches out. It's two meters tall, now, more or less, enough to identify its species as an ash, like Yggdrasil the world tree, another representation of the Tree of Life.

Out in the city a warm glow has suffused the streets, continuing to melt away the snow. Birds wake up, confused by the light and the warmth, flowers, energized by the power that flows throughout the city begin to bud, and trees start to grow their leaves back in this false spring.

*GONG*

But then it all falters. The strain Lydia feels lessens and she can feel the power being choked from their source. No! No! They're so close! She can feel the hope being strangled with it, but she holds on to both for dear life.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    Why the hell is one of the angels tearing into the earth itself? Clarice was unclear on this - but she can see the strain on Lydia's features and assumes it's Not A Good Thing.
    Well. She can fix that.
    The next time the angel swings for the ground - a portal opens in his path mid-swing, the exit appearing just behind his head, as her clear intention is for the Metatron to bean himself in the head with his own weapon. The portal then abrutly snaps shut - hopefully before he can pull his weapon back through.
    Can the weapons of Archangels be destroyed by portals? In the sake of scientific inquiry, we deserve answers.

Raven Darkholme has posed:
Rolling and coming back on her feet, Mystique has no idea what this Metatron guy is or how he is talking, but Clarice appears to have him in her sights, so back to Michael. Knowing full well she can't go into hand to hand with him, the knife goes back into thigh boot and from a holster on her thigh removes 'das Schatzchen' a baby blue Glock 17. The clip is filled with hellfire bullets, a gift from Lydia for this special occasion... nothing says I love you like a clip of hellfire.

"Hey, one winged freak," she calls out with gleam in her eyes. "Homo superior says hello."

Headshots where her intent, the face if she can manage it, as there was definitely no wasting these bullets. Even as she fires she is moving back from the range of his sword, just to be on the safe side. All the Archangels seem to be melee fighters, so much for superior thinking, the gun was invented by man for a reason... it hurts from a distance.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
Johnny Blaze had been out fighting some of the lesser angels around, trying to hold position. But no plan survives first contact. But that was back then, and this is now. The fight is still going, and Metatron is in the field...and Michael is still being an asshole.

No surprises so far.

Yet the pillar of flame announces the Rider's arrival as the Spirit of Vengeance sounds off that devilish motorcycle. Flames travel where that hell-forged machination goes, the skull of the Rider, eyes on both Michael and Metatron, though focusing on the latter.

<<METATRON!!>>

The voice of the Rider echoes in the souls of all present. <<YOU ARE MINE!>> The Rider drives over to him, his power blazing forth as hellfire bursts off of him like some kind of infernal light, the chain is whipped from the Rider's chest, lashing forth to try and strike Metatron across the chest.

Ghost Rider has returned to the battle.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Everyone else gets quips, quotes. Phoebe feels the faith. Stability. Hope. Hope *Hope*. Hold that. Geraldine on the back of her motorcycle, squealing in happiness as Phoebe speeds down New York streets. Tim attempting to keep a mad face when Phoebe pulls off an excellent and awful pun. Bart taking her to meet Geoffrey the Giraffe. Idu. Ben. Lydia's flying lessons.

    Exhaustedly leaning against Tim in GSC, both in armor, just finding enough time to nap before the next patrol. Chas's laughter. Getting to see Earth from asteroid M.

    So much she hasn't seen or done -- and she feels the framework shudder as Metatron strikes the leyline. She pauses her chanting for just a moment, regaining her mental footing. Train of thought risrupted, she opens her eye, and using her Domino, she dispatches a message to Red Robin.

>>TAKE DOWN MEGATRON

    And then Phoebe latches on. Hope.

    Joy.

    Light

    And as if to inspire those around, or maybe because she is pulling on *so much* light, and *so much* power from Meggan, the tattoo at the center of her shoulderblades lights up.

    Phoebe's rose-gold wings, tinted by coppery red, glitter like glass in the flase spring, sunlight reflecting off the reservoir and the receeding snow from around them as Phoebe feeds the stolen Will of Heaven into the spellwork.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
That leyline and the entangled Tuath de Danaan exist in one sense, the latter having become no more than a channel to absorb its power. The Metatron striking out against the open vein of reality ripples through, but what is pain to the very lifeblood of magic? Unmade, remade.

