Mercy Hospital frequently loans out nurses to the inner city to help out in local clinics, which has led to Donald Blake to be assigned to a small local office to dole out vaccines, check up on patients, and perform the sundry tasks that keep small clinics ticking along.
It's a lot of work over a long day, and by the time he's done, it's well past sundown— and in New York, sundown casts long, dark shadows well before slipping behind the horizon. Tired and a bit distracted, Donald slips through a side street to shortcut back towards the bus station on 23rd that'll ferry him home across town. Duffel bag slung over his shoulder and hands in his pockets, he walks with a certain brooding melancholy, eyes fixed on the sidewalk a few yards ahead of him pensively.
*
'Amora' had left instructions for Creel on how to locate the Thunderer, leaving a tracking stone with him. But the blonde had never, in any sense, been a patient woman. So not too long after instructing Creel to attack all who kept the Thunderer close, or had a care for him, magic of a darker green hue encompassed him and promptly dropped Creel into Donald Blake's path.
*
It feels somewhat awkward, really. Creel has been marching along, wearing a heavy grey trenchcoat and hat. Within it is the strange dark axe she gifted him, as he follows where it seems to lead. It's been some time, and right now Crusher Creel's attention is fully on the stone. He is heading straight towards Donald; although the momentous occasion would just result in him walking past. Creel is very large and doing something weird, what with the magical hovering stone in his hand, but it's not hostile. If Donald isn't actively paying attention, most likely he'll just walk right past without incident.
*
Something tweaks at the back of Donald's neck. A sense of menace? Reacting to the magical stone hovering near Creel's fingers? Whatever it is, he glances up and over at Creel just before their paths would cross. He detours slightly out of the way, creating space between him and the hulking, bald fellow— but he can't help but look at Creel perhaps a little too long, uncertainty furrowing his brow when he catches sight of the stone floating over Creel's hand.
And then he catches a glimpse of a darkling blade under the man's trenchcoat, and Donald's hand slides a few inches towards the opening of his duffel bag to reach for the leather grip of the stone hammer of his faith.
*
Once Creel slithers past, he immediately comes to a stop. Momentarily confused, he tries to orient himself as the stone causes him to turn back around and face Donald. This is the first time it's done that, before. So he begins marching once more, although it's clear that he's not giving any heed to Donald, and there's not any particular aggression. "Oye." he mumbles. "Move aside. I'm looking for something here." he asks impatiently, the stone vibrating intensely directly towards the incognito Thor. …hopefully Amora isn't watching this.
*
Donald steps past Creel, warily— and comes up short when Creel turns to face him. He starts moving back across the street, the other way— and Creel turns to him again as he follows the questing tones of the magical rock in his hand.
The dance continues for several seconds until Donald frowns again at Creel. "Is there aught I can do for you, friend?" he inquires, his booming baritone a bit lacking in the censorship most New Yorkers would prefer. Creel's curious behaviour seems to have unnerved Donald slightly in a way he can't quite put his finger on— beyond the menacing visage that seems to be following him with that weird floating rock.
*
"I told you, I'm looking for something!!" He attempts to walk past Donald again in the middle of the street, but just ends up orbiting him closely. Crouching down, he taps at the street. Is he in the sewers hiding, maybe? Standing up and taking off his hat, he scratches his bald head as it thrums heartily at Donald. "Uh." Eyes fall to the stone. Donald. Stone. Donald. Slowly, some kind of realization seems to cross over him. "What's your name…?"
*
"Donald Blake," the rugged blonde fellow says, lifting his chin a hair. Creel's a big guy— bigger even than Donald, who is built like a Nordic statue. The blonde nurse scowls a little, squaring up to Creel as the hairs on his neck stand on end and wary paranoia turns into sincere suspicion.
"Who is it that scurries through the alleys at night, accosting strangers?" he demands of Creel, clearly not one to back down from a confrontation.
