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Calvin Nash	Now that Ossabaw has its own Warpgate, there's no need to take the Terminal from nearby Keller unless one prefers the odd sensation of intense and confusing but vanishingly ephemeral emotion. The old ferryman Devonte is no doubt asleep at this hour, so the other option of a ferry ride across the Ogeechee is out of the question. The Terminal was moved into the gatehouse with the Warpgate, anyway, just for convenience's sake.     Two Marshals and two demons are there to greet you; one pair is Marshal Thompson and her partner Sven, who have each met some of you before. She's on the short side of tall, with blue eyes, sepia-brown skin and ombre corkscrew hair bound in a ponytail. Sven is a dwarf straight from the legends of the binding of the great wolf Fenrir, stout and sturdy but not rising taller than Thompson's waist. His pale skin looks beaten by the sea or perhaps the cold, and his wispy shoulder-length hair carries traces of blonde, as does his full beard.     The other pair is new, or at least new to you. A rail-thin short-haired redheaded guy paler than Sven, with a scraggly goatee, mans the sign-in desk, your presence giving him reason to snap out of his night-shift haze and take your names in a forceful, hurried scrawl. His partner, standing vigil and facing you as you depart the gate, is a beast with a human head painted in white and red adorned in a Chinese minister's headdress, below which sprouts a wild green mane. It has a tiger's body with teal and black fur, and membranous insectoid wings. Is it worse or better that he talks?     "You may pass," he intones after signins.     Night on Ossabaw Island isn't an unfamiliar prospect for many of the visitors there tonight. There is something different, in some hard to quantify way. It's late--close to midnight, and the full moon looms like a pale eye, gazing down without so much as a single cloud to shield you from its sight. A glittering sea of stars in the dark sky surrounds it, over the dusty backdrop of the Milky Way. Outside of the gatehouse, where the sound of the Ogeechee and the ocean embracing the shore may be heard, and the wind whistles faintly through dancing reeds, pale moonlight filters through the interlocking, moss-laded arms of evergreen live oaks.     The rumble-whine of magnetite combustion engines is here, too--two more potentially familiar faces, the portly, barrel-armed Marshal J.M. DuPont and the short, lean mustachioed Marshal Denny Garcia, Jr. ('Junior,' as most call him), wait on the dirt road with trucks ready to take you to the Shadowed Tabernacle on the other side of the island.     It's otherwise quiet, even when you reach the halfway point of the town proper. Realistically, that's because of the hour and there are no big celebrations due, and no particular reason for most people to be outside right now. But, the moon, the starry sky, and the light filtering through the branches of deciduous and evergreen trees alike conspire to give an unrealistic reason--as if the island itself were aware of the ritual about to be conducted, and is setting the stage. The only people you see out are Demon Marshals--positioned too regularly to be a coincidence. J.M. and Junior can explain; a summoning has never gone so wrong that a demon has escaped the Tabernacle, but there have been incidents. When summoning above a certain weight class, leadership insists on redundancies.     The grassy mounds upon which Ossabaw's bunkhouses sit pass by in relative silence, with only the wind, the rumble-whine of the magnetite-cell conversion trucks and the crunch of the seashell-strewn dirt roads beneath the trucks as your ambience. Even the Marshal HQ--that old colonial-style Spanish mansion, lovingly cared for--is in a state of stillness as you pass it, giving the sense that all preparations save your own arrival have already been made.