Dissipate hope or love, it reforms immediately like a hole torn into mist. As it does now. Nature abhors a poncy Voice of God and a void both, so only righteous and proper that the united flow surges in greater waves to push the very envelope of what might be deemed safe.

Hope. The city's full of it, the rebel spirit that stood against Redcoats, storms, and common sense. Here, right here, on these holy grounds where Bob Dylan and the Beatles and U2 reached out to raise the roof. A place of countless beginnings and starts. The Avengers hold their headquarters a stone's skip away. The wish for good weather and a vibrant future all started for nine million people in the greensward of Central Park, and a mace isn't going to take that away.

Won't-can't-don't, because this is New York City and New Yorkers defend their own.

Nothing directs this energy burst but the vastness of life running its own course contrary to what human, mutant, demon or angel might wish. The lone chord in the numinous, verdant firebath repeats itself as a mantra through the spell: love, hope, and knit between them, a rare sort of mercy found in the apocalypse.

John Constantine has posed:
John is no super-ninja trained by ancient masters in forbidden ashrams. No, he's a bloke from Liverpool who just so happens to have luck on his side. When the blast of angelic energy is coming for him, John takes a few rushed steps to the side and dives out of the way. He lands on the snow-sodden grass with an 'oof', pushing himself up to his feet and laughing as he goes.

"Fuck me, I feel like I'm in Willow. All I needs that little Ewok cunt."

John runs along, ducked down low behind the shrubs. He occasionally emerges to fling a smaller, more confined ball of hellfire in the direction of Michael. His long coat flutters out behind him, his features contort into a wicked grind illuminated by the fires of the damned.

"Lydia oh Lydia," he sings towards the woman, dashing past her in the fray, "I almost got sanctified for you! I better be up to my ears in vampire twat in your next book!"

He then turns his attention back to Michael, scrambling to stand on a park bench and wave his arms out to either side of him.

"C'mon, you great big winged bastard, if you're so fucking tough! God's blood, Nergal shits all over you, son! Heaven ain't for nothing but toffs and ponces! Michael's a nonce!"

He's already running again, trying to draw the Archangel's ire.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Stood as he is on the ground, Red Robin has to crane his neck to look up at Metatron. He's silent in the face of the Archangel's rebuke, though it isn't because he's taken aback by the threat. Instead, his attention is on the maul in Metatron's hands.

    He cups a hand to his mouth to shout, "Is that Grabthar's Hammer?" across the lawn to him.

    Though he's on the move by the time the maul is lifted for a second blow. Message received loud and clear through his HUD from Phoebe. His steps are light, rapid, crossing the distance like a fencer. The tip of his staff plants itself in the ground and though its telescoping alloy casing bends, it doesn't break, instead rebounding to fling himself up into the air like an Olympian vaulter.

    Mid-air, Red Robin's profile takes on an ethereal quality, lightness framing him like the corona of a star.

    Maybe it's just the proximity to an Archangel that triggers it. Before this moment, it was the heavier plating at the knuckles that made the new gauntlets feel odd on his hands, but now Tim can feel the searing heat of the tiny shard of wood hidden in a compartment against his wrist. It's jarring enough that he nearly misses when he scrambles for a hold on the handle of Metatron's maul, using it as an additional springboard to get him closer.

    And by closer, in this instance, what is truly meant is: right up in Metatron's face.

    Red Robin hooks his leg over one of Metatron's shoulders, wraps an arm around the Archangel's neck, and then starts wailing punches down on him from above, rapid-fire and with enough force that he's yelling with each hit.

    Look, it helps. There's a reason it's taught in martial arts courses.

    Spikes deploy from the bottom of Red Robin's boots as he digs his foot into the Archangel's back, intent on not being thrown off. If this is going to come down to a test of endurance, then the Heavenly Host is welcome to see what kind of power a plain old human can wield when the life of someone they love is on the line.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    As more Hellfire is brought to bear on Michael the Commander of the Host screams in agony, the bullets tear through the armor of his shoulder, one striking his cheek, putting a blackened charred hole in the pristine flesh before his hand is raised to intercept more of the bullets. More of his armor and flesh flare away as the antithesis of his holiness is brought to bear against the divinity of his body. John's own hellfire bolts hammer into him and suddenly he is caught in a pincer attack of one of the few things he cannot stand against, as more and more of the unholy onslaught bears down on him he drops to a knee, his wings enveloping him just as Mystique's gun clicks empty, the fifteen shots spent on the Archangel.