*
"Goddamnit. I'm not looking for no Donald Blake!" Creel says, throwing the stone away with an annoyed sound. "Thing's busted!" He turns back to peer at Donald, as if suddenly taking in his own imposing visage. It causes Creel to puff out his chest, and by any human standards — or most Asgardians — he is impressive. It is a body built for fighting, for war, not for looks. "…I'm Crusher Creel. The Absorbing Man. And I'm looking for that coward, Thor. Hahah. You could be a dead ringer for him!" A broad grin, that suddenly goes flat. Wait…
*
"Have a care how you speak of my Lord Thor," Donald says, his voice a stern reprimand for Creel's casual blasphemy. "He is neither coward nor fool, and he suffers neither lightly."
"And if you are fool enough to seek a God, you should know that Thor has taken his leave of the world of mortals," Donald adds, a moment later. "A lack of courage and conviction has convinced him we are not worthy of his attentions anymore. Were you to find him, I'm sure even a craven fellow such as yourself would find yourself in awe of the glory of the Thunderer."
*
There's a sudden lifting of Creel's eyebrows, in surprise. "Your lord? That means you know him. That makes things easier. I just gotta beat your ass until he shows up!!" Suddenly his front foot shifts forward. Muscles flex, but beyond that, a surprising speed. In terms of raw punching speed, he's nearly peak human, a man who could have been the world's strongest boxer in another world. A blow that, if it met the jaw of most any normal person, is liable to end in a ten-count TKO.
*
Donald grunts in surprise when the blow comes in at him— but then again, the fight had been brewing for a good minute already. It was a foregone conclusion the moment the two tigers realized they were on the same mountaintop.
So Creel fetches him a stout blow across the jaw, and it's by the grace of Thor and Donald's expertise as a boxer that it's not lights out.
He rolls his head back with the blow and his fists immediately come up in a boxer's stance, duffel bag hitting the ground with a heavy *thud*. Donald squares up with Creel, bobs his head once, and like a telegraph machine launches a pair of zippy left jabs and a textbook right cross, a classic combination with a lot of power behind it.
*
The fact that his fist connected causes Creel to become momentarily complacent. But the feel in his fists wasn't right. He knows what a knockout is, and that wasn't it; it was probably felt, and with no amount of comfort, but he's becoming defensive when the return follows. A head slip avoids the jabs, but then he's struck right in the cheek with the straight. Testament to his own size, he's knocked sideways with a split lip, but shifts up his own fists into a boxer's stance of his own. "Hah. Well. Maybe you aren't horseshit." He spits bloody saliva on the street adjacent. Despite having the axe, no attempt to draw it is done. Apparently, like Thor, he is a man of pride.
*
Perhaps it was the violence aimed at Donald, perhaps it was just that Amora finally looked in on the man. Either way, the blonde materialized behind Thor, in a flicker of green smoke that swirled up and around her. She wore no mortal guise this time, and stood in all of her Asgardian finery. If Creel was the sort of man to notice a lady's dress, he'd notice that her clothes were oddly a lighter shade of green than when he'd seen her last. (Doubtlessly though he wasn't paying attention to her clothes last time)
A burst of a magical shield came to life between them as soon as Donald moved to swing. "You there! Hold! Keep your attacks or face your folly!"
*
A red mark rises on Donald's jaw from Crusher's impact, and just as he preps a kick from his rear leg, that magical force field bumbles him and Creel away from one another. Surprise marks his rugged features at Amora's sudden arrival, and he lowers his fists a few inches as surprise then confusion mars his brows.
"Amora! Stand back," he orders her. "This villainous fool insists on insulting the name of my Lord Thor, and I intend to chastise him for his blasphemy!" His shoulders rise and fall with the rush of adrenaline taking hold, and his eyes flash with battle-readiness.
*
A stagger backwards follows, Creel rolling his tongue around in his jaw to probe his teeth. Good, none were loosened. But he almost got nailed in the jaw, which could have made the brief conflict much different. "Oye, back off, girl!! This guy's my ticket to Thor!!" Anything unusual with Amora is entirely not noticed, and at the moment it's not even apparent that they know each other.