Calvin Nash	The Shadowed Tabernacle is past the populated part of the island by a walk of ten minutes, so the drive is faster. Lilian had asked, once, how Calvin's people handle rituals and demon summoning, compared to the no-expense-spared modularity of the Cathedral where they'd fought Mastema. She can see that now, even on the approach. It's set in the middle of a field that might once have held the ordered rows of a plantation, along with everything that implies given U.S. history. The first detail is the wooden post fence which surrounds it.     The exterior of the fence bears elaborate engravings burned in. The design suggests clinging ivy, while empty spaces are filled in with a kind of magical pidgin kludged together from several more complete traditions. A few symbols probably trace their lineage to a pop-occult version of Hebrew a la Kabbalah, pictographs and characters from Appalachian Braucherei or 'granny witchcraft,' some from half-remembered Christian traditions, and even some from the broad, diasporic Afro-Caribbean Obeah. Those could all, deniably, be something that the people here might have knowledge of, maybe--but there are some symbols, from some traditions, that grow increasingly implausible--medieval Aramaic? Rosicrucianism? Even some from indigenous North American traditions that would have come from people halfway across the country from here.     Two Demon Marshals stand guard, with more in the treeline--the ones at the gate of the fence each have identical demon partners, stocky canines with bulging eyes, almost human teeth set foreboding grimaces, with yellow pelts and green manes like waterfalls of jade--foo lions, or perhaps their Okinawan offshoots, shisa. Each is armed with a shotgun, and a battery-powered klaxon horn rests on posts in reach of each.     Even those without magical senses feel the hairs at the back of the neck stand briefly on end, passing through the fence. Those with them find that it's an ablative barrier comprised of countless redundancies, the idea being that breaking through all of them would give any responders more than enough time to get here, even for something powerful enough to warrant extra Marshals. For the particularly acute, something else lies, hidden amidst layer after obnoxious layer of metaphorical shingles; the magical equivalent of a stinkbomb or inksplatter, designed to leave a lasting, traceable mark on anything that breaks free.     The building itself is a cross between a tent and a southern evangelical church; its profile resembles the latter, with a broad base, a 'roof' at a slight incline and a small steeple with a homely scrap-metal bell. The 'roof' stretches all the way down to the ground, not a permanent thing but a collection of layered, stitched leathers, held to the ground with cord fed through looped stakes--and in the case of the steeple, held to rings pierced through the leathers beneath its peak.     'Walls' are wooden posts set flush with one another, while the 'front door' is a leather curtain draped over a gap, both inscribed with that same magical pidgin--though these ones seem by volume to be half-containment, half energy management and direction. Rather than build a permanent site with modular features, Tabernacles appear to be built for specific purposes but with the ability to pack the whole thing up and move it if need be, with the resources needed to make it largely abundant if not directly renewable, and less labor-intensive than the materials or scale of a Cathedral.
Calvin Nash	BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7tBmNvwaNg      It's dark, hence the name. The only source of natural light filters in from the steeple above, four pale ribbons of moonlight that shine down on four large wooden discs set into a slightly elevated wooden platform at the center of the building. Artificial light doesn't do much to reduce the dimness--kludged-together mason-jar-and-filament light bulbs flicker almost like candles in eerie unison. These, and the aged Hammond organ at the back, are hooked up to a growling generator with some kind of scrapmetal aftermarket modification bashed into the spot where its fuel tank would go, wrapped around the frame like a geometric metal growth.      The generator isn't producing any smoke or even the smell of gas, but a thin purple vapor that sublimates into an ominous white fog which settles at the floor of the Tabernacle. That platform is, even to the magically uninitiated, undoubtedly the focal point of the magical goings-on here. Each ring sports a flanking set of symbols in the same sort of magical pidgin that's inscribed into the walls, the leather door-flap and the fence outside.      Calvin is here, as is Pastor Fred, plus a few others here to help out with the ritual. The four other Marshals, one to a corner, are probably expected. The band from the Last Resort and their equipment most likely aren't--an old white man with wispy white hair in black western wear, nails painted black, a black pompadour'd keyboardist his age and opposite in fashion sense, looking more more 80s British New Wave than outlaw country, a seemingly sister and brother duo of drummer and keytarist, the sister with her blonde hair in a sidetail, the brother half-hiding behind his jaw-length hair.      Pastor Fred himself is within arm's reach of another alarm system--more simple than the klaxons outside, a rope and pulley to operate the bell above. He steps out from behind the old Hammond with a collection plate. Each of you was asked by Calvin to bring something to help with the ritual. Based on his research of Hell Biker, he believes one item from each of you with one of the following emotional connections would be most helpful. - Something that reminds you of friends, or - Something that makes you feel bitter, or - Something that shows you belong someplace      Pastor Fred wears the habit of a priest, but old and repeatedly mended--though, conspicuously, he wears no Christian iconography and, aside from the sort with occult undertones, there's little to even be had in the Tabernacle. His wrinkled, umber brown hands hold the collection plate steady, and he manages a polite gap-toothed smile that doesn't convincingly reach the eyes behind his coke-bottle glasses, nor halt his brow from knitting in concern. "Pastor Fred Jackson," he says by way of introduction, sparing a handshake with his free hand for any he hasn't met yet. "Over there with me, that's Ms. Tiffany McElwain and her brother Tommy, the fella with the gittar is Mr. John-Wayne Ellis, and the one with the big rack of Moogs is Mr. Adrian Thomas. Up in the corners we got Marshals--Gunther, Estrada, Redmond and Atshena."      "I wanna thank y'all for showin' up," says Calvin. "You might wonder how come it's so many of y'all, and why all the extra security. That's cause this is a limited-time thing, with a chance for failure, and a chance for that failure to have some pretty damn bad consequences." Pausing for effect, "We don't want that. Now, I took some measures myself. Two out of the three demons it's gonna take to make this sumbitch trust me. The one that don't, knows he'd be dead twice now if it wasn't for me. Hopefully that counts for somethin'," he says, his head canting to one side for just a moment. "If it don't... Well. What y'all brought with you is still gonna push us towards 'worth doin'' territory. We got a few minutes. Any questions, get 'em out now, 'cause we can't have no distractions."
