Summary:It doesn't get any better once Wanda takes aim and Alex starts fighting. Log Info:Storyteller: Wanda |
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Despite the negative waves emanating from Kelvin, Alexander sort of smiles, accepting of it for whatever reason. But then the ground under their feet starts to shimmy and shake like a homecoming dance floor. It's a wild moment as the world seems to shuffle. Debris starts to crackle from on high, weathered and worn supports break away and a cascade of rubble falls.
Alex frowns, stepping quickly towards the wild-eyed Kelvin and his starfish pal, "C'mon! It's dangerous here!" And without so much as a by your leave he tries to quickly hoist Kelvin up and drag him out of the worst of it.
His eyes lift as he flicks a glance from one point to another to another. In ruins the archway support as shelter is a bad idea, open ground is best unless there's a lot of tunnels under ground… which there are. But an area of ground with supports prepped for something like this. Back towards the Subway?
Whether that's a good idea or bad, Alex will try and make for that direction.
The ground shimmies, the earth lurches and wobbles. Not in a way that makes a damn lick of sense, of course. It's all incumbent of understanding fault lines and a state usually passive by geological standards, at least compared to outwest. The shuffle dance is rather narrow, skidding and winding through buildings already tortured by their time. One at least bounces around, the shingles spat out like playing cards from a broken shuffling machine. However, the somewhat short-lived burst isn't a deadly temblor lasting minutes. Those, in the nature of the world, are exceedingly rare and even fate-witches cannot contrive them to exist without reason.
When Alex imposes on him, Kelvin - and his friend, Hobbs - recoil back a bit. Reaching for him means a hand hitting concrete, a dodge of supernatural speed or simply gliding along the concrete wall behind him. Instead debris and junk of a life cascade in the mix, and the sting of that demonic spell ratchets up. It's a weird sensation for most, touching something that feels like trash or worse. Worse, worse…
The path to the subway is a bit more serpentine than most, but hey, it beats someone levitating a few feet off the ground. Even if temporarily.
"What are you doing?!" Alexander looks to the side quickly, checking his path, without the man it's not a good time to run and he's not quite as in danger as he imagines the other. But then he spins back to Kelvin, hands held out to his sides with his eyes wide. But then he frowns, rubbing at his hand that he'd touched Kelvin with. And it's almost as if the feeling of corruption rubbed off. Grossness of some kind that didn't leave a mark, just a sensation on the youthful deity.
"Aww c'mon." He looks up and tries to catch Kelvin's eyes again, as if understanding now that this man is up to no good.
"Don't be an asshole." Knowing that this… is not going well. But perhaps not willing to lash out despite this danger.
What indeed is he doing? Kelvin makes a sound of disdain, his expression twisted behind that immaculately styled beard. Unreasonable someone so kempt and utterly mishmashed in his stylings should be able to turn pure contempt on like a faucet and yet the youngish man does. The earth ceases to tremble, whatever it destabilized in the rainfall still left uncertain, beautifully chaotic. He bows under the smattering of concrete peeled off the building, snarling up at a tumbling chunk dislodged from its ill-secure mooring. It /happens/ to fall right where he is.
Where the young deity might be able to see a trajectory headed straight for the fellow's head.
It is not going well. Not at all. In these moments, choices matter. Fates hinge on the option to do something, to not do something. But speed, that's the missing ingredient.
That, and a single flickering beam of mulberry light forming on the fingertips of a black-clad spectre haunting the edges of the ruinous street. The beam is searing bright, almost laser-focused, and riveted less by fear than burning hate.
In a blur of an instant, Alexander reacts. Not with the instinct that part of him keys into, that is whispering to him to not touch the creature again, to destroy it or cast it from his sight. With the youth who has grown up with a childhood that while wild, has left some core facets of morality in his mind.
No hesitation, he dives towards Kelvin to try and get him out of the way…
Of course when he does so, should contact be made, he likely will have that utter feeling of revulsion again. He shouldn't be touching that thing, shouldn't defend it. Perhaps, if he survives this escapade, he'll learn to trust his instincts better.
