Scene #9557: In Search of Answers: Finale

Owner	Pose
Calvin Nash	Futaba takes the spot at the window. People about their business move through the paved street the tenement overlooks. A lot of it is one way, on towards market stalls, the communal orchards and fields, or to the grain mill, all social spots in addition to their other purposes. Some are the other way, back to their houses from those spots, with baskets of goods or after having worked their shifts elsewhere in town. The constant in all of it is the Templars; they don't seem to move from their posts. That is, until a few seconds after Futaba peers through the window. A Templar at the street corner down below--one that Futaba, Charilaos and Dimo passed on the way in--checks his COMP. He taps something into it and closes the monitor again. It doesn't look too out of the ordinary, or at least, the Templar doesn't seem to think so. Really, it'd be easy to miss in the daily bustle, if not for the fact that it's movement from a guard who's mostly been still this whole time. The longer she watches, the more it seems like something banal and not worth noting. It's only until she might think to look away that something stands out to her. A man in a cowboy hat carries a guitar case and travels against the flow of foot traffic and towards the tenement. He wears a hemp serape to ward off the cold, which isn't too uncommon out here--you've seen a few. As he moves, he brushes past someone carrying a heavy basket. The serape briefly parts to reveal the COMP on his arm, painted in the Templar white-blue livery.
Calvin Nash	In the Cathedral, Richards has custody of the dybbuks. The sword of Truth overhead slowly sublimates into vaporous spent energy, looking like clouds of ash shot through with purple cinders. Calvin doesn't allow the pall of silence to last long. "McIver," says Calvin. "Yeah?" Father McIver turns from the organ's keys to look at him. "I'm 'bout to summon a demon. One of Lucifer's boys." "What? Why?" "'Cause this traitor or spy or whoever--we think it's somebody in the Ministry, and we figure it's gonna draw 'em out." "But... I don't get it. Why would that draw them out?" "'Cause," Calvin says. "They spoke. And we figure as far as our guy knows, this demon's dead." "Okay... but the alarm's going to sound," McIver says warily. "And I can't turn it off right away." "Don't worry about that," comes Calvin's terse response. "Just do what you can, as fast as you can. As long as this place ain't swarmin' with Templars when our guy comes over, it'll be aight. Better than," Calvin adds after a moment's thought. "Might figure that we're fixin' to interrogate that demon and show his ass tryin' to put a stop to it, once he realizes there ain't no Templars comin'." "Lilian. Watch my back. This one's gonna hurt." Another few button taps and Calvin procures an injector. Its glass vial is full of glowing purple liquid--magnetite. Grasping it in his hand, index extended, he taps in the next few commands to summon the demon. The plan was for a quick summoning. A few button-taps are all it takes to bring Ongyo-ki out. Whenever Calvin summons any demon, there is a toll on his personal energy. As he's explained before, that toll can be mitigated--COMPs themselves are one way, allowing for a passive state where demons don't consume any at all, and giving them an alternative to being summoned from the Expanse, with all the expenditure that involves. Another way is to only associate with demons that share a similar or roughly similar view of the world as one's self; ideological differences mean very much, when matters of emotional energy are concerned. It also helps if your partner gets along with you. Neither of these are true for Calvin; Ongyo-ki can only conceive of true happiness for the people who matter to him if the world is drastically altered such that strength is the order of the day and the individual is never repressed or even restrained by systems larger than themselves. Calvin stares blankly at the blast shutters closing over the stained-glass windows, curtains of light gradually smothered by hard, unrelenting steel layered over with protective glyphs and warding phrases. The clanging of the Cathedral's bells in alarm rather than worship barely rouse him from his dissociative state, even as McIver frantically taps into a computer console laid into the organ's keys to shut the alarm off. --- Futaba and Dimo see a white streak blitz across the streets at eye-level, an angel in flight passing by closely and quickly enough to rattle the windows. His halo burns brightly in the split second he passes by. The man on the street below is gone. A moment later, there's a pounding at the door. "Knight-Captain Gladys Richards. Neil Ferguson. You're to be detained on suspicion of conspiracy against the Milennium Ministry. Come out with your hands up." "What's going on?!" asks Neil. "I'd like to know that, as well. On whose authority is this arrest being made?" "The angel Nuriel, of the order of Thrones." "You lie! It was by Nuriel's orders that we protect this mortal!" "Then someone's misled you. Hand them over or I'll take them." "Get to the Cathedral," Charilaos whispers in hushed tones. "I'll get him to safety."
Calvin Nash	"Who knew that 'paying it back' looked so much like the gallows?" Ongyo-ki chuckles mirthlessly. "I wonder which one of us he'll kill first." "It's off!" calls McIver, as the bells halt and the blast shutters raise up. "Hurry and get him put up 'fore you pass out!" Richards shouts, grabbing Calvin by the collar. Slowly, as if through a haze, Calvin lifts the injector, staring at it listlessly and sticks the needle into his arm. The plunger depresses, and he grits his teeth as the light returns to his eyes. Ripping it out and tossing it aside as the magnetite cooks off every second from Ongyo-ki's presence, Calvin hurriedly types a dismissal command. "Coward." Ongyo-ki is stored back in the COMP, broken up into a cloud of artifacted data and binary values that rapidly dissipates. The stained glass in the apse shatters from high-speed impact with a pair of wings. The image of the four Archangels and God is partially shot through with unfiltered sunlight as the blast shutters rise. Broken glass rains down over the apse, with a few stray shards flying into the chorus. Calvin and Richards shield their faces. Musical laughter echoes through the chancel. "By my eyes, if it isn't Knight-Captain Richards." The angel is tall, wearing a flowing white tunic and a matching square mask that conceals the upper half of his face. golden halo stands steadfast behind his head, as unfailing in its soft glow as in its position. Raven wings beat powerfully to maintain his position in the air, their tempo altering as he lowers himself to the floor. His bare feet seem to have no trouble finding purchase free of broken glass. "My agents reported seeing you at the western tenement house," he says. "But it seems you have a talent for deception. You are still under arrest for conspiracy. It would look better if you didn't resist." "Black hair," notes Richards. "Golden halo. Bare feet. Gray skin." "Your eyes don't deceive you," the angel amusedly notes. "Good. 'Cause that makes you our traitor. Not her," Calvin asserts. "Now, you was sayin' 'bout 'resisting?'" The angel's beatific smile remains, though he does look towards the ritual circle. He recognizes the characters. "An accusation like that mustn't be made lightly. But... between the Hymn of Truth that was sang here, and your little ruse with our dear Knight-Captain, it seems you've outplayed me. Therefore, you've earned a name. The angel Nuriel is guilty only of being too trusting. I am Mastema," he says, hand over heart with a deep a bow at the waist. "The Angel of Hostility and Obstacles." His smile remains, as he rises from him bow.