Kale Hearthward	Kale looks around as he passes through the fence, feeling something but unable to place it. His first assumption is there being an odd wind - some draft coming in, or the signs of an oncoming storm, but no, neither of those. "I wouldn't have figured a church for this..." he comments as he looks up at the building. "It feels..." He tries and fails to come up with a good metaphor. "Like an ice cream chain that also sells burgers and fried food?" He keeps further commentary to himself, though when he sees the generator and vapor he politely stays as far away from both as he can while still being part of things. When the collection plate is passed, Kale looks down at it but doesn't make a move at first. Eventually, he reaches into the bag he brought with him and withdraws an item that's potentially the same size as the collection plate itself. "I... hope there's not a size limit, I wasn't told," he says as he attempts to give it to Pastor Fred. Kale's item is a wrist-strap buckler with a rose pattern on the front, and a series of rose-quarts teardrops around the perimeter. > "We got a few minutes. Any questions, get 'em out now." "How bad of 'pretty damn bad consequences' are we talking about? Should I get my medical team on-site?"
Riku Asakura	Riku arrives and is greeted by the two Marshals.  He's passed on through and is awaiting the nearby trucks to take them to the mansion that they're going to.  Riku doesn't even hesitate; he rides in the back of one of the trucks because he's seen American movies where they do this, and this is crossing something off of his bucket list of stuff he has to do in his life.  The wind blows through his hair as he wears an excited smile on the way to the mansion.   Once there, it's another walk, but he thanks the Marshals for their ride and heads towards the entrance.  Of course, the smile fades from his mouth once inside.  The whole thing is eerie, the flickering lightbulbs mimicking candles, the purple haze blowing through the place, and the entire feel of the mansion is simply put, spooky.   Riku bows respectfully to Pastor Fred, in place of a handshake.  He can still feel the goosebumps rise on the back of his neck as he does so, but he manages a smile for both the Pastor and Calvin.  A bit strained due to the spookiness of the mansion, but he does hold it.   '- Something that makes you feel bitter, or' '- Something that shows you belong somewhere' There was almost no hesitation in Riku's choice of an item.  He opens the capsule holder for his Ultraman transformations and fishes out a capsule with an evil-looking Ultraman on it.  Black and red with large claws, the capsule for Ultraman Belial.  It's both something that makes him feel bitter because of what Belial does to his own reputation as an Ultra, but also something that shows that he belongs somewhere.   "Here, this should fit the bill," he says as he hands it over for the ritual. 'We got a few minutes. Any questions, get 'em out now.' "What do you need us to do besides be here if something goes wrong?"
Aika Rosewater	A loud whistle escapes Aika's mouth, as her first real statement about the town. Even then, not about the town, but rather the sky. "Damn. Wish you could see that from the city. Light pollution's such a pain."     She's taking in the scenery, best she can, while she can. Hands in her pocket, glimmer still in her eyes, if she'd come here just to see that, it'd have been worth the detour. It's business, though, so she won't get too carried away.     The fence surrounding the Tabernacle draws her attention too; she's seen most of those engravings before, but never together. And certainly never so many in one place. If she's about comment on that, her attention gets stolen by the Marshals on-duty there, or specifically their partners. She'd heard Calvin (and Lilian) discuss demon matters quite a bit, but seeing it so casually present and coexisting is neat.     "Well nobody can say you aren't prepared. Wards from more cultures I can count, guards and demons... makes me concerned we're being *asked for* despite all that, ha."     Stepping inside means basking in the ambiance; from flickering lights to a rickety generator, in a building that seems like it could be a shady wooden cabin upscaled.     "Never seen an organ hooked up to a generator before. First time for everything but you're getting a lot of firsts in one place here."     She'd had to think of what to bring, but then the answer was kind of easy to settle on. Aika's not one for material wealth or possessions much, but there's a handful of things she keeps like souvenirs, and she trusts Calvin unconditionally as an ally.     What she produces for the ritual is a large tuft of dark blue fur, bound by a little black ribbon that's enchanted to keep it from deteriorating or from coming apart at all. "Pastor Fred Jackson,"     "Aika. Nice to meet your team." "Any questions, get 'em out now,"     "You said limited-time? Is this some like, solstice-type ritual where it can only be done today or else you gotta wait another year?"
