Owner	Pose
Hyperion	Out and about in the city that never sleeps, the big apple... why is it called that? How is it that on two entirely different Earths in two entirely different universes... the name is the same as well as the nickname?     Hyperion wonders this as he slowly arcs through the air. Yes, brisk Monday mornings are times he -loves- to just be out for a fly-about. His black bodysuit contrasts against the bright sunlight above, and the golden cape almost melds with that sunlight... if the sun is behind him at least.     There are times when he will fly around and -not- peer about with his 'Hyper-Senses' because he just wants to enjoy the flight.... however, today is not one of those times. As much as he seems to have learned about -this- Earth, the fact remains that he has no... counterpart here. That all of his Squadron Supreme friends have no counterparts here. So it's not like he can just find this Earth's Nighthawk and befriend him. He is entirely on his own... at least in that regard. But he still searches. And in searching, cannot help himself from getting involved.     At least the quote from Edmund Burke existed in both universes. And this good man cannot stand by and do nothing.
Illyana Rasputina	Let's face it. No one likes Domino's Pizza. It's trash. Melted plastic on cardboard holds more nutritional value. A guilty pleasure requires pleasure in the mix, and that crap pie gives nothing of the sort, so it's just guilt. Not that Illyana eats terrible pizza for breakfast or lunch. Kneeling on the rooftop of the aforementioned pizza monstrosity means being several floors above the actual pie shop, jimmying a trapdoor. Whether locking or unlocking is hardly clear, sometimes. Kneeling there in her pale blonde splendour doesn't look at all suspicious, just relaxing beside a dowdy weather-beaten armchair. A soft noise of creaking metal comes from beneath that entranceway to the roof. No big deal. Just the perfect place to put her foot down and twist the bolts tighter, murmuring as she does so. Faint black and red sparks forge a different kind of protection.
Hyperion	Okay, recalling that quote, Hyperion does a doubletake as he spots the rooftop activity. High above, he slows to a stop and turns to peer down and get a good look. Really just making sure that he's not seeing things wrong. Making sure it's not just something out of the corner of his eye that appeared to be one thing until he looked more closely.     But no, there is definitely a young woman down there messing with a hatch on the rooftop. His senses take in the visual, and the electro-magnetic all at once... and it's only a moment before he is just a few feet away, behind the young woman. There is even a bit of a breeze that flows from the speed of his approach.     "Having difficulty?" his resonant voice states simply.
Illyana Rasputina	Two quick shifts and that sonic screwdriver in Illyana's hand twists down one of the protesting bolts into the warped frame. Steel resists the corrosion and bad weather around the Big Apple. Doesn't make it immune to shearing or punching up, though. The Russian mutant seals her thumb against the corner warped out of true. Dull basso rumbles bounce beneath her and dissipate into the structure of the building, annoying any residents or businesses that might have eked out a cheap existence. Sucks to be them, being deprived of their precious rooftop. But on a windy day like this where the cold is biting, is there any value being up there? She isn't oblivious to what goes on around her, either. Most of the intentions are devoted to fixing that marred flat plank of metal. But when someone speaks, she throws a look over her shoulder. Icy blue eyes take him in. Floating, golden, definitely not run-of-the-mill guy. Familiarity might ping from the spy museum because she sure as heck isn't wearing a hoodie or sunglasses that turn everyone near to anonymous, apparently. Under her is a shape about six and a half feet tall, possibly a missing lineman from the Giants. Except he runs way, way too hot. A good twenty degrees hotter than a human exerting themselves in fact, and that probably registers as the source of the denting the underside. Swing a fist, but it doesn't work well. The slaggy mess it carries is still 150 degrees or so hot, pretty much scorched black and a fake cheese mess. Someone stealing from Domino's? It'd have to be an outsider to be that weird.
Hyperion	Spotting the heat as he approached, Hyperion now accesses the atomic part of his vision where he can see through the atomic structure. Who am I kidding? It's pretty much X-Ray vision. Either way, his eyes narrow and he lands before pressing the front of one boot down on the edge of the hatch.     "Forgive me for asking this but... is there a reason that we are containing that creature -within- the building and not letting it out where we can capture it safely?" he asks
Illyana Rasputina	"Plague." A succinct answer floats over her shoulder with a heavy Russian accent to it. Illyana draws herself up, which isn't a terribly impressive height. She merely holds herself tall and fiercely occupies that space entirely her own, daring anyone to try her. Those slim shoulders drop back slightly and she doesn't bother to zip up her coat any further than it is. Looking cool matters so much more than being warm, right? At least for a certain age group. She rests on her heels, prepared to deal with anything trying to punch through. "Caged in an empty hallway is better than seeding disease." The words aren't exactly grudging but she rarely tends to speak so much unless comfortable. This doesn't count as much, her eyes narrowed, looking to the trapdoor in case someone comes out.