Rita Ma	As the dybbuks are dismissed, Rita stands off to the side near (the real) Knight-Captain Richards in the cathedral. "And I gotta let that guide me towards kindness. Or I can't be me." Her hands fold, one over the other, as she tries to heal the nail-marks in her own palm with a bit of white light. "I think I get it. What you think is possible is what you'll try. And what you do is who you are. So..." Rita's mouth scrunches a little uneasily. 'Anyone can be saved' is something it's comforting to know that Richards believes. Rita maybe still thinks of herself as someone who 'needs saving'. But... "... not everyone's in your power to reach out and 'save', though, right? Especially... people who are powerful, and who've had lots of chances already." It's more comfortable to believe some of the people she's hurt were outside 'saving'. The work Calvin's doing is largely beyond her, but she nervously gravitates towards his shoulder, just in case he needs some kind of help.
Dimokratia	Dimo had enjoyed the brief time she had gotten to preach to the angel (and to Futaba, further, who had already heard some of the highlight reel) and was only mildly scraped at interacting with the lesser functionary and his guard of two over-compensating angels on detail. The audacity of them to question, and not immediately understand their natural alignment should be apparent! And yet... The functionary was being forthcoming. All was well. 'Come out with your hands up.' Dimo's trails had moved in an organic sway, catching eddies and waves of unseen currents or the faint microspasms of emotions and heat down conductive lines of chrome, and then stopped frozen in lines that turned in sharp-bladed curves. Protectively, a hand extends down across 'Gladys'-as-Futaba, and her cool blue optics regard Charilaos and Neil past them. Normally Dimo would stand firmly and talk her way levelly through the situation, because she was not only fully convinced she could talk out this situation but also clear the room personally with Futaba's immediate help and Charilaos' assistance once the angel caught on as a tactical benefit. Diplomacy was always best done from position of power, if one could be taken. Bringing one with you never hurt. Still, Charilaos was seeming to urge the diplomatic route, so Dimo nods and pulls Futaba along with her towards the two angels on detail and Neil. "I am Chevalier Dimo, with the Paladins." She introduces at sotto-buzz, filling in with synapse connection where hushed-tone delivery fails. "The Knight-Captain is under my personal protection for this investigation. The Paladins, Ministry, and Demon Marshals are engaging in a group operation to root out corruption targeting Ministry members. Charilaos will be your point of contact here. Rest upon the orders that you have and your faith, and we will move with the Knight-Captain to end this threat. Go with your God, champions, and together we will align with a bright victory." She quickly delivers, a cracklingly inspiring little moment for those to capture it and hold to it for determined resolve - and the sort of preaching she understands fires up these sorts of beings - and continues past through the tenement to a rear stairwell to escape. "Remain as Richards, Futaba. Run with me - we will move through the city and see if we collect any loose stragglers for the hunt." And with that, Dimo is off at a sporting jog - she knows Futaba's speed, but also Richards' supposed-to-have speed, and paces for the fake Knight-Captain to keep up.
Futaba Nuki	Being on guard and not being able to say a thing this whole time has been both incredibly difficult and strangely relaxing for Futaba. She's so used to the sound of her own voice that not saying a thing for almost the entire walk over and the entire time she's been here with their witness has been extraordinarily strange for her. And yet... It's kind of nice, not having to say anything. It's easier to focus on what Neil has to tell them, and to try and suss out what's important about any of that. The warning from the mysterious guy on the road isn't lost on her, of course, and that jitteriness from his guards has been plenty reason for her to take up that post to look outside afterwards. She's not made of stone, of course, and even she starts to get a little antsy watching the people outside for so long, drumming her fingers on her arm idly to keep her hands busy. Those people are just going about their lives, after all, but what should she be keeping an eye out for at all? That person with the basket? That other person holding all that stuff without a basket and really should have? That person with the basket that didn't really need one at all? The Templar looking at a COMP? Maybe she's jumping at shadows. It'd certainly be more interesting than standing around this whole time, but she's resolved to stay vigilant during this matter, and she finally gets her wish for something to break it up when she sees the cowboy hat. Well, she's seen cowboy hats before. It's not that weird. Fighting the urge to sigh in disappointment, Futaba-as-Richards rolls her shoulders once to work out some of that tension, she's about to start looking away when a the she spots that flash of the COMP, and then the streak of white. Reaching her hand into her pocket, Futaba refrains from drawing her flaming katana out right away, but keeps her hand ready until the moment passes. Instead, she looks over towards Dimo and Charilaos, gesturing at the window with two fingers before mouthing 'white wings' silently. It's also kind of hard to stay calm when Dimo's right next to her, but she's on her best behavior today and settles for patting Dimo's hand lightly. "Come out with your hands up." Inhaling lightly, Futaba listens to the somewhat confusing exchange between Neil's guards and those outside with a slightly distasteful grimace, carefully measured to not make herself-as-Richards look too surprised or annoyed even by this. She nods slowly as Charilaos lets the witness and his guards know how to proceed, and she once again has to hold it in as Dimo explains the situation to them. Futaba-as-Richards is only allowed to crack the sliiiightest of smiles to keep the facade up, and then she walks on over to the knight captain's partner to reach up and give him a light forearm bump of encouragement. Another light throat clearing to remind the witness and the guards that her throat is definitely sore and not hiding something else about herself, and then she hurries to catch up with Dimo at the rear stairwell. "Mhm. Got it, Lady Dimo. Not too fast, need to let them see 'me' and get this chase started." Futaba finally allows herself to speak, but... Her voice sounds kind of weird now that she's finally allowed that moment of speech. Did she forget how to talk like 'herself'? It'll come back, but not anytime soon. There's a chase to kick off, and she needs to run just fast enough to keep up without actually getting away immediately!