Meresankh	Meresankh is, in fact, tempted to use the Terminal from Keller. The rush of strange sensations stirs something deep in her cold mechanical shell, in a way like a dormant seed tasting water for the first time. Ultimately she opts for the Ossabaw warpgate - she has enough going on in her head already - but the temptation is there and receives consideration. Arriving solo, she greets the Demon Marshals politely and welcomes escort to this mysterious-to-her Tabernacle.     Arriving at the appointed site, Meresankh makes a quick scan of the glyphs and inscriptions adorning the fence and structure beyond. She notes the geometry first and the semantic meanings second, 'ooh'-ing a little at the practicality of it all. The boundary's eerie properties are noticed as well; Meresankh draws her imprisoned C'tan shard from her cloak out of investigative reflex and sees its internal flame burning low and dim.     The queen makes a noise of evident interest when she spies the organ within. Even if the whole is less visually impressive than its distant cousin at the cathedral in Canaan, making it portable is an impressive mechanical feat all its own. When Pastor Fred comes around with the collection plate, Meresankh greets him and calmly deposits the shard-prison, a palm-sized nest of cubes, into the dish.     Raise thee up, O Pharaoh, chastise him who conspires against thee and cut to pieces thy foe, that his confederacy may fall. And so we did, and so we did, and yet what was stolen cannot be taken back again. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. Every Necron soul still lies in the grasp of their fallen, shattered enemy. Bitter, indeed.     Meresankh glances around at the familiar faces - Riku, Calvin, Lilian, others who she has worked alongside and found helping hands in. She wonders if she ought to have something that reminds her of her friends. Shaking the thought from her mind, she looks to Calvin again. "You're most welcome, Marshal," she says, a little too diplomatic in tone. "I am happy to assist you." She has no questions, apparently.
Lissandra	Lissandra is a first-time visitor to this particular locale and would hardly complain at taking the most convenient and direct route possible, so she sticks to whatever comes recommended by either Calvin or another of the people showing up to assist him. She's come extra prepared today going by her luggage; no coat, but a long-sleeved black top and a thick pair of workman's jeans cinched extra tight by way of her belt, with her usual pouches and holsters and such dangling from her hips. Her usual magic bag is on her left hip and a mundane linen bag is on her right, carrying a number of loose materials like chalk, paper, bits of different metal, and so on. Mostly things that might serve for working on the kinds of rituals she's familiar with, and enough of it to share if she needs to.      Greeted by the Marshals and their demons, she keeps her expression controlled and pleasantly neutral, giving the usual hellos, introductions and the necessary sign-in while sneaking curious glances at the demons from various angles before she has to move on. If she makes eye contact with either of them, she's just as cordial with them as the Marshals; she's accustomed to treating spirits politely, if not quite reverently, so it's an easy holding pattern for her. Walking beyond there until the truck pickup, Lissandra strolls with her wand at a lazy extension toward the ground and a beam of white light emanating off of it, the spitting image of a perfectly mundane flashlight if not for the narrowness of the wand itself; she of course dispels the light as she gets into one of the trucks at DuPont and 'Junior's invitation. "Thank you for the favor, as lovely as the walk would be I'd much prefer not to keep the Marshal waiting."      She of course approves of the idea of 'redundancies', nodding comfortably as she notes the number of other Marshals out and about as precaution. She too is only here as such a redundancy... Insurance, more or less. She doesn't know the ways and styles of ritual summoning here, and she doesn't know how to tame a demon or the meaning involved. She's just bringing whatever might be useful and bracing to help resolve any accidents... It would sit poorly with her to lose a colleague like Calvin so abruptly without being present, if something did happen. She manages to look aloof and comfortable regardless of that reason during the drive to the tabernacle though, her cheek leaned into the windowpane as she watches things pass by outside.      Lissandra won't dawdle getting out of the truck upon arrival, waving a farewell and striding quickly on to the guards posted at the warded fence next, flashing a bit of ID and leaving them with a gentle "Keep up the good work.", to both the marshals and the pseudo-canine demons they're with (implied by the way her eyes trail over each). She takes some notice of the fenceline and the barrier itself, but it doesn't halt her gait after passing through toward the tabernacle itself.