*
Amora most assuredly does not know Creel, this Amora at least. She scowls at Donald, coming up to him with magic swirling from her fingers. "Darling, I do not think that you're able to combat this man. There's … there's magic at work here that I do not understand as of yet." She frowned, glancing back at Donald.
"I'm not asking you to run, but merely.. allow me to aid you. Please." There was a pinched look to her eyes, as she looked him over, noting the bruise. "Together."
*
"…? Together? What the hell is this? Oh. I get it. You trying to use me to look good. Hah! Fucking surprise-surprise. First Mojo, now this bullshit…!!" He reaches into his trenchcoat and yanks out the black, shimmering axe. It's a magical construct, although Amora might realize that it's her own magic that constructed it in some fashion. And then it begins to ripple along his arm, eyes narrowing. "I ain't falling for it. Not this time. I'm sick of being underestimated!!"
*
Donald scowls at Amora, and this time, anger at her suggestion marks his features.
"Were I to accept your aid, I'd be no better than one who runs from a battle," he tells her, brow darkening. "I need none of your magics to fight a mortal with an over-loose tongue!"
Then, Creel draws his axe— a weapon of darkling magics— and even Donald can see the way that magic crawls along Creel's arm.
"Er… mayhaps I spoke in over-haste," he remarks. He shifts slowly, waiting, watching— then shoves Amora violently away from the range of Creel's axe, and with a twist and a leap, seizes something inside that ragged duffel bag. With a roar of focus he swings the bag around to intercept Creel's axe— and when the bag meets the blade, there's a thundering flash of light and a surge of force that leaves ears ringing. The duffel falls away, revealing a ragged, scratched hammer made (apparently) of stone in his hands.
He whips the hammer in a circle by the thong attached to the grip, eyeing Creel warily as a friendly back-alley brawl turns into a deadly encounter.
*
Amora frowned, scowling lightly in Creel's direction. "I know you not, mortal." She glanced back toward Donald, shifting her hands in the air to keep the shield up. A huff of breath following in a delicate sniff as he refused her aid.
"You need not my aid?" She hooked a golden eyebrow upwards glancing back over him with an arrogant tilt of her chin. Which only grew into an 'I-told-you-so' look when Creel revealed the shadowy axe of mage work.
"Nay, you spoke too soon?"
Further words broke off as Donald shoved her back. The axe able to slide through the shield without pause, like magic to like, not breaking it nor being halted by it. Her magical shield popped as her focus broke and she rolled before coming up to stand.
Amora herself seemed stunned, gaping at Creel with a look of incomprehension and confusion. Golden eyebrows lurched upwards and furrowed, her full lips parting. "Tis not possible for such.. no. I.. Oh no. No.." She muttered, dusting herself off as she stared at the two combatants.
*
"Save the bullshit!!" Creel spits at Amora, seeming greatly offended for some reason. Of course, Shadow Amora was rather genius in her first minion. He's just plain too stupid to really connect the dots, or bother properly conveying this betrayal to either of them. A few moments later, and from head to toe he is converted to the axe. No longer needing it, he tosses the weapon aside; it spirals twice before sinking through the curb so far that the bottom of the shaft almost vanishes. Trenchcoat and hat are yanked off and flung away; once no longer contacting him, they return to normal. "Hah! You think that puny weapon'll hurt me? Think again!! Give me your best shot!"
*
Donald blinks when Creel disarms himself. "Arrogant fool," Donald says, hefting his hammer. He jukes once, feinting— but Creel's outstretched, arrogant posture suggests he sincerely won't dodge the blow.
Donald whips his hammer back at the last moment, reversing it with a whip of his wrist, and swings the club up at Creel's stomach like he's clobbering a golf ball over the horizon.
Mortal he might be, but the blood of gods flows in Donald's veins, and no human being could put the amount of force behind the hammer that Donald does— and as it nears Creel, a subtle crackle of electricity arcs between the runes.