Meresankh	Meresankh watches, curious, as Calvin explains and executes the next step of his plan. Her eyes narrow with a touch of concern as she witnesses the toll Ongyo-ki's summoning takes on the Demon Marshal, as she watches through her multi-spectrum vision the enormous flare of energy from Calvin's wrist COMP. She idly weighs the possibility of an emotional capacitor, something that could be loaded before a difficult summoning to alleviate the cost, rather than applied afterwards to recuperate. Then the window into the chapel shatters, and her attention snaps to the intruder. "FOOL!" she proclaims, recognizing the intruder from the dybbuks' account. "Perfidious vulture! You twist the minds of your people, throw them away like so many pawns, and now show your face before ME? Higgins would have been a bloodbath without our intervention!" she shouts, gesturing to the elites beside her with one hand and raising her sceptre with the other. Her rod of office flares with energy, geometric lights flickering within the orb atop. "Explain yourself, if you can, or face the wrath of worlds!" "Demon Marshal!" Meresankh calls, rather more imperious than would really be polite. "This cuckoo's elemental affinities, if you please." Whether or not her request is answered, she also scans not the angel himself, but the walls around him - assessing which forms of energy would be more or less damaging to the beautiful white stonework of the cathedral. Treacherous angels or no, this is a place of honor and she does not wish to see it further damaged!
Rita Ma	The stained-glass spray nicks Rita's cheek, standing beside-and-behind Calvin, but her reaction to it is muted. When she speaks on the radio now, Rita's lips don't move, and no sound seems to come from her even up close. <J-IC-Scene> Rita Ma says, voice lowered, "Mr. Calvin. Ms. Richards. Is there a reason we shouldn't be hurting him, right now?" <J-IC-Scene> Calvin Nash says, "I dunno why he ain't tried to hurt us." <J-IC-Scene> Dimo says, "An enemy? Perhaps... to frame the provocation? Act carefully." <J-IC-Scene> (NPC) Gladys Richards says, "He's... this is what he's 'supposed to' do. He serves the Almighty, but by bein' an 'enemy' for the faithful to overcome. If he hasn't attacked us yet... it could be 'cause there's somethin' he wants us to realize before he can consider his work done." <J-IC-Scene> Rita Ma says, ". . . Okay. If he's supposed to do that then that's awful." Having seamlessly left a tentacle-effigy of herself behind, Rita slips around the side of the ritual circle wrapped in chromatophore camouflage, connected to her animated meat-illusion by an invisible umbilical that has to stretch around Calvin's back. A convincing decoy of herself commits a couple tentacles. Camo-wrapping her real body commits a few more. That doesn't leave many spare appendages for offense, but she can still do her best. Whatever Mastema's explanation for his actions is, Rita has decided she's not interested in hearing it. As Mastema straightens up from his bow, two cloaked tentacles lunge for the angel from twelve feet to his right. The only warning is the whistling breeze of their movement a split-second before. One twists around his right arm, constricting it; the other grabs at his neck; if either finds a hold, they slam him back against the blast shutters, looking as if he was hurled back by telekinesis.
Lilian Rook	Lilian remains dead silent for the time spent by others on asking and telling; examining who's who and which questions belong to what mouth. In her mind, she already assumes that she must be dead obvious to everyone but Richards, who knows her the least, but that nobody will think to say anything about it as long as she doesn't make any-- 'I'm 'bout to summon a demon. One of Lucifer's boys' 'What? Why?' Lilian snorts-laughs at the same time she covers her mouth, muffling the sound but making it twice as obvious who did. There's nothing witty about it, and no deeply layered meaning; it's just something she'd never even thought of hearing inside a church of any stripe, and hearing both the casual delivery and bemused reply quadratically increases how funny that is. She clears her throat, attempting to push on through the moment. "It seems my estimate was right on the money." Lilian says, as if were actually confirmed. "To little surprise, I'm certain. Now that we've got that out of the way, we're set to do more or less as we please. So . . ." She looks to Calvin, leadingly. 'Lilian. Watch my back. This one's gonna hurt.' She links. Her gaze says 'Oh, it's like that'. "Fine. But don't try to act tough." she says, hypocritically. "And above all, don't make me explain your plan to some angry Templars in a way that requires I creatively avoid finding a way to say 'I was just following orders'." . . . . . . . . 'I wonder which one of us he'll kill first.' "Well, on the list of people here who can be killed, there's you, and . . . oh look; everyone else is someone I'd bother to protect." Lilian, sheathed sword shifted to her hand, is focused on layering as much of her armour as she can under her clothes rather than over them, and the attention it takes to closely direct the hissing strings of black iron dust in a direct and purposeful way is clearly not insubstantial, but unfortunately her attitude is much closer to Ongyo-ki's than Calvin is by a lot; hence-- 'Coward.' "Thank him or talk shit after you can beat me yourself; don't go making third options now." It's perfect timing for something dramatic, like the windows shattering, which also renders her attempts at not appearing suspiciously prepared for a brawl to human investigation rather much a waste of her time. 'Black hair' Lilian breathes deep. 'Golden halo. Bare feet. Gray skin' Her fingers flex to loosen up, then curl around the hilt of her sword. [ansi(243,'An accusation like that mustn't be made lightly. But... between the Hymn of Truth that was sang here, and your little ruse with our dear Knight-Captain, it seems you've outplayed me')] §He isn't even going to deny it. Is that suspicious? No, there's no way to line all of these facts up in a row that doesn't necessitate an intentional sacrifical pawn for it to be false, and he doesn't seem weak enough to be one. Not by far.§
Lilian Rook	'I am Mastema, the Angel of Hostility and Obstacles.' Lilian's posture changes. A twitch of aggression, forward and upward, converted into a slight readjustment of her lead foot. A motion aborted by sudden recollection. She glances out of the corner of her eye, past Rita and at Regulus, and makes a sound of irritation with her tongue against her teeth. "Tú ródhéanach cheana féin." Seven solid gold shell casings deflect off the tiles and spiral away into the air, trailing fresh smoke. Black-gold transmutation circles overlap like raindrop ripples. A kalaeidoscopic spray of alchemical fire, ice, lightning, and corrosive intermingles with a fractal spike of blood magic and an explosion of solar fire, the one unaltered slug invisible between them. Glittering smoke vents from the weapon at Lilian's hip, not her hands, the latter of which she draws only as Rita makes her move.