Lissandra	The darkness inside the building has her initially reach for her wand, but she can read context clues; she stays her right hand and instead reaches her left into her magic bag, producing her usual staff and walking with it lightly trailing the floor in front of her feet, just to be sure she doesn't stumble on something. Given the incense(?) drifting at floor height and the various furnishings and slapdash modifications, the darkness feels a little too potentially important to the process, and she's not about to go disrupting the conditions of the ritual out of laziness.      "Marshal," is how she chooses to greet Calvin as she steps closer, as if nobody else on the island were of the same rank. It's a familiarity thing. "I imagine you have handled the preparations, but I brought some modest materials with me just in case." She pats the bag on her right hip, then turns her gaze onto the Pastor, dipping her brow for a moment in greeting. "Red Witch, Lissandra. I am magically-able, though our systems differ; if I can be of assistance, do let me know. Otherwise, I'll just be here waiting to ensure the worst doesn't come."      The 'offering'... It had been a matter of some trickiness for her. She understands the premise perfectly well, but the categories themselves... Well, it's not like she has to specify to anyone which it was she decided on leaning into. If anything, she seems to conceal her expression carefully when the collection plate is brought around, even as she produces from her magic bag a *hand*- A wooden hand, with delicate joints, shaped as if very slowly and meticulously with a very small knife over many, many weeks. "I don't need it back, so do as you must."      Finally, Calvin addresses the group and Lissandra nods along slowly, concealing whatever nerves she's feeling behind a mask of familiarity. "A quick rundown of your emergency response procedure wouldn't go amiss, such that we won't conflict with the local experts when it counts. Otherwise, I've nothing to ask that cannot wait until the results are known. Is there anything you need from me, Marshal?" She pauses, and it takes her a moment longer than usual to put on a more comfortable smile. "Not the perfect group for motivational cheering, perhaps, but you'll make do won't you?"
Futaba Nuki	"Hey there, Thompson! Sven! Been a minute, huh?" Futaba's greeting is peppy as ever as she comes on through the Warpgate to Ossabaw, raising a hand in a quick wave within the first few seconds of seeing some familiar faces. The redheaded guy and the human-headed tiger figure with the mane are less familiar, but they too get some quick waves and Futaba hanging around at the front to study the latter while having her credentials processed. Knowing that she's heare for a purpose, though, means Futaba's not going to get (too) sidetracked on the way to the Shadowed Tabernacle. Seeing the tip-to-ground roofing of the building stirs some curiosity in Futaba about how long it would take to climb that entire thing, but she fights off the urge to scramble up there by heading inside with everyone else. "Hey, Calvin! I brought a couple of things that might figt the bill. Take your pick, huh?" She greets and exlpains with a hearty chuckle, holding up a plastic bag that's poking on one side with something long in it while the other side is just weighed down with some kind of bundled cloth. There's only two items in there, but both of them carry quite a bit of mental weight for the self-proclaimed ninja. The first: A wooden sword, both carefully yet crudely carved by hand by someone that clearly isn't a professional. Although the 'blade' is fairly worn down, it's still polished and looks to have been recently cleaned. The handle is wrapped in numerous small cloth strips with names signed on it in Japanese. It's a reminder of those she's fought for and saved before. The second: An aged obi that looks like it's been repaired and cleaned time and time again. Although it's similarly well-used, it's still in great condition even though it's older than Futaba. It's a reminder of what could have been if she hadn't pushed her sister away by existing. "You really got the whole crew out today, huh? Just means it's even more important that we get this ritual done right." Futaba replies to Calvin while greeting all those named figures with slow nods and short waves. "All this prepwork... I take it there's more to it than just us bringing this stuff. Anything else we can do to help with the process? Rituals of our own, keeping this place from breaking down, anything?"