Hyperion	"Well, it will not be much longer before he ruptures the hatch entirely. I can keep it shut, but he will be through. I would offer to contain him but I have no idea if striking him would cause any of his plague to spread. This appears to be an enemy you are familiar with. Do you have any ideas on how to contain him more... permanently than this? It appears demonic... and very disgusting." Hyperion says as his eyes traverse back down to peer through the metal. "I estimate just under three minutes before the steel weakens enough for him to burst through." he adds.
Illyana Rasputina	Illyana hasn't forgotten the trapdoor. Not for an instant, not while she speaks. Resting on her heel, her body is stretched a little, attenuated for the possibility of movement. Sudden movement at that. Her fingers curl and loosen at her hip, the only idle gesture around her. "Maybe it will consume the pizza." Wouldn't that be nice, an opportunity squandered on a monster instead of a hungry human with poor taste. Hyperion earns that flat, level look from her when he asks how to deal with it. She tips her head. "Steel fails, but swords don't."
Hyperion	"Sure. But a sword cuts... plague can spread from blood shed even more easily than from the impact of a fist. Or am I off base here?" Asks the tall man.     His eyes are locked on the hatch there, and he inclines his head to one side, "It would be a shame. Pizza should not be wasted on one such as this." he adds. "But, if you engage... I will stand back and do my best to superheat and vaporize any blood before it can spread outward..." And as he says that, a golden-green glow begins in his eyes. "Are you ready?" he asks. "It will not be long before readiness is a moot point."
Illyana Rasputina	Is it really pizza though? Does it count when it's that gross? Questions for the ages. Questions for the gods. Questions, really, to make the world go around. It's not one that Ms. Rasputina can answer. She runs her thumb lightly in a circle and jerks her head to the trapdoor that's rapidly being battered and punched, but the bolts haven't broken yet. "It cannot break a wall it can't see. Fish, barrel, something like that." Words spoken with frosty calculation as she stalks on a diagonal for the entrance, and if she can't see the hulking figure pounding away she can sure as hell sense it. His vision is better than hers in that respect. Some odds are fairly balanced though. "I drop the wall, you vaporize? Seems... sporting." A whirlwind of spores drip off the melted candle skin of the horror underneath, but she oddly seems less concerned, possibly because a trail of silver winds around her fingers, blackening.
Hyperion	"I am not one to enjoy killing a creature. But is this thing truly alive?" asks Hyperion as he flows back a bit. "Either way, here he comes."     And to put action to words, the hatch gives way... a fist finally finding air on the other side.     "It seems that this creature is after you like a hound on a rabbit." Hyperion adds softly as he lines up to target.
Illyana Rasputina	"An embodiment of itself. It lives as far as an idea lives, separate from itself." Illyana doesn't bother mincing words, the sword manifesting in a blackened bracket. Forked bits enclose a long silver-fire blade that hasn't any kind of physical embodiment. Doesn't look like much except a missing ray of the sun or the full fire of every satellite in the solar system. Bound up, wound together, it's mildly impressive. The hatch gives way. The demon itself is a thing melted from brittle bones that are far harder than they appear. Stooped slightly, it wears its skin in ripples and melted drips. The overhang oozes pustules, and the miasma of sickness floats around it in a greenish-yellow air. The reeking stench comes from the pizza oozing out of a box that it wears to a belt. At least it has a belt. Pants are really a necessity here, but it has none and instead wears a weird form of lamellar armor. More like a skirt or an apron, strung with spikes. And all it needs to begin is a swing, which connects a maul-like fist with a barrier that lashes out in a reddish glow. Bright, far more than just electromagnetic energy. In fact, barely any of it fits in that spectrum at all. It rebounds off the ward and strikes out again, roaring in some kind of language. It's like a swamp and a volcano both decided to shout at once, with about the same effect. Phlegm hits the barrier and falls.
Hyperion	"Okay Pizza the Hut. It's time for you to go back into space." says Hyperion. But then he shrugs and offers a smirk, "Sorry, couldn't resist. I just learned that -my- universe does not possess Mel Brooks, and saw Spaceballs for the first time last week."     That said, he lifts upwards a bit. His eyes flicker towards the newly appearing sword.. and then they narrow. "Interesting." he says before he looks back towards the creature even as it lugies the barrier. "Wow. I thought I'd seen the worst grossout it could do.     He takes a focusing breath and then nods his head, "Do it." he states, prepared with his nuclear-vision.