Calvin Nash	Futaba and Dimo on their run through the city encounter resistance, but it doesn't seem like there's any organized conspiracy at work. Squads of threes attempt to chase the two of them down, but those squads are just as often countered by guards in the street who come to their defense. Furthermore, there's no sign of the man who came with the arrest order in the first place--the archangels in the tenement building evidently took their side and prevented him from giving any chase. Charilaos is home free with Neil in hand. All things considered, there's simply too much confusion in this moment for any chase to be mounted--which seems to imply that this isn't a case of a unified, organized conspiracy, but carefully coordinated deception. Given the chaos in the streets, getting to the Cathedral is trivial. --- Calvin had been scanning Mastema, for a good few moments before Meresankh's request. He summons Cerberus, whose rumbling growl can be felt in the chest. "My elemental affinities... why don't I save the good Marshal a moment and answer myself? You may harm me most effectively with fire, whereas I make use of my hands and feet, my sword, the element of wind, and the light of the Lord... give or take a few special techniques." "Son of a bitch is tellin' the truth," Calvin huffs a moment later. "Which means either he's real confident in his self, or it ain't gonna be as easy as just wailin' on 'im." Meresankh finds that the Cathedral should withstand fire as long as it isn't directed at the windows, the organ or the pews. That and lightning will score the stone walls, but not irreparably. "Special techniques..." Calvin mouths the words on the screen, reading through them. He looks up, to offer some advice, only to see Mastema lifted up into the air, the smile on his face still as certain as ever. "WAIT!" Mastema doesn't even flinch from the whistling breeze. He must have heard it--the corners of his mouth rise upwards in amusement as both his right arm is grappled--the left swats the tentacle away from his throat, as if speaking were more important than preventing himself from being thrown. The blast shutters have almost finished their ascent, but he is slammed into the lip hard enough to shake the metal in its housing. A small chime fills the air as he falls--a triangular mote of light winks into existence at the 12 o'clock point on his halo. Lilian's kaleidoscopic spray of energy and the following explosion of fire slam into him afterwards, driving him backwards into the high altar with a crack. Two more points appear. "It's called 'Crime and Punishment.' He gets one of those every time we wallop 'im real hard or hit a weakness. Don't just wail on 'im! Watch for when he uses them things!" Explain yourself, if you can, or face the wrath of worlds! "It was I who bid Abraham bind and sacrifice Isaac, only for Abraham to prove his virtue and relent. It was I who hardened the Pharaoh's heart when God's people broke their backs under his lash, only for Moses to part the sea and lead them to freedom. Mine is to test and to be foiled, to accuse and be disproven. It's your wrath that I seek, and accept. Even if it means my death. Especially then."
Calvin Nash	It's here that his smile falters. It darkens into a grave frown. "For if I were correct, if I had suceeded, would it not be disastrous for Canaan? A lie of salvation, driving scores to murder... Yes, that should enrage you. It should enrage you as it enrages me, every day that I am forced to live in it!" "You're lying!" shouts Richards, more because she wants it to be true than knows it. But the second part is spoken with conviction: "These are good people--not murderers!" "If that is so, then I cannot hold back. I cannot allow your victory to be had trivially. A shadow hangs over all of Canaan. If you are not the ones who will free this land from fear, then the way must be cleared for those who can. Now..." The angel rises. "HAVE AT YOU!" Richards summons a man with umber brown skin, dark, short hair, solid red eyes and an elaborate ceremonial headdress calling to mind the horns of a dragon and the fins of a sea creature, complete with matching bracers and anklets. "Ba'al, get us up to speed and keep 'im busy!" Cerberus leaps towards Mastema, three heads snarling, only to be swatted aside by a standing snap kick. The angel clasps his hands together and a blinding, searing light fills the Cathedral, burning everyone it touches save the cowering Father McIver.
Meresankh	Meresankh swishes her scepter a little, gathering a nimbus of plasma around it as Calvin confirms Mastema's account of his own weaknesses, but the energy dissipates as Calvin warns that fighting the angel may not be so simple as the application of proper force. Instead, her scepter's light concentrates to a single, burning-green point at the heart of the orb, and a thin beam like a laser light through smoke crackles through the air toward Mastema. When it strikes, it begins to eat away at his form, not in great bites but as if through a straw. The disintegration ray, set to low power, is a painful death by inches, and hopefully not enough at once to trip the angel's retributive counter-technique. It also, however, does nothing to prevent Mastema's wave of divine brilliance, and Meresankh is cast backward, and the Necron queen severs her erosive energy link rather than let it fly askance and drill a hole in the cathedral wall. When she gathers her focus again and rises on an antigravity field, half her body is darkened with soot that slowly peels away and scatters on the breeze from the broken window. She flourishes her cape out to one side, and from its sparkling interior pour dozens of hand-sized scarab drones. Her orders for them, though she could issue them silently, are but two words spoken aloud: "Devour him." The scarabs fly and scuttle in a vast cloud toward the angel, settling upon his wings and body and tearing at feather and flesh with grinding, bladed mouths capable of powdering stone. If the disintegration ray hurt - this, well...
Dimokratia	Dimo and Futaba are thrust into multiple scene transitions in the destabilizing cityscape. Trios of interceptors chase after the champion and her ninja-charge, and after a brief shout of identification, Dimo accelerates with a lean and blur of gunmetal and chrome as her posture shifts mid-adjustment. Sweeping trails like lashes through the rushing gang, Dimo leaves a share to Futaba and takes two for herself to clear quickly. After the initial assault, the Champion draws metal weapons off of the animate tendrils mid-flourish and continues on. When the guards take care of things, Dimo is quick to move while acknowledging their aid with appropriate calls and at a sprint an expedient synaptic pulse that crackles the meaning right to forebrain and whatever passes for psionic core among the Expanse-based types. Was it important for Futaba-as-Richards to get a takedown on the intercepting enemies? Dimo couldn't calculate it, but being seen fighting alongside the Knight-Captain had its own merits. It would be useful enough until they crashed the Cathedral, but they were still fast by normal people standards and pushed through to the temple after only fighting one of the three presented encounters. --- Without being present for all of Mastema's introduction, Dimo selects one of the Cathedral's outer facing walls with any sort of window and points at the ingress for Futaba's sake before charging right at the wall, spear ready and shoulder down. Instead of smashing through the wall, the Champion seamlessly transitions, impacting the wall and buzzing-sifting through the very substance of the wall as if it isn't there in the traditional sense, but instead incredibly fine sand that was being vibrated through. The wall went nowhere and Dimo displaces-and-doesn't, sifting through a solid object at a launching sprint to take off and seize the low height ceiling with a flare of flight surfaces across wing-shaped crescents springing from back. "Are you also the one who decides triviality? Might you have spared more of your god's people had you simply fought us in that open-field town for the point of it? Must you have your due, your point? Your quota?!" There's something deep and bitter in Dimo that digs in, carries behind her aerial spear lunge and clearing sweep out that's chased by a fan of tracking missiles launched in her wake to keep the angel pressured. She doesn't begin aware of his gimmick counterattack but she'll soon learn of it as she applies hot, sharp chrome and high explosive warheads to his person. When she's close enough to strike, there's real zeal in the way she snarls in low rumbling trenches of her normally melodic buzz-tone. "Negativity aspects like you deserve worse than 'foiling'. You're pathetic."