*
Amora frowns, and flings out her hands outward. Green magic swirling around the axe as she keeps one eye on the combatants before her. Yet she didn't make to interfere just yet. Not as Donald seemed confident in striking the metallic man. Her magic sparks, swirls.. and fades. A frown came to her lips, and she hissed a string of curses.
"Darling, keep your distance from him. I fear I know the magic that created that axe.." She trailed off, eyes blazing with thought as she started throwing spell after spell at the embedded axe.
*
The axe does what it will. Whatever Amora might do to it matters not, at this point. Right now, Creel has copied it's magic into himself at the time he grasped it, and the potent swirl of dark magic is independent of it any longer. Only unlike the axe, it is infinitely more potent in terms of raw magic inside him, whirling like an amplified maelstrom. If she struggles to deal with the small weapon, she has little hope to influence the Absorbing Man.
However, the feint does work. Creel had focused on the first jaunt, so when it doubles back and shifts direction, as good a hit as ever could be hoped slams into his stomach. There's a great crack of both power and electricity, sending him skidding backwards two meters, furrows from his feet left behind. But there is absolutely no expression of discomfort or pain, and when he stands back upright, the point of impact is almost completely hale. "That all you GOT?"!
He then rushes forward, bringing up his right arm. Yet abruptly, from the elbow on manifests into a huge axe-blade, bringing it down with incredible force — a few dozen tons, at least, enough to sever down through the street and cause a split line of kinetic force to project for a long distance, air violently displacing in all directions.
*
"By th—!" Donald's oath is lost as he leaps sideways explosively, barely dodging the force and fury that explodes the alley into a spray of detritus behind him. He manages to roll, heavily, collecting a series of scrapes and bruises as he goes, and swings his hammer in a horizontal arc at Crusher's knee.
Donald's also smart enough not to stand there and trade blows with someone on Creel's scale, because the big Norde -keeps- rolling after the blow is delivered, trying to stay a little ahead of that slashing magical implement that's now attached to Creel's forearm.
*
Amora finally seemed to engage the spellwork correctly, with a furious look of concentration crossing her expression. There was a loud pop, and the axe vanished into a deep, smoky green. The cloud of smoke swirling upwards and toward Amora as her eyes were lit with her usual lime green arcane power. She exhaled a breath, vanishing for a moment to reappear behind Creel as he slammed his own mimicked blade into the ground and the impact left the road crumbling.
Just as Donald swung his hammer, she charged a blast of magical power, a solid beam aiming at Creel.
*
The brutal swing of the hammer impacts Creel's knee, knocking his leg out from under him. He crashes down on his side, giving Donald plenty of time to get some room, before the blast of energy strikes him dead on and sends him backwards, hitting the corner of the alley and obliterating the brick and masonry. But when he pushes back upright, it's clear no actual damage was done. His free hand from the forearm down then ripples, shifting into a second oversized axe. Both look identical to the one on the end of the embedded weapon. "Hah. Coward. You're no match!! Bring me Thor!!"
Before he twists towards Amora abruptly, and then kicks off the ground. Now might be a bad time to realize that he has become no slower in movement; if anything, the increased strength only makes it worse. "OR I'LL TAKE THIS DAMN MANIPULATOR'S HEAD FIRST!!" He actually has no intention of killing her or maiming her, although he doesn't particularly need that made apparent… outside the fact it clearly doesn't LOOK to be the case! He'd intentionally miss, if his strike actually managed to get that far.
*
Creel is fast. Beyond fast, moving like a snake and almost flying sideways towards Amora. Between his massive leaps and Donald's rolling and evasive movements, Creel's far enough away that he can't rally and move to intercept him.
So Donald primes his arm, twists violently, and throws the hammer at Creel's head. It's a shot that should be impossible— the hammer's greatly misbalanced for throws, nose heavy, and far from aerodynamic.
But it flies unerringly at Creel's skull as surely as a loosed arrow from Donald's hand.