Foundation Scions	Matilda Bouanich, Monitor Assistant of the SPDM, and (increasingly obviously just ceremonially-so) representative of the St. Pavlov Foundation's Department of Multiversal Outreach, has been so, so, so diligent in filing as many requests as she could to get the leave-time to attend (and possibly help with) an off-world magical ritual (and not even a small-seeming one, at that!) Under the argument that it's collaborating with an allied Paladins Chevalier, and under the promise that she'll do her best to compile some report for the SPDM on whatever she can on off-world magic, and under the negotiating of spending extra of her leave-days for it, Matilda's request has been... left 'pending' long enough for the day to come and her to simply trust in fate that she'll avoid a fussing-at by authority figures.     Matilda is not one of the individuals here who's seen Ossabaw, especially not at night. As such, once she's outside of the gatehouse, and under the silver cast of the midnight sky, Matilda gasps. Her voice hushed, because this type of night demands the quiet, "Ah! Les étoiles, la Lune- c'est magnifique, une nuit parfait... Ses marées y sont si fortes en ce moment..."     Matilda is prone to having a skip in her step- but here, right past the warpgate, she's smiling soft-wide, eyes fixed upwards, and nearly spinning herself in circles trying to take in the view and walk at the same time. With the heavy bag of her orbuculum (it's like thirty-something pounds!) at her side, it's a miracle she doesn't fall- but myriad charms and crystal-danglies do clink and murmur as she moves.     Of course, she's brought an outdoorsy get-up, and not her uniform; green overall-shorts, a strange blue sleeve-shrug, and tall, thick socks to ward against grass-clinging insects. It's more fitting for all her charms, bracelets, necklaces, ear-rings, than a grey wool ensemble. Besides, she's here for herself, more than the Foundation. It just wouldn't be right not to.     It's a shame to have to pile into trucks, and get there faster. But, the actual grounds of the Tabernacle are themselves fascinating-     "Ah! These, on the walls," Matilda points, the moment she notices them, still outside, and asks mostly to no-one, "Are these to be, arrays of ritual-shaping, to hallow the enclosure? Or, is it melded with, or solely-to-be, efforts to contain what is done inside?"     The decorative-looking ivy engravings still fondly skittered-up-to and admired, it's the magical carving-work that really draws her attention. Matilda, squinting to read in the (bright, comparatively) night-time, fishes a little crystal pendant, murmurs out "Éclaire mon chemin, s'il te plaît,")] and the little quartz lights up, a (kind of funnily) dim flashlight. Surely, an actual flashlight would serve her better, but she didn't bring one, and it's a night for arcanum, regardless.     Less to no-one, but the escorting figures, "Who, exactly, did the writings on these..?" . . .     Once ushered within, past the guards, and their demons, Matilda fixes the little glow-charm to her wrist, by a fiddly leather cord, that takes her a solid thirty seconds to tie. She looks around the sanctum, nearly rocking up to her tip-toes, scooching around others to get a complete view, especially given that a large number present are quite a bit taller than her-
Foundation Scions	"Hein..? This is to be a... musical function?" Matilda says that a lot louder than the hush-somber tone she'd been thinking her thoughts in, at least, but, an electric keyboardist, heavy-metal types... that's new! She wasn't expecting that from the outside of the Tabernacle at all. "Is that how this is done..?" As the musicians are introduced, though, Matilda gives them a little wave; it's too small of an occasion for that to not feel appropriate, even if none of them know her and she'll likely never see them again. It doesn't feel like a concert, to just be audience! It's a little awkward!     "Um! What are we to do with the ritual components-" Matilda asks, before the offering plate is in her sight. Still a little awkward, a new nervousness hits Matilda, with a weird fade to her current excited glow, having only just now remembered that this was something she prepared for, and perhaps, in a small way, regretting what her preparations were.     Matilda doesn't that often wear earrings, and, when she does, even the ones she's made for herself have more refined quality to what's currently there in her ear, a metal-wire and oblong facetted aquamarine, barely of valuable quality if processed perfectly, which it isn't. Just the one earring. The way Matilda reaches up to remove it, and hand it over, is one part like she's worried a single touch will shatter it, and one part she's worried it will bite her.     Quietly, when it's down in the plate, Matilda says, "I will need it back, afterwards." 'That's cause this is a limited-time thing, with a chance for failure,'     Capturing back a bit of Matilda energy- "Ah-hem, well! You picked a good night for it, I'll say! The Moon, she is paying such close attention! I, I am sure you will succeed!"