Futaba Nuki	As Futaba jogs alongside Dimo, even she starts to notice that the chase is not quite as organized nor exhilarating as she had hoped it would be. She had been hoping for more of a fighting retreat, after all, and she had even prepared all sorts of knight-esque stances to fight with! Seeing that the squads of three are being waylaid by the guards in the street just as much as they're being evaded through deft footwork and tricky clambering, however, means she actually has some time to breathe. She takes full advantage of the opportunities Dimo provides 'Richards' to show off a little, too, between pummeling a pursuer down with a barrage of deft strikes from seemingly/actually multiple directions at once or a mighty blow from straight on. Even the fleeing scrambles result in flipping over a pursuer or barreling straight into another from a different squad, all to give conflicting reports on what Richards is actually capable of. "What gives? I thought they'd be a lot more... You know. A third of what we're used to. I'm not even using my hands." She comments to Dimo during their escape, still taking care to keep her voice down even as she tries to recover her usual way of talking. "Can't look a gift horse in the mouth, but still. Guess we'll be reaching the others sooner rather than later, so long as Charilaos' got our guy home safe." --- Reaching the Cathedral just in time for the battle against Mastema to begin, Futaba has since dropped the Richards look to take on her usual one with the ninja-oid outfit on. She bursts into the Cathedral through the same wall as Dimo does, albeit by somersaulting through a window and landing in a shower of glass that hurts a lot more than she allows her face to show. Futaba lands with two fingers raised in front of her face while landing in a low pose with her other hand held to the ground like a sprinter. "Hope you weren't waiting long. Lady Dimo of the Silver and Futaba of the Nuki have arrrrrived!" She calls out in her usual energetic way, albeit with some reservations about a second in once she remembers that this is still a cathedral. "give or take a few special techniques." It's hard to stay fully quiet, though, when she hears that from Mastema. "Well, don't leave us hanging. Are you gonna tell or show, then?" She asks, her question already answered by Calvin's COMP reading and her own observation of the motes of light bursting into existence. "I get it... So when it fills up all the way around, he'll be showing us something big." The ninja observes, drawing out her katana and sliding her fingers across the back of it to make its flames burst upwards. Holding the weapon in a high stance to keep it from igniting the pews, she looks for an opportunity to attack, but doesn't charge right in for once. She's watching the motes, taking little pot shots here and there with throwing stars and kunai, but Futaba's being patient this time in waiting for the number to go higher first. "It's your wrath that I seek, and accept. Even if it means my death." "If you are not the ones who will free this land from fear, then the way must be cleared for those who can." "So that's your angle... Tch. Get off your goddamn high horse!" She calls out, visibly incensed and finally charging in once she's confident she can drive the count up back to 12'o'clock. "If you hate it so much, then fix it or leave! Nobody's forcing you to do this roundabout sacrificial bullshit, and nobody's buying what you're selling!" Leaping towards Mastema, Futaba drops her katana partway through the jump to turn her hands into a pair of sledgehammers, slamming them both inwards at the angel. A moment later, she catches the katana with her boot and kicks it upwards, driving it straight up at Mastema from below.
Lilian Rook	'Don't just wail on 'im! Watch for when he uses them things!' "Scan faster next time!" Lilian shouts in place of tactical banter; a meaningful break from pattern with Calvin specifically, if still not a tremendous one." Her left hand hovering over the pommel of her sword rather than gripping it already betrays that she was planning to launch an even stronger follow-up attack next. "You get us all used to that elemental weakness and strength business and then--" Her holding pattern of voice displeasure, used to maintain momentum while thinking up a plan, breaks at a delayed realization. She dares a glance back at Calvin despite her better sense. "--It even tells you things like that?" Sober doubt creeps back in. "Or is this guy that famous?" Her glare communicates 'no wonder he's such a smug son of a bitch' without elaboration. "What, do you want me to hit him gently?" But of course she's already thinking about it. This sort of thing is how it always is, above a certain weight class. The back of her mind is already sliding the mechanical ticker up from 'Giant' to bounce rapidly between 'Demon' and 'Dragon' class, while another sub-process leafs through its mental binder to 'Immaculate' and a third floating point tries to assign a hue value. Crunching possibility data blocks out her reservations about the rest, until it lands on--'HAVE AT YOU!' §The fucking blast shutters! Nash you ass!§ It's McIverson who is suddenly lifted off his feet by the woman behind him. It must have been when it was too bright to see that Lilian got there, though the snap decision to use him as a human shield bears later explanation. Turned sideway in his shadow, Lilian has the time to feel thankful for a rare change of pace for being shorter than the height she'd otherwise like to be, and to curse the fact that Mastema has obliterated his own shadow in the process. 'I get it... So when it fills up all the way around, he'll be showing us something big.' "Don't make that assumption!" Lilian snaps. "The first thing I'd do with a power like that is to let you get it just over halfway before using it!" Whether McIverson catches her whispered 'sorry' when she puts him down again is up to him. Whether Mastema catches what she does next isn't really his decision, though hearing "Céad Bláthanna Fola!" a split second before might convince someone that it isn't hastily improvised. For a moment, Lilian appears to exist in so many places at once, so quickly and erratically, that it's as if she could be sparks or raindrops instead. Though it's little more than a trick of the eye and brain unable to compute a singular path of movement, similar to an afterimage, it accompanies a relentless barrage of cuts-- speed-oriented to the exclusion of all else, shallow yet numbering in the scores, if not hundreds-- that is very much real. Produced entirely by strenously stuttering out her time-stopping rather than a real sword technique, Lilian relies entirely on the 'anti-otherworld' nature of her sword to draw blood where her own power is deliberately lacking. And, more importantly, the black-gold magical array cut into the floor in the midst of the flurry, easily mistaken at a glance for nothing more than collateral damage until it activates. With obvious effect to anyone outside it, those within feel time 'lapsing' far faster than it passes; buffs bleed away as fast as they can be reapplied, and damage-over-time skyrockets in speed. Lilian herself lacks the ability to actually apply anything but the bleeding one would expect from being cut so many times with a sword, but she fights from there to keep Mastema inside it.