Which is faster, the man or the stone? As it happens, Alexander. Being Ares' son has its advantages. Speed, endless supplies of olives, the occasional father-figure involvement. It doesn't seem to be quite the case here that nature itself will best his efforts, especially as he and Kelvin go flying with room to spare. Barely. The stone crashes to the ground, shattered into pieces of concrete.
Touching the man isn't bad, but touching Hobbs on his neck, that's like sticking one's finger into a cesspool when a lily-white virgin. It's an entirely disgusting approach, one slick and flickering over the body, a hint that not all is well. Maybe the Olympian side reacts to something infernal, the denizen of another realm soaked in suffering and blood, misery and, yes, terror. But there it is.
The beam is the problem. It moves at a greater speed, the hex sliding around into the one target it wanted. That's the nature of a hex, too. Wanda emerges from the dust, staring at the both of them, a look of dire intensity favouring neither joy or anger in this case. She draws in a breath, pulling on another thread of energy, burning hot as a Roman candle at the rate she's going. "Go away," she hisses audibly enough to break over the rain, voice accented. Slavic, maybe. The popping, fizzling hiss of water around the live wire that just happens to be poking out within a few centimeters of Kelvin as he twists around to free himself of Alexander, the rain, and everything else assaulting him — horrid humans! It waits for its opportunity. Shocky shocky…
"Wait!" Alexander tries to keep a hold of Kelvin, his strength pushed to inhuman heights with the rush of adrenalin and the threat of danger. He tries to /yoink/ the hipster up and if needs be will tear what clothes are there to obscure the hiding of that starfish critter.
Grimacing and trying to somehow maintain control even as things shift and fluctuate and there's that feeling from the critter of such negativity, Alex says to the side, "It's not him… it's the…"
He points wildly when he possibly reveals the starfish, "It's the thing, I think! But it's super gross!" As if she can do anything about it, but then she did have a weird laser thing happening.
Calling down the demands on Kelvin is a bit of a risky proposition. He snarls back, and Alexander hauls him away from that electrified current waiting to spit and bite like an asp. The demon twists around, more worried about his coat, apparently, than his own hide. Fool enough. The starfish is still in his collar, clamped there with its bulging tentacles, safely out of the way of the rain and nestled into the button-down shirt that's become rather soggy and filthy what with all the trouble going on.
"Stop," hisses the man with too many teeth, snapping. "He's my /friend/." Not pet. "Get off it!" A shove might not do anything, given Alex's relative strength and that failure, if any is sure gonna be a hell of a shock to a being from, well, Hell. Or /a/ Hell. One of many, many hells.
Wanda by this point has emerged, her hand on a knife pulled from her sleeve and the other bleeding lurid light through her closed fist, glove awash in shadows. "It is him. Maligenoi," her voice twists around the odd words with utter ease, as if it's easier than English to manage. "Kakodaimon." If Alexander speaks Greek, that's an effortless one to pick up, basically meaning an ill-starred spirit. Or divinity. Or, roughly, demon.
"Oh?" Alexander straightens up, apparently unphased by the efforts of the hipster to get free, now holding him almost comically like some twisting sputtering cat by the back. Then when the revelation as to what he is comes forth, it makes a bit more of sense. So much so that the youth says simply, "Oh. Okay."
And with that he does unhand Kelvin, but more _hurls_ him to the ground in a likely painful way, to get him away from him but also to open him up to whatever this young woman intends to do.
"Sorry, I'm not used to this sort of thing." He offers in way of apology, though he doesn't take his eyes off of the evil hipster demon.
When you're strange, no one remembers your name, as the line goes. The strange young woman with her curled mahogany hair and faintly glowing fingertips might not exactly fall into that category but few witnessing her in street gear ever connect her perfectly to the Avenger, since the ones with tin can armour, a big bug-smashing hammer or a round trash-can lid of justice are far more prominent than little-red-riding-boots.