Illyana Rasputina	That reference to Spaceballs probably goes over her head. Probably. Mind that he might offer her a roundtrip safely to the Sagittarius Arm and Illyana probably wouldn't notice. The sword in her hands swipes up in a vivid shine so bright that it could necessitate eye protection to avoid blinding. Whatever the case, she does not hesitate. Mel Brooks and Hyperion barely register. When the barrier falls in an invisible shimmer, she seems to know. <<I'll rip out your heart and take such pleasure in seizing your real that I might mount your corpse to a pole, so you don't miss any of the festivities>> is the nicest howled thing in a demonic tongue that their Pizza the Hutt spits out. She doesn't seem perturbed by this, merely offering a guard. A little blonde girl and her sword. Hard to put paid to being a demon hunter, but that opening by concentrating on her makes the big guy in the glistening cape a secondary target. Fool to the Demon.
Hyperion	Would that he had such a sword also. Hyperion shrugs and then mentally pushes power into his eyes, and out of them. Green nuclear fire lances out. The sort of heat that could reach three thousand degrees in an instant if he -wanted- to go that high. He doesn't right now because he doesn't want to melt the building, and the little blonde with the sword. But there is a pulse of the sort of energy that (scientifically at least) can only come from a fusion reaction.     His intent is to actually give that -sword- an opening. So he's aiming for the head and shoulders area of the demon, hoping to distract it. But if it is superheated already, the odds are that it is resistant to heat based damage.
Illyana Rasputina	Well, having shooty eye beams means never having to say you blinked or got close. Illyana hasn't that luxury. She has to get into range to have a chance, but part of the point is waiting until the opportune moment to move too. Flashing heat scorch rips through the air, and the building is engulfed in mist and heat shimmer as the remnants of snow and ice sublimate. Her own body is protected by a winter coat, not much good, and then a sudden explosion of black -- viscous, glittering metal wrapping around her arm all the way up to the throat, anchoring sidelong when the coat is subjected to a sudden warming burst. It's all entirely too exciting and fast to watch as the demon shrieks. It's pretty much untroubled by the change in temperature but the blast of nuclear energy is quite a bit different from bog standard fire. Indeed it probably constitutes a bad day by the sun at a distance of, oh, a couple tens of thousands of miles. Hit by a coronal flare is certain death even if it's very tiny. The thing bubbles and shrieks, but that immunity to pure fire and demonic fire (and other things that rhyme with fire, as long as they start with F and end with E) means it's a gloppy, nuclear mess spreading gouts of choleric ooze and superheated plasma goo. Maybe the goo is more of a vapor and thus hideously awful. Times like this, a girl needs a mask. Wearing a mildly displeased expression, lip curled, she stares at the crumbling mass of molten sludge that howls and swears. Getting close is an option but possibly a fatal one. When made to react to a failing plan, it's pretty simple. Nothing spells trouble like teleporting something's foot -- or what used to be a foot? -- away so it trips. And then sprawling out in front of Hyperion is just too convenient, unless it hobbles on pegleggedy.
Hyperion	Well, that is unexpected. Hyperion lifts higher into the air and spreads his arms out from his body in the sort of body language that says without words... eww.... keep it away!     He drifts back a few feet too and says, "Um, did I overdo it?" as he studies the burbling steamy mass. "Sorry if that was too hot for you. I didn't think that far ahead."     He is hesitant... and has just found out that even his Nuclear Vision is more powerful in this universe than it was back home. "Again, sorry. I didn't mean to flash that hot."
Illyana Rasputina	Ew, indeed, keep it away. "The building is up," Illyana calls back in that sharp, soft tone like the sword she wields, not to any point and stab purpose. Not yet. Could well be because she circles around the demon, mindful of anything it might hurl. Might just be to let the big burning guy take damage and soak the rage of gloppy bits, poisoned and diseased chunks being hurled Hyperion's way one after the other. "Not dead," she snaps, to state the obvious, maybe to earn herself an opening. Either way, when she darts forward into the danger zone, it's strictly to slam that blade at the thing's back. Of course, it's a demon; fast is in their nature. Sometimes.
Hyperion	True to form, Hyperion has a tendency to -allow- things to hit him. Simply because it's better that he get hit than things go flying into the streets. Diseased, plague-spreading bits. So he gets slimed. Literally.     I mean he doesn't get sick. His body just doesn't. He has mental control over every cell of it that way. But magical infections are entirely different. He's not thinking of that now. He is pulsing -far- weaker blasts from his eyes to try to use them as point-defense lasers shooting down missiles of goop. But any that get past that -do- strike him because... again, better that than letting them fall to the street below.     Plus, the longer he can keep the thing focused on him, the better time sword-girl will have striking him, right? RIGHT?!