Rita Ma	"Don't just wail on 'im!" "What are we supposed to do, then?!" Rita's invisibility, tragically, isn't a sort that can save her from harmful light. In the brief telegraph of Mastema's attack, she unravels her camo-wrappings to free up more cloaked tentacles, revealing herself in a plain white dress that subtly merges into her skin at the collarbone. Then she's 'gone' again, but this time for speed rather than stealth. Calvin and Richards are both grabbed around the waist by something arm-thick and cold and slick and friendly- "Sorry--!!" blurted out by Rita, in passing, makes that clear- and yanked behind a pew that Rita kicks over to shelter in its shadow. Between them, she takes a few tense breaths while she waits for the searing light to fade, and apologetically disentangles the invisible tentacles from them. "S-sorry, I'm, I'll... it's alright," she burbles senselessly, tottering upright again and peeking over the pew, just because she can't do something like that and then say nothing. "We'll figure something out." She vaults back over the pew to re-engage. She lunges again to try to grab Mastema- one way with her visible hands in a pounce; tendrils circling behind him to try to catch him if he dodges back or to the side- but this time the intent is to joint-lock him, hold him still as best she's able. "Are you also the one who decides triviality? Might you have spared more of your god's people" Dimo so vocally taking a similar stance firms her up, too, as she tries to hold him still for the impact: "I don't know what makes you feel like you get to make people better by making them worse. 'Look how bad I can make everyone, so they deserved me happening to them'... I don't think Ms. Richards would like you hardening anybody's heart."
Calvin Nash	Calvin's vision swims, his skin burns, but he grits his teeth and extends his left hand. "Don't sweat it," he says to Rita, focusing on a spell. "Woulda hurt a lot worse otherwise. If we can't wail on 'im, then the way to beat 'im's to whittle down and outlast. Pull your punches, keep your guard up." We'll figure something out. "Yes ma'am we will." Lilian and Rita seem to have escaped that spell unscathed. He and Richards very nearly did. Ba'al stood right in it and wasn't bothered, which must be why Richards summoned him. Who didn't? Him, Cerberus, Richards, and... "Meresankh, fightin' magic comin' your way! Rakukaja! Samakaja! Richards, got you in a minute!" A pair of burning comets, purple and sky blue, swirl in a helix towards Meresankh. When they strike her, each expands into a screen of protective scales, and each color interlocks with its opposite seamlessly. Look how bad I can make everyone, so they deserved me happening to them. "I don't deny my part in Higgins," answers Mastema. "There was purpose there. You acquitted yourselves nobly," he says, vying for position in her grapple by trying to slip his leg between hers, all the while angling for a shot to where he imagines her ribs to be with his elbow. "The people were saved by your intervention. You protected not only their lives, but their faith, and the dybbuks know what they did was wrong." Must you have your due, your point? Your quota?! "Yes. For mine is a role denied all but a scrap of the free will you take for granted." Mastema's wings pry their way out of Rita's grasp and beat, clearing the lunge and the spear by pushing him into the air. Threatening to take her with him all the way to the vaulted ceiling, he climbs and climbs, thinking at first to smash her against the stones. The missiles he's less prepared for, but he adapts--his wings close protectively around him as they buffet his body and create another mote on his halo--up to four now. Plummeting back to the ground with Rita, he frees himself with a point-blank blast of blinding light. "DIMO!" Calvin shouts. "Hold off on the fire! Slow and steady!" He resumes reading from his COMP--worryingly, there seem to be a lot of 'special techniques.' "Shit! Okay, his sword might Seal--hit the off switch on anything you got more complex than punchin' and kickin'!"
Calvin Nash	If you hate it so much, then fix it or leave! "These are the means which my role offers to 'fix it.' If you can muster the might to withstand me, to slay me, then I may set you on the path I am barred from traveling." The angel's right hand flexes, and a sword wreathed in clinging black flame appears in his waiting grip, promptly wielded in a divebombing counterattack against Dimo, happily inviting reprisals from her spear. He has to break off when Futaba leaps in, disengaging with another beat of his wings and landing for more points of contact with the ground. Dismissing the sword, Mastema presses his body into Futaba's sledgehammers, taking the trade to drive an elbow into her stomach. As the katana drives into him, his blood splatters against the floor, though he hardly seems bothered. "Only then, and no sooner." Two more motes appear on his halo, as his foot plants between her stance and he shoulder-checks her with superhuman strength to drive her to the ground, following up with a descending punch wreathed in searing light. Or is this guy that famous? "'Fraid so!" Richards answers in place of Calvin. "He's all through the Book of Jubilees!" "He's got a whole damn lot of 'em! The wind from his wings'll fuck with your head, shit, if he winds up to throw a fireball block it 'cause it ain't gonna miss..." The scarabs set upon Mastema and rapidly begin to whittle him away thanks to Lilian's magical array. Ba'al joins in, conjuring a cloud of poison overhead and hurling it towards Mastema, as does Richards, sword drawn and cutting shallowly with the very point. Much as Lilian imagined he would, Mastema is saving those charges--and in the sped-up array, eaten alive by scarabs, poisoned and bleeding, he still doesn't use them. Rather, he draws his sword again, locking blades with Lilian and taking advantage of the time to... stall? It doesn't seem as though he can afford to do that, when so much of his essence is being shred away in such a short time, and using the accelerated time only to parry and block is wasteful. He gives her exactly that long to think about it before he extends his palm and attempts to blind her with a ray of searing light, then follows up with a half-sword stab, attempting to see if he can't apply that 'Seal' Calvin mentioned. "No sir," Calvin countermands, before calling out, "Mutudi!" A wave of white washes over Lilian pre-emptively, flickering and ablatively vanishing in the event the angel's sword strikes her. Mastema then turns and gets on all fours, his fingers digging chunks out of the Cathedral's floor as he beats his wings rapidly in Meresankh's direction. Scything crescents of pressurized air fly from his position at blistering speed, the howl of air like being outside during a hurricane.