Wanda doesn't quite suppress a smile when Kelvin goes bouncing off the ground, joining the craters. Dust blows into the air, and the metallic violet tattoos on his arms light up slightly. The effect is less rave than subtle gleam. He curses a string of perfectly English invectives, starting with "son of a bitch" and "that bitch there," never minding the biological and temporal impossibilities. Oh, if only he knew. He rolls onto his side and rises, his hands held out wide. What purpose that serves, hard to say. Not claws, though there's no sign of Hobbs anywhere, meaning he's probably still hiding under a shirt. The brief pause and he cocks his head… and /runs/.
Coward.
Cue the sorceress snapping her wrist out, pointing an accusing finger. Another hex flies, colliding with a teetering telephone pole mostly used for birds perching and defecating on it. It falls in the rain, teetering drunkenly already. A little push isn't much. "Bad. Do not let him get to the hole."
Just enough time for the youth to heave a small sigh as he's drawn further into this matter, at least by the strictures he holds as to his personal behaviour. But then again it is the right place, right time, right foot, with right boot impacting just right upon the telephone pole causing it to shiver with the /thump/ and then likely give way with the crackle of timber twisting within.
Yet as it falls toward the fleeing sorcerer he doesn't hesitate. Once it's at a sufficient angle he leaps and starts to /run/ along the pole upwards as it falls falls falls to the man, crouching low as he runs with one hand to guide him held low. Then just before the impact he /leaps!/
Ready to counter the creature in case he doesn't get squished.
Not enough time at all. The wooden post crashes down and the density of that long-stripped tree rebounds off the ground. The demon is frighteningly fast, there is that much. Such that human reflexes wouldn't ever be enough to keep up with him as he veers back to a certain crater that Alexander was peering at not all that long ago. Whatever path he intended to slide along is now impeded by perhaps the least intrusive and imposing of figures. Well, the choices aren't considerably frightening: red witch, gold god, black starfish. The starfish wins by default.
The hipster goes down, though, crashing and rolling. Perhaps with Alex, perhaps without. But funny thing, that flashy crash of his tattoos makes a brief, temporary energized sparkle in the air that smells like burnt haddock and worse. In the ozone gleam, his fish-like teeth — too many, too sharp, not endearing — spread, spread, spread into a rictus grin.
"What are you about, boy?"
Alexander rises out of the mess of limbs with the Kelvin, hopping up and stepping back. He holds his hands up and out as if to fend off whatever the man/monster is going to do. His lips twist as he says, "I don't tell my friends, you think I'm going to tell some over-inked hipster chucklehead?"
And as he says that he draws a foot back and /boots/ a piece of debris sending it hurtling straight towards Kelvin head even as he steps to the side, trying to perhaps bean the demonic thing and shift its attention more fully on him. Perhaps hoping that the red witch might be able to handle this situation in a way better than him.
[Watch] Greer Nelson has disconnected.
Wanda flicks a handful of burning light like a dart into the air. Those fireflies made of motes of mulberry and fuchsia become increasingly lurid, swarming around her as though searching for something. Whether it will find it in the rainfall is another matter, but a few of the clustering lights burn their way in zipping paths ahead of Alexander. Another streams in to join the first, becoming a darker, larger clump. They sweep after Kelvin, whirling around him eventually, but the process isn't instant.
Not before the crackling purple spell fades out and a scratch punched into the demon's bared arm fails to mar the inkwork. It does, however, ruin his coat, scratchign it. It probably beans him in the shoulder, a sign of doom and wreckage. But Hobbs?
There's no sign suddenly of him. Down one starfish, and up one kakodaimon that's substantially burning.
Displeasure lights Alexander's features as he yells toward Wanda, "Don't you have anything stronger?" He asks of her as he /boots/ another piece of debris at the thing. But this isn't cutting it, and the longer he remains exposed with this creature causing this level of mayhem endangers other things.
So it is with a look of youthful resentment tinged with resignation that he extends his arm to the side, and as if out of nowhere a long golden-handled blade with a silver edge solidifies into existence. It snaps into position as he brings the weapon up.
