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*
The temple of filthy lucre and its great god Mammon. People who work here in the southmost part of Manhattan are simply better than other people. Just ask them. It's busy here during the day. Cars and people crowd the sidewalks and streets. Mostly professionals but also a bit of that New York mix. School kids in on field trips, God knows why.
*
It's a scorcher, folks. The air is so thick with the heat that you can practically see the waves move through it when anything manages a bit of motion. Not even the music coming from various people, places and devices seems to be able to swim through it very far. Not in this heat. Not when the asphalt is soft enough to melt into that thick air resting above it, when it French-kisses the rubber of the tires stuck atop it until you can't tell where one ends and the other starts. The cars… the cars themselves are like pairs of sullen oxen stuck in the muddy road beneath them,, having lost all energy and hope but still running, towing working until they finally die. To one side three mounted police officers sit atop their horses in a precious bit of shade, overseers watching over these workers streaming to and from their labors. And then there is the Sun.
A giant wheel of fire in the sky beats down mercilessly upon the Earth beneath it. Inflicting itself on the oxen and those tiny humans who drive them on. Baking the earth, melting the souls in some kind of cosmic foundry. One could almost hear the chanting, as if of overseers whipping beasts and men on in ultimate, fatal labor. Is this 21st-Century New York? Of course it is. But squint slightly and it might also be Early Dynastic Egypt. The stretch is not too far. Those may not be pyramids surrounding the roads, but they are towers, gleaming towers reaching skyward to impose the will of tyrants and egomaniacs over their fellow human race. To scream, "I AM RICH! I AM FAMOUS! I OWN YOU!". To declare again and again in the face of life's obvious impermanence that this man or woman is a titan of finance or industry, more than merely human but more like a god! And all you peons better recognize it. Better keep slaving away in the asphalt, the smog, the heat. Recognize your betters and recognize your lot in life. Hail to the King, now and forever!
Or perhaps the great order of the World will crash and burn in fiery death.
*
Crystal is engaged in one of her weekly adventures into the city to search for word of her sister. It's been slow going, with only enough vague rumors to convince her that Medusa is somewhere in the city, but not enough to tell her even where else to look. It doesn't help that the regular trips into the city have been taking their toll on the young Inhuman.
The heat, the smog, and the pollution are not kind to Crystal. She's taken shelter for a moment in the entrance to a large building, as far back from the street as she can get, but she's still looking a little wan, stifling a cough with one gloved hand.
*
This weather was doing an excellent job of filling Piotr Rasputin with regret.
True, he very much needed to go into the city to buy some new shirts. His had this very unfortunate habit of becoming torn and shredded, especially over the last week or so. But this heat… when the large, quiet Russian emerges from a corner shop with a freshly-purchased drink in-hand, he can't help but flinch as the sun welcomes him back into its loving embrace. With a quick step to one side, he clears the doorway for his companion for the day, looking back to Rogue with a miserable expression. "I have made terrible mistake," he whispers towards her, keeping his voice quiet to try and avoid his accent being overheard.
*
Miles arrives on the scene just like anybody else would, flipping off a web and landing in a squat atop one of the tall buildings, looking down at the street below. "I need a hobby other than this." he decides quietly to himself, hand coming up to block the sun from shining straight onto his mask, he's regretting wearing his suit in this heat.
*
Devastating heat gives no favours to a redhead of the natural persuasion, rather than one forged in a brassy bottle of dye and lemon juice baked in the daylight. The dreaded daystar forsakes these children above all, turning their fair skin a lobster pink and sending them fleeing to the coolest cellars almost out of sheer spite. Every now and then one of them will appear in open defiance at an hour practically a national holiday in Spain and other torrid-zone nations wiser than the US to the awful price of pursuing anything excessive like, say, walking.