Futaba Nuki	"... then I may set you on the path I am barred from traveling." "Barred? Hold up, so you're...?" There's a brief hitch in Futaba's tone that breaks through her bravado, and the angel can see that not-so-subtle shift in her expression when they're engaged at close range. How could she not, hearing, even if just for a moment, that the angel's been forced into this role? Even if she can't see what had forced it upon him, hearing his devotion to that duty reminds her of a lot of things she could be doing. Should be doing. Shaking off that momentary distraction, Futaba sucks in a sharp breath as that elbow sinks right into her gut. There's a brief choking noise from above and a grinding noise at mid-level, likely cracking something inside moments before she has to resort to liquefying her own insides to disperse some of the damage and none of the pain. "Who's forcing you? We'll.. Ngh. Doesn't matter. After we kill this form of you..." Yanking that sword back out, Futaba starts to engage Mastema it that terribly close range. Keeping her insides somewhat more fluid than they normally are, she leans into his blows to mitigate some of the pain again, but it's not without her coughing up some of said insides in the process. The shoulder-check catches her dead on, sending the ninja backwards and in prime position for that light-filled punch. Rather than bracing for the impact and staying solely on the defensive, Futaba takes that moment to trade blows with Mastema just as he had with her moments ago. Her torso transforms rapidly into rows of spikes, extending upwards rapidly to intercept the angel's punch and stab him just as hard as he's punching her. Spikes break off as the light-infused punch crunches straight through them, but others remain firm and become even more jagged as the angel's hand pushes through the others. That punch reaches the ninja regardless, however, making a wet crunching noise as it sinks into... The ground, and a thin layer of fluid. As quickly as Futaba turned into a bed of spikes, she just as quickly liquefies and re-solidifies herself around Mastema's upper body, coiling herself around his shoulders and wrapping her legs around one arm while latching onto the other with her top half in an almost wrestling-like maneuver to pull both of those limbs towards his back and open his chest up for her allies to capitalize. "We'll take you up on that, and we'll be taking you on that path with us. Then you won't be stuck just seeing the rough patches before the end!"
Dimokratia	'Yes. For mine is a role denied all but a scrap of the free will you take for granted.' The angel asked for wrath and has pulled a genuine vein of it out of Dimo, her pressed attack chasing after Rita's gripful grabbing with smoothly transitional flying and spider climbing as soon as one is more advantageous to the other. Trails split into six independent winglets for precision movement, Dimo chases in one of her missiles to clash with Mastema's wing shield. "Do you know why I call you pathetic? Because you have given up your tongue of worship. Because you could set an example even for your tested, your faithful, and you could sing praise unto goodness from your position!" Having tomatch an agile, jumping, and evasive foe, Dimo must beat back and twirl, spear-length brought against the bright light as a brace that is bubbled by a crackle of polarizing photons into a half-dome that spills away the angel's beam attack. Lowering guard, Dimo's cool optics stare over a tight-lipped frown. "Lecture me not on denial, for you are granted power and purpose. Lecture me not on scraps, for you are given purpose and free will to make art both! You have smashed your master's fine dishes and point me at the fallen scraps!" 'Hold off on the fire! Slow and steady!' "The ground-chasing metal valkyrie dives and sweeps, slinging a wide arc of hot metal droplets that become flechettes in flight from the end of weapon, bringing shield of solid light braced from opposite forearm to match the angel's sword after a divebombing crash of a clash. Dimo tries to press Mastema there, hold him, spitefully insistent while holding blade in place with shield and spear across. 'Slow and steady' seems far from her mind. "Strike me and my very ideals are more solid than you. Harm me and I am more whole than you! Lost to negativity like you are, your flickering shadow-light does not compare!" Throwing Mastema away with a pivot and loosening weapons while shield crackles and dissipates from the polarity faltering, Dimo has to duck and slide from the rest of the flurry, warding away with just spear of chrome-silver to not give an opening to the angel. "You've made mockery of purpose and I doubt your deceptions will fade like morning mist!" She's becoming more aware of the stored charge, but the particularly aggressive stance she's taken as she chases into the retreating angel continues to show confidence -- or a reckless disregard for gimmick. On the ground, though, dived down on, her trails can act as support and weapon, hedging into gummy lances and suddenly-spiked protuberances that jut and chase and scrabble in the wake of, carrying Dimo closer to match blade with chrome-metal spear high into striking pose for a felling blow.
Lilian Rook	'Yes. For mine is a role denied all but a scrap of the free will you take for granted.' §Don't say it. Nobody needs to hear it. You don't need to hear it. Don't even think it.§ A fifth of a second at most. Too quick to notice, normally, but like an hour in a fight. For a fifth of a second, Lilian loses track of her breathing. Jaw clenched tight, stomach lurching, her heart skips a beat, and spinal reflex takes over where considered reaction fails; so Lilian flinches away from the incoming blast of light, shielding her eyes and turning away her head, rather than repositioning behind Mastema like she should. 'Shit! Okay, his sword might Seal--hit the off switch on anything you got more complex than punchin' and kickin'!' The late-processed words ring in her ears. A surge of ice cold adrenaline is released by a thought that has nothing to do with battle. An 'incantation' freezes on her lips. Lilian interposes her sword on bone-deep reflex instead. Calvin's magic flares up where the blades meet. She turns Mastema's blade aside, and then throws it wildly out of his centerline with a twist of her own, as she would choose to even in her sleep, and then the seconds-long eternity of wondering why he would fight defensively-- stall and save up his trump card-- resolves well before anything to do with theology does; not in a moment of shining, all-revealing clarity, but as a hot, gnawing feeling somewhere between her chest and stomach. "What did they do?" Lilian gasps from the back of her throat. Propelling her sword forward from the off-centerline repulsion drives the breath out of her with both shoulders by design, then creates a natural moment to catch it again when she turns her leading arm to deflect her own blade out perpendicular from impact, raking Mastema's dominant wrist and leading into a second cut back down at the shoulder by capturing momentum. "Surely even His will isn't so irrational-- so ridiculous. What happened?! Why are you even--?!" The halo segments are ticking up anyways. Well past the point that a savvy and ruthless combatant would annihilate an enemy who'd let down their guard assuming them to be a countdown. She'd called that out loud, so it's not shocking that Mastema wouldn't still try it anyways, but seeing it count up like that, under these circumstances, makes cold static wash over her skin. "How dare you make me play this part." Lilian says. The words are expelled by the seamless shift from one stance to another. "Tell me I'm wrong. I know you can if I am." The absurdly inconvenient arena limits her options, but even at point blank like this, with an opponent who is only selectively resisting, she takes her chances on the telegraphed physical wind-up, the traversal of blood-red light through the channels of her sword, and the very slight delay between "Slais Gearradh Fola!" and the thrust diverted down into Mastema's own blood pooling deeply on the floor; something easily 'unforseen'.