Several quick strides are taken as he closes the distance, planting one foot and leaping into the air at the last moment to rush past but not before lowering and slashing Grass Cutter forth, seeking to neatly bisect the hipster whose life he thought he had been saving. It's a picture perfect movement, clean and precise, and entirely out of the ordinary for someone who seems so… so like /him/.
The implacable look on her face takes offense at that, though she narrows her eyes at him. His blade is far more impressive than the thin spindle of raw, lurid scarlet light blossoming into being. Grasscutter, the great sword of Susa-no-o-no-mikoto, might not be immediately familiar to her, but the pang of power invested in it certainly /is/. She can breathe that power in with an agonized clarity, before forcing hreself to focus back in an instant. Low melodies of her aura go unheard without the sight invested in the arcane. All that matters is the chunk of power being woven and twisted by invoking her will into it. Youthful resentment might show on his expression; hers is swashed away completely of emotion as she amplifies the host of garnet fireflies justified in finding the pathway all the way to the crater. A slither of violet ink that marks the passage of Hobbs goes up in flames, erupting into a sheet of supernaturally dark violet radiance rapidly overtaken by a garnet edge. The tentacles writhing in and out of it aren't part of a four-inch wide starfish. They belong to something bigger, much much bigger.
If Alexander even notices, since the fast-moving Kelvin /screams/ when that blade hits him. He lashes out with those growing claws, but they're not going to do a damn thing against Grasscutter.
The features of the youth have changed, not morphing or adapting as Kelvin's features and form, but more gone is that mask of youth. Gone is that facade of gentleness. There is only an utter clarity of purpose as he brings the blade back up and twists it to the side, ready and peering at the creature with Grasscutter's edge held before him.
One of those claws lash out, slicing outwards in a blur that has his blade swirling around in a clean circular motion that deflects and forces the appendage down and away, then allows the counter-stroke to lash out at the joining limb, trying to part the monster from its arm.
It's followed by a dash forward, sword tip extended to seek thrusting through the entirety of Kelvin's torso, yet grip already changed to aid in an outward slash meant to not just impale but disembowel.
A swirl of its extending limbs has Alexander on his back foot, feet kicking up dirt and debris as he retreats, backhanding each of the claws that lashes out at him, blade ringing with the impact. He spins around and slices at another limb as it threatens, then gathers himself.
His father's voice whispers into his consciousness, old tactics, old sayings, words of advice uttered in the heat of training now coming to the fore in the midst of battle. Divide and conquer, why did that come to the fore? But then with a smile the answer comes to him.
Alexander rushes forward again, a blur of movement as he ducks under another attack, knees sliding over the debris in that bright inferno of red light. He twists around, springing back up to his feet behind Kelvin, eyeballing where he had seen the Hobbsian creature before where it might be hiding. Ah right… there.
And he stabs.
It isn't a fair fight. It wouldn't be. War's son, a demon. They are not evenly matched for all the terrible speed makes several of those strikes simply grazing rather than dismemebering. Blood spills and sizzles on the ground. Acid, caustic, it hurts to breath. Over, over, turn and twist, the positions finally leave Kelvin into a ruinous mass. It might dissolve into gel or something worse, turned to flakes of ash. A thousand years of practice won't bring a solemn outcome in that hour, not when ruin visits in another form.
Burning bright, Wanda shreds and tears through the fabric of the final burning demon, Hobbs a thing of another dimension, a plague on life itself. Her expression is cold in the immense heat as one limb slithers out and flails for a handhold, but the remainder of the body is turned to vaporized ash in the crater. One good stab and the limb falls slack, molten cracks in its outer flesh showing exactly what she's using to destroy it. The flames will go on in their riotous blaze a great deal longer.
"Ah man," Alexander says as the youthful cast to his features returns. The old blade disappears in a whisper of ethereal dust even as he kneels down near the ashes and remains of the hipster creature. For some reason he seems to be actually mourning its passing, or perhaps something else. "Never understand why demons make the active choice to be assholes."