    If Metatron was any less than an Archangel, Clarice's portal might have worked. Instead the hammer of the Voice of God simply passes through the portal and a shock of pain lances over Clarice as the very thing her genetic code should allow for, is defied and ignored by a presence near to that which empowers all Creation. The hammer strikes the earth again, and again the leyline struggles against the force. Ghost Rider's bellow at it, turns its attention to the man and he shakes his head. "I have little time for you charge of Zadkiel. My task is not yet finished." It extends a hand and five pillars of flame appear around the Rider. From the five pillars, Seraphim emerge and engage the Rider in holy flame. As if considering something for a moment, the Metatron snaps its fingers and something blossoms out of the Rider's form. White light pours out of his body as if a holy bomb was set off inside the Spirit of Vengeance's stomach.

    Seeming content, the Archangel returns to its task of breaking the very foundation of the world. Another raise of the hammer and then Tim leaps into action. The moment the gauntlet is deploy Metatron's head snaps up as if seeing Tim for the first time. "The Martyr's Cross..." it says, its voice sounding confused. "Protocol... uncertain..."

    The first punch lands and the Metatron staggers. The blow carrying the blood of he who was proclaimed King of the Jews seems to work more than anything physical had worked before. Another blow strikes it and it staggers again, tilting in place. It shakes its form as more blows rain down on it, each strike resonating not with the sound of flesh on flesh, but of metal on metal. A blacksmith's forge in the shape of a lone young man beating the absolute shit out of an Archangel. The spikes in its back don't seem to harm it much, but they serve to keep Tim locked in place to continue to rain the blood of sacrifice down on the Archangel.

    Another quarter of the Sefirot blossoms over the small scale beneath them and the large scale over the island and the Tree at its center grows in size, it's vibrancy bloosoming forth as the Seal of their possible victory blossoms as well.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
The entire fabric of the spell shudders with the second blow, threatening to break it entirely, the sudden release of magical pressure sending Lydia to her knees, causing her to nearly lose the thread. But then an unlikely reprieve is given in the shape of Red Robin as he wails away on the head of the Metatron.

With renewed energy, Lydia pours her energy, her heart, her soul into the casting. She's beginning to run out of gas, as she reaches the limits of her power. She wasn't born into power, rather she stumbled across it so she doesn't have the deep reserves that her partners have. So carefully, ever so carefully, she sinks into the reserve of the power that blood gives her. If she uses too much, here, she runs the risk of burning herself out before the spell is through. She also runs the risk of turning herself into a ravenous monster, too, but she needs that extra push.

And still the ash tree grows.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    As the hammer somehow ignores the portal set in its path, Clarice feels unexpected pain wrack through her body, dropping her to her knees with a cry. How... what? She immediately closes the portal, before he can get another swing at and through it, causing her even more suffering.
    She doesn't stay down for long, however, as she forces herself back to her feet, turning full circle to study the battle field. Members of the Brotherhood were still fighting desperately against the angelic onslaught - some falling under the attacks of Dominions, Thrones, and Seraphim as the remaining forces draw slowly closer to the ritual taking place.
    She's not planning on letting them get any closer.
    As one of the Thrones prepares to open fire on a group of mutants assaulting it with their powers, Clarice takes an entirely different approach. Hurling one of her javelins, she tries to blink the angel out, and have it reappear facing a new direction - where the thickest section of the angelic forces encroach on the lawn, hoping to blast them with their own weapon.

Raven Darkholme has posed:
Das Schatzchen served its purpose, fifteen bullets of Hellfire into the archangel while moving and Mystique was ready to close. The Glock returns to the holster and the dagger emerges from the boot, with Michael protecting himself with his wing it was the perfect time.

Darting in quickly, she makes to slash at the wing that's protecting him. If she can wound him, wound that wing, maybe the fucker will have to learn to walk like the rest of the world. Even still, her attacks are dart in and strike, dart or black flip out and away again, leaving plenty of time and space for John to continue is attacks.

"Come on, Michael," she taunts as she darts in. "You can't be done already, we're just getting started!" She is fully aware that her part is not as effective as Constantine's, but she's hoping to add to the chaos against the Archangel and keep him off guard, giving Lydia, Meggan and Phoebe the time they need.

Johnny Blaze has posed:
That feeling.