Calvin Nash	Lecture me not on denial, for you are granted power and purpose. Lecture me not on scraps, for you are given purpose and free will to make art both! Dimo's flechettes strike Mastema. Five, six, seven. "You have witnessed neither the full extent of my power, nor of my purpose." His blade strikes sparks against her spear and batters her shield alike, black wisps of flame shorn from the angel's greatsword with each blow. Who's forcing you? "It is not a question of 'who,' but 'what.' The form which you see before you grants me both power and purpose, and allows me to act in your world, but it also constrains me. As there can be no dybbuk who is not lost, there can be no Mastema who does not tempt, deceive and lead astray in the service of the Lord. Do you curse a bird for being unable to breathe as a fish does?" Thrown away by Dimo, he bounces across the floor, righting himself with a flap of his wings and correcting into a three-point stance. "I am what I am," he says, rising to his full height. "If admonishment could change that, it would not be Mastema who stands here." His mouth pulls into a bitter grimace. Though his chest is full of wounds from Futaba's spikes, it isn't hard to imagine they aren't the source of that expression. Futaba grapples him and pulls his limbs wide open, leaving him open to a low-power concentrated beam of lightning from Calvin, a shallow cut from Cerberus' tail. The dog demon leaps backwards to let Richards in for one of her own, striking with the very point of her blade and fading for Lilian to step in. One of the lights on Mastema's halo winks out with a chime. Something is wrong. It feels for a moment like one of those running dreams, where everything is agonizingly slow. Everything but Mastema. "When I bade Abraham to bind Isaac, I knew that the Holy Spirit--that which mortals call 'conscience' would prevail, and that the Almighty would not allow the life of a child to be taken." He lifts his leg and stomps it down. A shockwave, visible as searing white light, spreads through the Cathedral, leaving its surroundings unharmed but all of you very much so. It stings as if he struck personally, hard and in an unprotected spot, regardless of where the shockwave itself strikes. Time resumes to its normal speed for only a split second before another winks out. "Abraham did not know, nor did Isaac, and in this is the importance of my role; for God is all-knowing, but mortals are not." Another stomp summons another shockwave. Time returns to normal, like breaking the surface of the water when clawing desperately for it, and with another light winked out, he drags everyone back beneath the surface. "There is evil in the world which I did not orchestrate, but by visiting it upon the faithful, I may give them safe means to learn what it is, to overcome it, that they may be ready for it when the wicked world visits it upon them." His heel crashes down a third time. Richards clutches her gut, Calvin reels as if struck in the jaw, Cerberus picks himself up from the floor and Ba'al braces against an archway. The next light winks out as Calvin racks the pump on his shotgun, bowled over, and Ba'al prepares a spell. "That is my purpose. But without that feeling, that certainty that the innocent will be saved, I am only another despicable agent of the wicked world."
Calvin Nash	Tell me I'm wrong. I know you can if I am. Mastema's foot pauses before it can stomp again. He lowers it. Time returns to its normal speed. Night Mist cleaves him without resistance, though he showed the strength and skill to escape grapples like Futaba's and Rita's before. "At last," he says. "One of you understands." Richards coughs. "No... No, what are you saying?" It's the first time that she's sounded frightened of anything--even in Atlanta, unfamiliar and dangerous territory, she didn't sound like that. Mastema takes a raspy breath. "Hear me, for this shell is fading. Demon Marshal. Two years ago, the Trumpeter blew his horn, and though the skies darkened, the others never came. You and your companions defeated him. The faithful remained here on Earth. I ask you, why?" "Said it yourself. We beat his ass." The angel narrows his eyes. "No, fool!" He coughs, blood splattering from his lips. "Listen to me. Why did he appear in the first place? Why the fourth trumpet, when the first three had yet to blow? Where are the others?" Calvin doesn't have an answer for that. "The trumpets don't have to literally be trumpets. Every other sign of the End of Days came and passed," says Richards, almost reassured to have had one. "Yes, 'a horn need not be a horn,'" Mastema rasps. "A hasty invention by the Church Elders. Indeed, they rushed to rejoice. In truth, they had no more answer for it than the Demon Marshal. I know not why, but I tell you, the people of Canaan are like the dybbuks. Lost, frightened and misled!" He spits. Smoky purple vapor bleeds off of the angel in steady rising tendrils. "How easily they prepared themselves to slaughter the people of Libertalia and even the Assembly alike, over the mere appearance of their salvation! Just like the dybbuks, the wrong voice may lead them towards unspeakable sin." "You're saying... you're saying God didn't send the Trumpeter?" Mastema shakes his head. "If he had, then why would the Church Elders who held office in those days reek of fear, uncertainty and doubt? Why would their hearts not be as light and joyful as the smiles they wore for their flock?" "Then... who? Where would we even look, if even the Church Elders don't know?" "Wherever you can, much as you did to uncover my deception. The truth requires no effort to uphold, but lies become more difficult the longer they must last. I... am sorry," he says, looking at Lilian. "I had to be certain about something, one last time." His skin begins to dissolve, eaten away by a sublimating wave of smoky purple energy. As his physical form dies and his essence returns to the other world, his last words ring out in the Cathedral, before he completely disappears. "If it is any consolation... I believe, within the confines of my will, I chose correctly."