Scarlett comes armed for this endeavour on three fronts: huge, glamorous sunglasses perched upon her nose, a round oversized sunhat in white and green, and her trustworthy Chinese oil-paper umbrella. A thing of bamboo, it weighs very little, but she snaps open the tines to reveal gaily painted flowers. Then she stands upon tiptoe, casting shade over the suffering Russian. "You see? Very much improved, I should think, considering all the miseries inflicted upon us by a mad Apollo suffering the insults of some proud businessman or another." Should Piotr want it, he need only reach out to take the handle. "Surely we are doomed."
*
Erik enters the shade, carrying with him a thermos. Inside it is a collection of fresh water, which he promptly offers to Crystal. "Are you alright?" he asks.
For his part, the German is dressed in shorts, a tank top, and loafers. His skin glistens with sweat that refuses to evaporate, his face protected by a wide straw hat.
*
A lobster-red bike messenger without sunscreen threads suicidally through the traffic, a thick sheen of sweat from head to foot. If only it was decades later with high-tech synthetic wicking fabrics for bicyclists and electrolyte-replenishing performance liquids. If only. However, his beaten Schwinn is still an extension of his body, reacting to opening doors and hard-charging New York pedestrians and cars changing lanes without any seeming physical input from him. Until he screeches suddenly to a halt, right in front of a mother and toddler in a basket. Good show, biker! Despite what motorists think you are indeed responsib?oh. No you're not. You are pointing up in the sky, a look of alarm radiating through those horn-rimmed and tortoise-shell glasses. And what is up there? Yes, it's the sun. Yes, the sun is pretty awesome, although it has a tendency to blind anyone looking at it. It's not like you haven't see it bef? oh, wait. You mean that glowing-white thing WITHIN the sun? Hmm, that is curious. But perhaps it's just a holdover from five (seven?) martini lunch you polished off not more than an ho?"OHMYCHRIST! ANOTHER GIANT METEOR!!!" This comes from the dainty and demure mother with her baby in a basket. Ok, maybe this isn't the most ordinary occurrence.
People begin to scream, some pointing up up towards Ra?I mean the Sun? and some fleeing the other direction in streams along the rows between might-as-well-be-parked cars in the road. The whitish-golden object grows larger, flames streaming from all sides. A low vibrating sound is evident now. A kind of a buzz, both deep and shrill at the same time. It begins to grow as the object nears. Due to its blinding nature, the blinding nature of the sun behind it and the speed involved, it is hard to get a perspective on its size, but it is growing.
*
"I'll be all right," Crystal answers Erik, though she takes the thermos with a grateful look, taking a long drink. "I may just have been spending a little too much time in the city lately. I may need to spend some time at the institute recovering," she admits. Once she's had a good, long drink, she offers the thermos back, though the shouting draws her attention. "I suspect it's no time to have the vapors anyhow," she murmurs, raising a hand to shade her eyes as she looks toward the disturbance.
*
Rather than take the paper umbrella from his companion, Piotr instead stoops a bit to fit beneath the shade with her, being mindful about leaving her some space. It's an awkward fit, true, but he's suffering through it — for the moment. "Do not tempt fate," he tells her with a lopsided smile, his eyebrows rising. "After week I have had, it would not… surprise…"
Piotr's words trail off as the screaming begins. He draws in a slow, deep breath as he regards Rogue with a newfound tightness to his smile, the screams echoing in his ears, before he takes two large steps out from under the parasol and to the edge of the sidewalk. He cranes his neck, lifting one hand to shield his eyes as he searches for the source of the growing… buzz? Or is it a rumble?
Whatever it is, Piotr is just happy he hasn't bought those new shirts yet. He has a bad feeling about this.
*
Miles doesn't just have a bad feeling, the base of his skull buzzes, turning his attention up towards the sun. "Shit, what now?" He flickers out of view, leaping up and over the edge of the building, a thwip sounding out as he uses his webslinger to propel himself forward towards where it looks like the object should fall.