Ghost Rider remembers, the souls of Blaze and Zarathos eternally entwined remembers the last 'gift' Zadkiel had given to them. That holy light that entered the being of the union of man and demon. The light that burst at the snap of Metatron's fingers bursts forth from the Ghost Rider, a small star in the great hosts of heaven. This leaves the Rider in a small crater. The flames had gone out. It looked as if a simple skeleton in leather was at rest.

Eternal.

Peaceful.

This is not a favorable occurance. But not for Johnny. For the angelic host. You see, when a Spirit of Vengeance is permitted to take full control of the host, the Spirit may use the Rider Gestault to it's full capability. Metatron is about to learn a vital lesson:

Why angels have no place on earth.

A light shines in the eyes of the Rider, even as Seraphim continue their work, the Rider sits up and rises to it's feet. Angels approach, and the Ghost Rider's hands start to rise.

<<Angels aplenty, filled with light of holy breath....understand the gift of man, the agony of death.>>

The earth beneath the Rider's feet start to tremble, as chains, not so much different than the one Ghost Rider uses, emerge from the earth, each one with links of the sharpest blades, the tip of the chain a hooked edge. They seek to find each of the Seraphim, to grab them and burn them from the inside out, as if trying to corrupt their very essences.

The same chains come after Metatron.

<<Metatron, the star-shone king. You will bear my reckoning.>>

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe can feel the tugs at her aura. Her wings draw up, spreading out, and as she pulls harder on THe Light, through those channels she's stabilized with The Will, she glows. The rose-gold color begins to bleed out from her left eye, creating a patch on her skin. It creeps up along her arms, forming concentric circles and narrow, eight-pointed stars, Heiroglyphs and Heirmetic script, her circles showing on the backs of her palms as she gives a soft cry out. They need more *time*.

    She trusts in their defenders. Those friends, those curious, those heartbreaking.

    She can't reach out with her hand, but one of those stained-glass like feathers brush towards Lydia's shoulders -- stay strong. We're with you.

    We are here.

John Constantine has posed:
As Mystique taunts Michael, John subtly ducks back down behind the bushes. If the strange blue woman with the magic gun wants to draw the Archangel's attention, well, he's just fine with that. He signed on to help keep Michael's attention off of the spell-casters, not to die. At least, not to die on purpose.

"Lot of fucking poetry going on," he mutters to himself as he crawls through the bushes back towards the ritual site, overhearing the battle, "Maybe a little more killing and a bit less Lord Byron. Fuck me sideways."

He springs out from the bushes near the ritual trio, hands raised over his head. Spilling what little energy he has to them, helping any way he can.

"Come on! Let's grow a fuckin' tree!"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Each blow that lands on Metatron's head is brought down with the full force of Red Robin's strength behind it. It's a Herculean effort, sweat flying from the ends of his hair as his muscles tremble with the strain of holding on with the rest of his limbs.

    The force of his strike and the echoing rebound of it travels up his arm, jarring his bones. Pinprick spots of white-hot pain strike the exposed skin of his face and neck where Archangel blood spatters him with every strike.

    But Red Robin continues.

    Everything else happening on the battlefield is, at best, tangential to him in this moment. The rest of the defense team hopefully have Michael in hand, because for obvious reasons Red Robin can only bring this quite literal Deus Ex Machina down on one target at a time. Even the chains that reach out to bind Metatron are noted distantly, and only in reference to a potential need to readjust his grip should they affect how the Archangel stands.

    The rest all falls away.

    "Give 'em hell."

    That's what Batman had said on top of One Vanderbilt, in the early sunlit hours of January 6th. It's not the kind of thing they're often bid to do, in the defense of Gotham City. Often the watchword is caution, because there is above all one rule that binds them--violent outliers within the family permitting--to the cause:

    Do not kill.

    Yet here Red Robin is, caution thrown to the wind and every fiber of his being devoted to a singular cause, which is beating the ever-living snot out of Metatron. There's something to be said for turning loose all of the focus usually attuned to precise control: in the same sense that those whose minds are addled by illicit substances can often display greater feats of strength than they could otherwise, right now Red Robin is punching above his weight class.

    And similarly, he's causing himself no small amount of injury in the doing. So be it.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    The cuts to Michael's body bleed, or appear to at the very least. Hot blood spilling like oil over the snow that melts beneath it. Slowly light blossoms under the wings, and a bell tolls, it seems that Michael is about to self destruct in the center of Central Park, if it happens it will not be good for anyone in the immediate vicinity, least of all the spellwork going on only a few yards away from his positon.