It's then that he looks up at Wanda and tilts his head slightly, "Like, the whole nature versus nurture thing. You know?" But then again it might be no wonder why Ares' son, God of Fear, wonders if someone can win out against their nature.
He pushes himself to his feet, and then gives her a small wave, "So, uhm. Hi."
What is there to be said? A hand given over the burning morass of a corpse, a shawarma exchanged maybe. That could be whatever normal people do, the kinds who meet eyes and stare with horror at the unnatural. Ones without gods for parents. Ones raised to cultural norms. She isn't either of those, and watches Alexander with a canny sharpness bordering on paranoia. "This," a jerk of her head indicates her surroundings, "hurts." The only explanation she gives in that accented English, though her Greek came much easier.
Manners would help here, kicked into movement by a slow, careful regard of Alexander. Her fingers cut a diagonal line and the scorched smoke blows away from her, stirred back to bother somewhere upwind of them. "Hi." Short, clipped. "You did not go. Why?"
"You mean run away?" Alexander shifts his weight to the other boot, smouldering debris crackling under his foot as he then takes a few step forward to get out of some of the wreckage, hopping over a small ruined wall and now more in the street proper. "I mean, I thought about it. If you weren't here. But I mean, figured he probably wasn't up to any good."
Then he gives that infuriating boneless shrug which seems to entirely be the purview of the late teenager, usually accompanied by an 'I'unno' though not this time.
"Why didn't you go?" There that'll show her.
"You come here. A bad place, dangerous." She gives a careless little gesture to indicate a staccato skyline of crumbling roofs and hanging wires, places where not even a flock of seagulls would dare to perch. The holes blasted in the ground are a demonic playground, a Chernobylesque shaping in '89, rather than a modern place reclaimed totally by nature. In New York, it never may be. But her shoulders stiffen beneath her coat, and she assesses Alexander. "I hunt."
He wants an answer, he gets one. The infuriating shrug hits that impenetrable outward countenance, banished into the flames along with everything else. "But you do not know what it is. What to hunt. It would eat you."
"Yeah," He offers as rejoinder, indeed agreeing that he did come here to the bad dangerous place. There's a space of several heartbeats where it might seem like that's all she's going to get. Even more infuriating! He even spares it a look as he glances around as if considering possibly other creatures or people or things being around. But then eventually, "I wanted to see it for myself," Which is true.
"Well," And there's the first hint of arrogance as she says that to him, for some reason she draws the urge for him to stick up for himself, "It would try?" His voice lilts up at the end signaling that question.
"But, okay." He holds up a hand again and gives her a small wave, "If you're not too mad I'll… go?"
He came here where it was dangerous. He saved the demon! He killed the demon! All in a day's work for a hero of many stripes. Wanda says very little else until he's ground through all his responses, the weighted stare through her black lashes as penetrating as it gets, sometimes. A magnetic pull to that intense stare remains a powerful attractor in and of itself, fueled by stark consternation and worse than arrogance. It's probably curiosity.
"Who are you?" A flat question. This passes for Eastern European directness.
For a time he sort of rocks back and forth on his feet, watching her for some social cue as to it being okay to leave, since she can likely get the vibe… that he thinks she's weird. Since, well, yeah. But then she asks her question and like a light switch was flipped…
"Oh, hey." He removes his hands from his pockets and extends one toward her as his smile returns to that neutral sort of half-thing that he'd worn throughout most the time of dealing with that demon. "I'm Alexander. Aaron. Alexander Aaron. Or Alex. For short."
The smile is renewed as he awaits the possible handshake.
"Alexander," she repeats, spinning it with a clip halfway between Greek and Italian, a word that ran away with a gorgeous high-cheekboned Russian. It is an interesting slant, to say the least. Alliterative dancing on Wanda's tongue, slanted to her unique accent. "Alexander Aaron." Up and down, it skids through the balanced tone and lands neat as a gymnast named Nadia. Nailed it! It's a name she can do for once!
"Wanda," she says. Just Wanda. Only Wanda. Purely Wanda. There's no halfway point on that. "Hi."