Arrows shot from the sun by a vengeful artist angry that Broadway has usurped his position in popular culture no doubt has something to do with the heatwave. A rainy invasion in a few months no doubt will be met by the expansion of the Sahara ever northwards, claiming inch by inch the Mediterranean shores that every Brit worth their salt dreams of when toiling away over a desk, in the post office, or in the factory. Let it be said the Norns-loved redhead speaks truth when she knows not. Invocations are made thus, and lingering upon her smiling lips, must seem all the more awry.
Her umbrella tips up slightly as Scarlett shifts, giving a clearer view first of the shrieking and then the relentless pressure of a volatile crowd lashed to fear in tinder-dry conditions. Almost wordlessly she extracts a pair of pretty embroidered gloves from the pocket of her minidress, pulling them on with a deft ease. It means the umbrella rests awkwardly on her shoulder, pinched in place. "Have you ever had the sensation dancing in the street might be a fine idea?" she asks casually, extending her hand to Piotr. The bohemian's mercurial moods are, at times, legendary. Now would be one of those moments. "I rather liked the concept we might step foot outside Midtown and avoid a riot. Celebrate where we can, yes?"
If he follows, she leads him further out into the middle of the street where cars are abandoned or idling, no doubt beautifully positioned to be flattened in a shockwave.
*
Erik accepts the thermos with a smile, and damn near has the thing lifted to his mouth, when the commotion starts. He lowers the item and raises the other hand to shield against the sun, that smile turning into a frown. "What in the blazes…?"
With his outstretched hand, he begins manipulating the forces of magnetism in a line between himself and the incoming object. Magnetic sonar, if you will… it's worked before, to help him determine ferrous material in an un identified object, but there's no way of knowing whether it will be effective with… whatever that is.
*
Mom is furiously pushing her baby cart when it hits a bit of upturned concrete and one of the wheels bends. The cart teeters and the swaddled baby (swaddled!? in heat like this!!?) goes flying through the air and out into the street with it's honking and jerking cars and its screaming and running citizens.
The bicyclist, eyes-goggling (meteor? martinis?), spins the bike 180 degrees and zooms down the sidewalk, barely missing a dozen pedestrians and flies back into the road, right in front of the city bus that swerved to miss the Yellow Cab, which was pushed sideways by the milk truck that turned hard enough to end up on two wheels in an effort to miss the baby in the middle of the street.
Horses are now muscling through shrieking people and in between cars and trucks both moving and stuck accompanied by shrill whistles as the police try to impose some order, to get this chaos under control.
*
"Watch out!" It's a useless cry, given that no one who needs to watch out is going to hear Crystal shout, but it's a reflex. Chaos reigns, and for a moment she's lost for a solution to the various dangers around her. Maybe that pollution is taking more of a toll than she'd like to admit. It's the baby that gets her attention first, though, as she holds out a hand and throws out a current of air to catch it before it can hit the ground.
*
There is the briefest flicker of confusion on Piotr's face before he takes Scarlett's gloved hand in his own, much larger one and allows himself to be drawn out into the street. "Da," he agrees in a low, distracted voice, keeping his eyes on the sky. "Celebrate where we can."
Of course, the street is not a very safe place to be. Piotr himself is less worried for his own safety as cars, bicycles, and horses begin to all but run amuck, keeping him from noticing the near-disaster with the baby carriage a ways away — he's more concerned with Scarlett's, being far less familiar with her own durability. So he tucks close and keeps his voice low. "Can you see anything?"
*
Did somebody call for Arachnid? He hits the scene just in time to thwip a few people out of crushing harms way, using his body to stop the oncoming city bus before it smears any civilians. "Woah, I'm walkin' here!" he chides the bus, before looking over his shoulder, "You alright back there?"