    The Throne Clarice blinks around... does move. And obliterates a contingency of its allies with the cosmic blast before turning in on itself and exploding.

    A pair of chains wrap around Metatron's arms, binding them down and leaving it helpless to Tim's continued Herculean assault. More blows rain down and the Metatron eventually falls to its knees. Chains snaking up over and around its waist to keep it pinned. "It is no use..." it says softly, its words slurring and jerking in strange places as Tim continues to deliver blow after blow, "Once our General releases the blast... all of you will be..."

    The Sefirot completes its links and the tree in its center blossoms fully. Michael winks out of sight, a rush of air filling the vacated space. Likewise do all the angels on the field. Including the Metatron.

    There is once again peace on the Great Lawn.

    A ghostly figure appears before the Seal of Lydia. Michael again, looking horror stricken and uncertain. He steps forward, past the circle barriers, his form not seeming to even affect them. "What have you done?" he asks, sounding terrified as he reaches for the tree in the center and his hand passes through it. He is unable to affect the physical realm it would seem. Cut off. "What have you...? You utter fools... what have you brought upon yourselves?" he says, looking to the North.

    There is the sound of a horn blowing and Metatron appears high in the sky over the Ressevoir. It looks uscathed despite its injuries only moments ago. "I MUST THANK YOU, HEROES," it bellows, its voice moving and sending its words across the entirety of the park, perhaps the entirety of the island. "WITH OUR GENERAL OUT OF THE WAY, WE CAN BEGIN A PROPER CAMPAIGN WITHOUT THE HANDICAPS HE PUT IN PLACE."

    Legions of angels appear behind and above it. Too many to count. Too many to affect. Red Robin's readout climbs higher and higher as the Gozer boxes scan and cannot comprehend the number that forms from it, many of their number short out and fall from their posts. The angels blot out the night sky, a luminous field of light that goes on and on and on up into the sky above the Earth. "I AM HOWEVER NOT WITHOUT PITY. YOU HAVE 24 HOURS. AFTER THAT POINT, WE WILL BEGIN TO ERASE THIS FARCE OF A RESISTANCE AND FROM THERE WE WILL CONTINUE ON OUT INTO THE WORLD."

    Michael looks up at Metatron, the anger in his face plain to see. "This was not the plan. You must go now..." he says, looking to the gathered mystics. "Find Jonathan. There is still a possibility to fix this... just... go." His tone is almost pleading as he turns to them. "Go!"

John Constantine has posed:
"What the bleeding Hell," John asks, turning to look at the other gathered mystics, "Why in the sweet, velveteen, tap-dancing fuck do we keep doing things that just makes for an angrier, worse thing to fight? God's BLOOD! I've had my share of fuck ups, but this one takes the fuckin' turkey!"

He dips down to scoop a rock from the ground: "Fucking ... "

"WANKER!" He shouts as he throws it hard through the air, even if it will just bounce off the Archangel harmlessly. It's not exactly empowered with magic.

Turning back to Meggan, he wraps his arm around that of his wife and attempts to sprint off into the Park.

"Come on, I've had a fuckin' gut full of this. We're gonna go see a man about a dog."

Tim Drake has posed:
    As Metatron sinks to its knees, Red Robin rides the downwards momentum. He very nearly loses his grip, but at the last moment manages to kick his leg out to stabilize himself, and then his fist once again slams into the Archangel's face. He doesn't stop through the chastising or the warnings given.

    The only thing capable of stopping him in this moment is, apparently, the completion of the ritual.

    At the sudden lack of angelic presence, Red Robin drops like a stone to the ground, landing first on his knees before collapsing fully down onto all fours. And that sends a staggering gout of pain up the arm imbued with the holy power of the True Cross.

    Adrenaline bleeds away from his system. Pain sets in. They're probably going to have to run here in a moment, but for the time being Tim is stuck prone, taking in great deep gulps of air to try and catch his breath.

    Then he cranes his neck upward. He truly doesn't have the air necessary to scream, but Tim does manage a sullen "This is why I'm an atheist," from where he remains down on the ground.