*
Amora didn't seem prepared for the combat to swerve her way. Shock flitted over her features as she stared at him for a moment, too long a moment. Her hands flew up to create a shield of brilliant arcane power, runes coming to life around her hands. All of which were sliced through by Creel's axe. Like to like. Her own magic had created the Shadow that powered Creel, and her own magic did not break her own shields. It went through it. Headed straight forward in the path that Creel intended.
Yet be it from the hammer flying and landing a blow, Creel's own strike found a home in the flesh of her upper arm, at least not it was not her head. The axe's blade bit deep, marring fair skin and Asgardian muscle as if it were for naught. A cry escaped Amora and she flashed away no more than half a dozen feet, a hand clapped on her bleeding arm as she stumbled.
*
Well, that's not at all what Creel wanted to do. He didn't expect a crummy-looking hammer to be thrown, and is struck in the side of the head. His swing goes wide as expected, although that means his compensated miss slashes deeply into Amora instead. Yet he doesn't actually get dizzy from the blow, thumping down a foot and regaining orientation quickly. A glance to the blood on his axe follows, eyes widening. Shit. He just wanted to scare her. "…Tch!"
*
It's enough. It buys Donald a moment— just a moment— to get to his feet and lunge at Creel, moving swiftly. With his hammer hitting the ground with a heavy, dull *thud*, he grabs the nearest weapon he can get his hands on.
Two running strides and Donald delivers the blow from a worn wooden fencepost with both hands and a mighty twist from his hips, aiming to take Creel under the ribcage with the improvised weapon.
*
Spells dripped from the injured Enchantress, using her own blood as a basis. Healing spells were not her domain, not by a longshot, but Amora could keep herself alive well enough. Never mind that lovely Asgardian healing factor that worked so well with magic. Yet it was draining, and found herself lacking much of the magic she was used to wielding.
Still, she was upright and glaring at Creel, watching as Donald charged him with a fence post.
*
Creel can hear Donald coming, and he twists around in his direction. His left arm ripples, becoming humanoid once more, as the wooden weapon strikes him in the chest and shatters into a million fragments. He barely skids, the majority of the force lost on impact, and he twists to /slam/ down a strike towards Donald, attempting to smash him to the street. He's withholding a lot of force, if not speed, and such is very unlikely to actually knock him out even if successful. "Enough of this crap!! Give me Thor, already!! Huh?! Or does your precious God not give a shit about anybody?!"
*
It's starting to come to Donald's mind that he might be overmatched.
The reality of his situation starts to come to mind when Creel hits him hard enough to /bounce/ him off the asphalt and land him heavily on his ass a few feet away. Dazed, on his back, and staring at the smog-covered night sky overhead, the big blonde fellow requires a few seconds for Creel's arrogant words to clear the ringing in his skull.
"You want Thor?" Donald spits blood sideways, his lip fissured, and rocks to his side and slowly climbs to his feet. "Ambush me in an alley, injure Amora— wielding your dark magics? Thor is gone, but he is not far," Donald states, his eyes a brilliant blue. Sky blue. Too bright for the late evening's low lights. Overhead, the sky starts to churn and shift, twisting as stormclouds gather. "And he will always rally to defend his faithful when cretins mas—"
Whatever Donald is about to say is lost as a bolt of lightning the size of a telephone pole walks down from the clouds like a twisting, clinging serpent and attaches to Creel's bare head. Arcs of electricity leap to power lines and fire walkways, causing sparks to shoot out like a fireworks display.
*
Amora was rushing over to Donald's side as he went tumbling, yet paused, halting a breath away from him as he stood and spat blood. She stared as the scent of ozone and power rose around them. The overhead rumble of thunder drew her eyes and she gasped, clapping her hands over her lips as she stared up at the stormclouds as they gathered.
As the bolt struck home, whatever she was going to do or say was cut off in favor for shielding her eyes from the light of the bolt as it struck the ground none too far away.