*
The street is undoubtedly not a safe place to be, and that particularly matters where Scarlett forges a path through the brewing maelstrom of frantic pedestrians and stunned passengers, drivers spilling out from their forgotten conveyances at a terrible speed. Shrill noises ricochet through the canyon carved through high buildings and lower ones, natural chokepoints funnelling people into predictable patterns. Not always good. She stares up through the blackened disks of her sunglasses towards the widening shape emerging from the boiling glare of the sun, her shoulders going back. "Piotr…" One sharp rotation swings her immediately out of the way of a frantic teenager plowing through the masses without any hint of seeing the redhead in the wide hat. She steps up onto a fender, tugging him away from the risk. "This vantage point isn't going to help us at all. Might need to partner for a pirouette and find out who might be coming to visit. Couldn't be some kind of rocket or satellite contraption falling down, is it?" Her questions are not stricken by terror but a galvanizing sense of a plan, and probably a frightful one at that.
*
At the commotion, Erik whips his head back to the streets. Both hands shoot out toward the Yellow Cab and milk truck, and with a yank, the two vehicles screech to a sudden halt.
"Whatever that is," Erik says, with an upnod toward the sky, "I can't stop it."
*
The child's fall is gently buffered by the compressed air that Crystal manifests. The child hovers, still crying, as the craziness continues around it. The people that Miles saves are shaking, unsure of whether up is up or down, whether they were just saved or run through the catastrophe ringer. It ends up a 50-50 split on that, which could be worse. As if by magic, and stunning the officers who remain bravely in the midst of this mess, Magneto's ministrations manange to make bring the milk truck down smoothly onto all four wheels and gently straighten the cab before the driver generated the karma of running over a perfectly healthy octogenarian. For a moment, it seems as if these heroes have stilled the storm.
And then as if flung from the divine hand of Sandy Koufax from atop his celestial mound, the "meteor" screams down and into the midst of the knot of abandoned cars. The whining roar it makes sounds like some monstrous, vibrating and unintelligible vocalization, albeit one with a heavy whiff of… profanity? Whatever this thing is, it's spinning end over end over end with monstrous velocity, coming in at a low angle until it makes contact with ground zero.
Ka-THOOOOM!!!
Asphalt erupts around the point of collision, as do several automobiles. Some as high as a dozen feet. Unfortunately the circle of 30s through 60s Detroit steel blows outward and foward, soon to rain down upon yet other cars, the sidewalk and even through building windows.
Even worse, the angle is low enough that the momentum of the missile smashes forward, "skipping" and passing through the top third of a recently vacated yellow school bus, flinging it along in its wake, rolling over and over. The next time it bounces off of a Cadillac limo, crushing it. Each strike decreases the lift of the next arc until finally the strange astronomical body simply smashes through the front of a bank, passing through a stone wall and leaving a large jagged hole and wreckage.
The lion has landed.
*
Crystal gently sets the baby back into the stroller, and just in time. Because suddenly asphalt is flying and something is careening through the streets, wreaking havoc wherever it lands. "Erik!" she exclaims, with no more explanation than that. She knows he'll understand that flying cars are his territory. Meanwhile, she takes on the flying rubble and asphalt, reaching out with a mastery of earth to bring them to a halt. The larger pieces are easier to hold. The smaller ones…Well, her control is less than perfect.
*
For such a large man, Piotr is either very willing to have Scarlett lead him around, or she is a great deal stronger than she looks. Whatever the case, he makes a surprised 'hup' when she tugs him out of the frantic teenager's path, planting one foot next to her on the fender. He finally pries his eyes away from the sky, giving Scarlett a confused look. "Partner for a..?" He trails off, and an expression of dawning horror comes to his face. Not at her words — at what he sees crashing out of the sky over her shoulder. Directly towards them. "Bohze moi."
Without a thought given for the crowd present or, to be truthful, proper decorum, Piotr hurriedly throws both arms around Scarlett and pivots on his heel. It isn't a very graceful way for her to leave the hood of the car, but he has no idea how durable she is, and would prefer to be safe rather than sorry. Metal erupts into being around his already massive form as he puts himself between her and the impact with barely any time to spare, doing his best to shield her from the debris sent flying by… whatever that was. He still has a bad feeling.
*
"Alright, get out of here!" Miles motions for the crowd to leave, then there's that buzzing again. He leaps into action, tugging more people out of the way of the incoming wreckage and the object that's smashing through the various vehicles and building fronts, which he has more than enough time to identify.