    But then he rocks backwards, up onto his knees once again. Pure teenaged angst--technically young adult angst, but whatever--prompts him to access some heretofore unknown wellspring of energy to shout "YOU GUYS SUCK!" up at the sky.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
It is done. The spell finishes, and the seal clicks into place with a final flare of power. The ash that symbolizes the seal is fully grown, as if it had been there since the park's inception. For years to come, this tree will be known as a place of shelter, and of respite. A place of hope where lovers come to affirm their vows. It is a place of peace and tranquility.

Lydia, however is spent. Too much. She spent too much of herself in this seal. With her pale alabaster skin pulled tight across her skeletal frame, she looks more the corpse that she is. She doesn't even have the strength to go into a feeding frenzy. All she can do is just collapse, lifeless.

Raven Darkholme has posed:
Mystique had been prepared to find a way to get Michael out of there before the explosion, perhaps distraction would permit her kick him through a portal but then he's just gone. Looking up she sees the tree of light fully formed and relief passes over her for all of ten seconds. Long enough to dart toward Lydia and get her arms around her before she can hit the ground.

Then the feeling is gone as Michael appears, sort of, and the Metatron is making his announcement. What just happened? Was Michael the only reason the angels weren't just tearing into everything to begin with? Was that really all they were about, the desire to destroy? How much of it was Michael's plan going south for the winter?

Supporting Lydia, she looks from each of the Archangels, then back to those present. "Well... apparently we did it," she comments, picking Lydia up. "And it might not have been what we planned. I'm getting Lydia out of here, now." She looks toward Clarice, then says over the comms. <"Brotherhood, evac now.">

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The casting was done. Phoebe pulls her hood back, domino still on. She takes a deep gasp of air, cotton-mouthed. She sees Constantine pull Meggan away -- and if she knows him like she does, there is broqn liquor in his near future. She knows Mystique and Blink will crowd Lydia, and Ghost Rider? Well... he's largely able to fend for himself.

    So she bolts for Red Robin, her beloved and best friend, and tries to catch him before he tumbles all the way down -- and then gets back up, powered by rage.

    ANd wings and all, Phoebe skids on her knees, and delivers a tackle-hug of legendary proportions to Robin's back, her arms wrapping around him and just -- holding him tightly. Exhausted as she is, the wings fading away now as she runs out of gusto, and with a heavy 'THUMP' just hits her closed fist against his shoulder.

    "We did it. We sealed them. They can't attack the physical realm anymore." she whispers.

    And out of frustration, and releif, she just gives a hiccupping sob against Red's shoulder. He made it.

Clarice Ferguson has posed:
    "What..." Clarice looks at the angelic host in confusion, and frustration - but she doesn't linger there. Instead, she runs towards Mystique and Lydia - opening a portal for the pair that will take them directly to the medbay's most secured room. Once they're through, she'll start looking around for other members of the Brotherhood to evacuate - starting with her King, and moving through the rest of the forces.
    Once they last of their people - injured, dead, or well - are through the portal, she'll follow through as well, moving with tired, leaden steps. Moving that many, that far, and immediately after a battle - it was a lot. And she still had to make sure her sister was alright...

Johnny Blaze has posed:
The chains bound Metatron, and the Ghost Rider seems to be lunging forward, as if to try and seize an opportunity, or to more directly hold the Archangel down, though it would appear that Metatron eventually is suffering blow after blow from the Red Robin. Ghost Rider growls at Metatron, and moves to try and finish the Archangel off.

But to no avail.

The sound of the horn blows, and Metatron appears in the sky. He looks unscatched, uninjured. Was Metatron their true enemy all of this time? The Ghost Rider feels something grappling with it, and Johnny wrestles control back from Zarathos, the Skeleton reverting to a human male: Johnny Blaze.

He takes those few deep breaths, that internalt explosion from before really doing a number on Johnny's spirit. "Fuck...what a bad day." He looks upwards at the angels as they appear. Too many to count, and Johnny's eyes start to soften and widen.

"Fuck."

"Alright guys, time to start planning how to counter that." Though Johnny looks at where Michael is, and he approaches him. "I told you Mike." Johnny informs of him with a weariness to him, and Johnny takes a few more steps before he outright collapses.

Michael Demiurgos has posed:
    As the heroes start to depart the field, a communication comes through emergency channels of the Resistance. Jon's voice is direct but urgent as his voice rings through the comm: <<All forces, fall back. Clear out Grand Central and evacuate Manhattan immediately. No exceptions. I have a plan; if the angels are not gone by Sunday morning, contact Troia and tell her to pull the trigger on her last-ditch resort.>>