*
Creel rolled his shoulders, beginning to march towards Donald with a purposefully leisure. His free hand once more manifests itself into a blade, although it might be lost that when he had a guaranteed strike, he made no attempt to cause it to be lethal. Certainly that would draw out Thor, right? "Thor is a nobody!" is shouted by the Absorbing Man. "I only want him to come back so I can wipe the floor with hi—"
And then lightning impacts him with incredible force. The primarily blessing is that he's got no brain or nervous system, or such would have been instantly fatal. Cracks begin to fragment through the enchanted material as it's sustained, before Creel suddenly laughs. "Fool!!" Suddenly the lightning begins to ripple around him, no longer conduiting through damagingly but beginning to get absorbed, starting to shift into a hybrid between deadly axe and raw, primal lightning… yet for a brief moment, his absorption is open…
*
Donald seizes the hammer as he rolls sideways, gaping at the pure bolt of energy coruscating through Creel. It's not just electricity, it's mystical lightning, a living, breathing impetus delivered by the God of Thunder.
He grabs Amora's good arm to haul her back, holding the hammer between him and Creel as if it is some kind of shield or wall…
…but as he pushes Amora towards safety, a strange sensation washes over his fingers. Donald stares at his hammer, at the electricity coruscating over the runes, which come alive with a vividly sharp aspect the worn old mace had never sported before. The mace tugs towards the lightning, and the lightning seems to respond in kind.
Uncertainty clouds his brow for a moment. But only a moment. He grips the hammer's haft in both hands, and leaving Amora, dashes towards Creel.
"FOR ASGARD!" he bellows, and swings the hammer with both hands like a man trying to drive a stake into the ground with a single blow— and all the force of that mighty swing aimed at Creel's broad chest.
*
Potency is no barrier at all to Creel. He can absorb the divine. He can absorb the essence of Mojo, across dimensions. Such is his greatest strength. But his mental capacity to endure being the vessel to such is another matter entirely. He has imperfectly channeled the lightning, but more importantly, the pour coursing through him is that of Thor's. He has copied it exactly, and that is the fatal flaw. Roaring, he twists, and then begins to swing down a lightning-charged axe swing as Donald's hammer strikes out. It hits first.
Immediately, all of the mystical lightning is ordered to disperse. There is a great explosion; the metal fragments that had been part of him are sent flying in all directions, and when the dust clears, there is only a gaping crater in the ground, smoking and sizzling, with no sign of Creel but the debris left behind. By all visible accounts, he has been slain… although Amora is liable to feel a strange magical power still lingering behind, all the same.
*
Life on Midgard was never dull, at least. There had been more unexpected events in Amora's life since she'd been exiled. It was a rather good shake up from the typical never ending centuries that dragged on and on in Asgard. Still. There came to a point when it was just too much for the blonde to deal with. Creel absorbing the lightning bolt of Thor? That was certainly more than she wanted to deal with on any given day. Thus, when Donald grabs her good arm and starts to tug her back, she went along with him. Her eyes locked upon Creel's sparkling figure.
She didn't catch what Donald did with the hammer, didn't see the way the lightning responded. As he let go of her, gripped the hammer with both hands and charged forward her eyes went wide. A shout escapes her, warningly, before Creel explodes in a gout of light and metal scraps.
A flicker of power and she attempts to wrench herself and Donald backward and out of harm's way with a quick teleportation.
*
Amora's teleportation snatches her and Donald away from the blast crater in the ground. Windows blown out, power outages for blocks, and concrete shattered and made into rubble— the small back-alley brawl had turned into one hell of a dust up.
Donald barely looks at Amora. Instead, he stares at his hammer, in wonder— the runes sharp and clear, the stone more of a gleaming, polished metal than rough rock. Light catches it oddly, and there's a raw, electric *thrum* coming from the hammer.
"THOR!" he shouts, holding the hammer up again at the sky. From the inky black overhead, another bolt of lightning climbs down and latches to the hammer, throwing Donald and Amora into stark, blinding relief against the evening around them as they become the sole source of illumination for miles.