*
Enter redhead bohemian to a metallic cocoon. She clearly was looking skyward on a formidable trajectory when Piotr had other intentions, and hauling her over warrants a startled cry out of Scarlett — just another sound to vanish into the white noise dissonance cast from shattered bricks and smashed vehicles, howling winds and vaporized dust. Thus she ends up between the cement and an even more durable place, arms tucked to her head, hands laced over the back of her neck, and forming as tight a kneeling ball as possible. Considering the spill of her skirt around her, defensiveness may prove the path of valour through the crossroads of wisdom. She clutches her hat, weathering the worst of it. When the sound grates down a little, she calls out - a touch too loud, senses reeling - "Are we clear?"
*
Elemental chunks of concrete and earth tumbling upward and then down in a lethal parabola reminiscent of the mortar fire taking pace right at this moment half a world away in the jungles of Southeast Asia slow to a crawl and then a stop, right above the stern young boy who stands over his unconscious father.
Across the street one of the mounted police officers has to catch himself to keep from falling to the street as he watches a huge Oldsmobile '98 wrap itself around the back of the huge young man and the woman he's embracing.
The human arachnid's movement through the air… the leaping, the dodging, the web shooting and the web reeling… well, in the end he must save nearly a dozen people. And a seeing-eye dog. As he comes to rest on a wall, there is a voice yelling up from the street at him. "God bless ya, even if'n ye are the spawn of the Devil!" says the crone with the one healthy tooth.
Stone grinds, painful to the eardrum, from within the bank. Scraping. A vibration beneath everyone's feet and then a massive hunk of stone ten feet long and six feet wide and weighing some number of tons rockets out of the hole, taking a streetlamp clean off of its base before wedging in the side of the next building. A figure steps into the light. A tall (though not Piotr tall) and heavily muscled man with a deep tan and a short beard steps out and into the sun. He raises his arms to his side and bellows up into the sky, "PATERRRRR!!!!".
It's not clear whether his complete buck nakedness adds to the drama of the moment or detracts from it.
*
Crystal holds the rubble long enough to set it all gently down before she collapses to the pavement, barely catching herself. Stopping one large thing isn't hard. Stopping a thousand smaller things? Much more of a drain. And she's already not entirely herself. Vision spinning, she pushes up just in time to see the figure step out of the rubble, though she's in no place to react just yet.
*
Colossus - 1. Oldsmobile - 0. Once the roar has died down, the Russian cautiously lifts his head, squinting as he tries to see through the dust that now hangs heavy in the air. After a pause, he glances down to Scarlett. "You are unhurt?" he asks, stopping short of standing. There's a car wrapped around his back. He does, however, shift one arm out of the way to allow her to extricate herself, should she so choose.
Then he hears the roar. With a blink, Colossus cranes his neck to try and see the source of the word — towards the bank, he thinks. That was a word. He's certain of it. Satellites and meteorites do not generally speak.
*
Miles taps out a salute in the direction of the voice that called him the spawn of the devil, then he's leaping off in the direction of the bank, latching on to part of the wall that isn't destroyed. "You make a habit of putting everyone's life in danger?" he asks of the naked screaming man.
*
Words ring in the confines of her skull, vibrating through the ossified scaffolding of her uncurling body, a flower peeping up through the disturbed soil. "Father?" Scarlett repeats, her gloved hands pressed over her ears as though she might suppress the resonant syllables rolling on and on and on. "Family discord? Je ne sais pas, Piotr." A determined shake of her copper-crowned head threatens to send her white hat fluttering away, snatched at the last moment to avoid flying away in a scene of the world turned upside down.
With Colossus in the way, she can't actually see worth a damn and the Oldsmobile happens to be in her way. Thus without a word the girl floats off the ground, peering around the Russian's shoulder and making a point to at least appear as though she is perched on the broad slope of his shoulder. Not entirely the case, of course. Verdant eyes widen. There is something to be said for a humanities and history student confronting… whatever that is.