Illyana Rasputina	Things hit Hyperion and do they get up? Only one way to find out because unless he moves, he's getting a hug from a hobnobbing monster that hauls itself up to seize upon him. Really, having a foot missing makes for a problem, doesn't it? It wants awfully bad to engulf him in a poisoned, toxic embrace full of terrible smells, botulism, and the embodiment of terrible decay and blight. Eww, it's not pleasant. So he is well and truly slimy, imbued by the infernal corruption of a hug. Not something most people on their 2020 Bingo card, but at this point, you never know. Gloppy bursts of incinerated or vaporized essence wisp away as the literal shell of incarnated power is ripped apart, all remnants of the Domino's Pizza charge gone. Illyana doesn't really want to get close, but neither is she happy to see the blade strike harmlessly off the ground when it lunged forward -- it being the demon. Turning swiftly, she alters her guard and waits for that moment of embrace to just run them both through. Convenient right? And absolutely /no/ hesitation there. In a heartbeat, it's done. Silver fire churns into the very being it has been tempered to destroy, agonizingly fast as the artifact responds viciously to the abyssal entity. Fire erupts from its mouth and the steaming wounds that eyebeams have left. As for Hyperion? Technically, he's probably got a foot or more of sword running through him. Or not. Except it isn't painful. It isn't there. Is he extra immune? Maaaaybe?
Hyperion	Okay, at first Hyperion expects the weapon to bounce harmlessly off of him. Then as it comes closer, he realizes that the energy of it was not something that he could sense or perceive in any way. There is only one sort of energy that he cannot perceive. Oh bother....     All of this goes through his mind in that split second as the blade is being pushed his way. He realizes that this must be a magical blade. And... as he has just recently learned, magic blades can cut him.     He has a long moment of eternity as that stab comes in.. and he accepts it. He spreads his arms out to his sides, hoping that he will at least survive it.     And then time flows back to normal speed and the weapon pierces the demon and the Eternal. Once that happens, his eyes close and he thinks to himself . . o o O O (It must be worse than I thought. I can't even feel it. Am I in shock already? Did it kill the demon?)     And then he looks down at the wound... lifting his brows, "Magic." he says, "And... is that somehow -not- injuring me?" he asks, totally confused now.
Illyana Rasputina	The blade passes through... and there /is/ a sensation. What is the sensation of being impaled on someone's very soul, on something that was once pure enough to attract the attention of the multiversal deities responsible for holding the balance of shadow and evil in the existence? The beacon that burns is something singularly -odd-, probably like a momentary swallow of a star and being caught in the vibrational resonance of atoms and gravity together. It burns only in the way a chilling gasp of cold air would, the way plunging into a hot spring after being outside feels. Mundane but sublime. Perhaps far more complex, for someone of his ilk. Flesh is no barrier to her. For a moment, there is fire, and there is something binding them along the axis of a slender sword that is greater in size and dimension than its shape ever suggests. A quiver explodes; the demon shrieks soundlessly as the Soulsword devours it in a blink. And then... well, she's not falling forward but yanking the blade back, banishing it utterly. "I would not drink. "
Hyperion	And with that sensation, Hyperion inclines his head. He focuses his attention, his senses on it. He even speeds up his perceptions so that he can have more 'time' to study that sensation. It is interacting with his cells, and yet.. -not- intruding in them.     "You have a most unusual weapon." he says as the blade is withdrawn, and his senses return to normal speed once more. He drops back to the rooftop and steps back a half pace before looking down to see if he is still slimed, or of every bit of the demon was consumed by the blade.
Illyana Rasputina	It's not necessarily easy to pick up what was; vanished from her, bitten and devoured by space. Wherever the blade goes, she doesn't let on. "It is functional," she explains without a crackling of pride. Be as it may, she's not particularly boastful. The goo on the rooftop and the clinging particles are remaining in the meantime, though slowly fading. At least the gunk. "You will want to wash," she warns. "You may have a hundred diseases, most unpleasant."
Hyperion	"Yes... I think I have a good solution to both of those issues." states Hyperion. "Atmospheric re-entry produces enough heat via friction to burn off -anything- that might be clinging to me." he suggests before his feet leave the rooftop once more. "It was pleasant to make your acquaintance though. I am called Hyperion."     And after an exchange of names... he'll launch himself towards orbit to let the air do the job of cleansing him.
Illyana Rasputina	That much being said, the blonde runs her fingers over her arm. No help sloughing off the demonic residue but a quick jump back to her home plane will do that. "Magik," she says, with the finality that lacks irony for someone spelling their name the trendy way. She is magic, that is that, plain as day. "Hyperion," she repeats. His name is spoken with a rare gravitas. But then he's off, burning into the outer reaches of the ionosphere. In turn, she vanishes by simply jumping off the roof. No body at the bottom a second later.