*
Crazed-look man stares at Miles, and you can almost hear the gears whirring along as he tries to access his memory. Which, you know, you might have that problem too if you were literally just kicked from the heavens and crashed into the Earth. Finally he seems to find something and says, "English? Thou speakest English? Where dost the Prince of Power find himself? Art thou some kind of troll and is this merry olde England?" He takes a look around him, finally noticing the skyscrapers. "Zounds! What magic is this? These structures vie to challenge the grandeur of fair Olympus itself!"
This is when the group of policeman decide to step in front of Herc and point their revolvers at him. "You! Fruitcake in the birthday suit! On the ground! NOW!" Mmmm. This does not look good.
*
Crystal pushes herself up slowly, swaying until she can take Erik's arm for a little more support. "Is he naked?" she blinks, rubbing a hand at her eyes as she tries to figure out just what's going on. "Naked men are falling from the sky. Please tell me I'm not hallucinating this."
*
As not one but two unfamiliar languages ring in his ears, Colossus can't help but look slightly exasperated. And even he is fully aware of the irony when he casts a look up at Scarlett, steel hands still braced against the pavement, and rumbles an almost plaintive request: "In English?"
It takes him a moment, but Colossus is able to carefully shrug himself out of the Oldsmobile. Still, he remains kneeling beneath Scarlett to preserve the illusion, albeit one that no longer involves a metal man. Just a very large one of flesh and blood, who needs… another new shirt. Honestly. He should have stayed home.
*
"Er, three things. I'm not a troll This is America, New York to be exact. It's 1963." Miles tries his best to fill the man in before the cops appear. "And they're probably gonna shoot you if you don't listen to them." It's clear that he's ready for anything, but aside from falling from the sky the man hasn't actually tried to start anything yet.
*
Yes, this thing is happening. This is, in fact, present. A deep breath stills Scarlett in her tracks, though those tracks tilt upwards by several feet. A pained look upon her face almost mirrors Piotr's. "Forgive me." Then she waves her hand forward in a broad sweep hopefully to attract said giant man's attention, as one might yoohoo at a rhinoceros, and bends in a curtsey. "Well be with you, sir, and good dawning to thee." Nothing like stitching together the bands of a Barnard education with Columbia humanities. She can bend her Savannah-influenced New York accent with a little difficulty towards OxCam… or rather, closer to Cambridge, and through that, the Bard. "These be the lands furthest to the west beyond the reckoning of the fabled Fortunate Islands. The English settled this place so named America and retreated unto…" A pause follows. "…two centuries past." Does she get credit for thinking upon her feet? "Such a city great as this calls itself New York, the Rome and Paris and London of the New World."
*
"1963?" Something deep in the Olympian's consciousness recognizes the police for what they are. There were no police in prehistoric Greece, but there sure as Tartarus were around most of the times later in history when he came down to have a good time. Buzzkills. But also representing the authorities of the time and the place. He shakes his head ruefully. "Mayhap now is not the time to prove my father right about my thick-headedness," he mutters to himself. Muttering for him being quite loud. He smiles to the police offices. Then he notices the kind words from Rogue, followed by noticing Rogue herself. He begins to grin and turn his attention to her but manages to snap back out of it. Not now. He's not even clothed, for Io's sake. "Good gentlemen, you have nothing to fear from the Lion of Olympus. Why I would never hurt y—WHAT'S THAT!!?" He points back o behind them and as they turn to see what he's pointing at, the godling brings both fists down together onto the sidewalk beneath him. There is a smash, of course, and destruction, of course, and he goes dropping into the sewers below. How did he know there were sewers you ask? WHO KNOWS!?
*
Cloaca Maxima, c. 600 BCE. Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome, was pretty big on underground work around the Roman settlement to create a primitive but increasingly advanced sewer system. Ask the redhead about it one day.
*
From the sewers below you can faintly hear a voice say, "Thank you Tarquinius Superbus! Again!!"