Swords of Justice	Chernobog? Ongyo-ki? Cerberus? The daemons Shirou's familiar with don't tend to have names with significance like that and usually aren't given names at all. They do both seem to be specifically influenced by the human psyche, though these ones seem to be inherently more independent by default. It makes sense, then, that a church would have so much security, as well as why Calvin would call upon the Paladins for help.      At least, Shirou thinks it's a church? He's pretty sure they called it a church at some point. He's only ever been to one once in his life, and this place, despite the looks, fills him with a lot less tension and dread. That might be because he doesn't hate Pastor Fred, though, but the place doesn't register as a place of worship to him. He'll just mentally file this place as a sort of magical workshop to avoid any future negative connotations and move on.      As the donation plate gets around to him, Shirou initially tries to place a rather ornate looking sword onto it, stopping awkwardly partway as he realizes it won't work, before giving a weak bow in apology. Honestly, he should've just gone with the pendant like Medusa and Rin suggested, but this item checked a lot more of the boxes that were asked for. "Sorry... I'll hand it over once you've collected everything else."      Medusa, meanwhile, who has been her usual silent self, places a keychain of some generically cute snake mascot onto the plate, having just removed it from her cellphone.      "Any questions, get 'em out now, 'cause we can't have no distractions."      "This is for Hell Biker, right? Why are you trying to bring him back? I thought you hated him."
Lilian Rook	Thank fucking god for the Warpgate in Ossabaw because Lilian is not taking the Terminal anymore. Not since all that stuff with Dictum, and not before all of her irrationally held narrative death flags expire at the end of the month. Maybe another month. Just to be sure.     It does make her think about what she'd look like showing up with Tamamo-no-Mae on her arm, in this world, but that thought loses its flavour after thirty seconds of chewing at best.     Lilian thanks, as well, nighttime on Onssabaw Island. Though it provides no particular benefit to the reason she's actually here, the sight of a clear, dark sky and vivid stars, not to mention the sound of the ocean and the unobstructed wind, instantly soothes her to such a degree that she ends up lagging behind just for standing around outside and letting herself breathe it in. Promising to follow in a moment, she even allows herself to go wandering, chasing a dirt path in the vague direction of the ocean past as many glowing indoor lights as she can until it's time to regroup.     It actually makes the fence stand out all the more. So acclimated does she feel when she reconvenes with the group, Lilian stares at the wooden barrier as if it were a single perfectly-carved gravestone in the middle of a desert; before even noticing the engravings. Once she recognizes their importance, Lilian brushes her skirt beneath her legs to crouch down on the dirt and scrutinize them, only to decide that she can't make any sense of that mess at all not long after. 'Despite' her high-class education, she can't meaningfully discern Obeah from Vodoun from decorative patterns, after all. Naggingly aware that it might be something like that, Lilian refrains from saying anything about the roof from thereon.     'I wanna thank y'all for showin' up'     "Honestly, I've gotten so used to seeing Richards that it feels strange without her." says Lilian, by way of introduction. "I haven't wondered even the slightest at the numbers, however. Actually, I assumed this much magical security was the norm, even." Her calm, borderline disinterested (affected) look around the inside is more of an excuse to stop and think than anything else. "If I have a question, it's only if that horrid little contraption is running on magnetite as well." she says, tilting her chin up towards the generator. "And where you're getting it all if you can't look after a decent bell."     The only real hint that she had expected this to be meaningfully dangerous is that Lilian is wearing her sword at her side. Otherwise, the only threat she expects appears to be biting insects, going by her calf-height boots and unpatterned knee socks. Even then, she hadn't bothered to zip up the light hiking jacket she brought, finding the night less cold and windy than she expected. It ends up folded over the back of a convenient fixture once she's inside the tent, where it's another step warmer and more humid still, leaving her in the knit cashmere halter-neck she was wearing at home half an hour ago as a compromise between warmth and the evil of sleeves during extensive upkeep activity. She could have at least put on bug-spray, one would think; the only smell following her is woodsmoke and mineral oil.
Lilian Rook	When the collection plate comes around, Lilian retrieves from her usual bag, a segment of exquisitely carved and embellished hawthorn wood, broken off before the end of her hand, with a smooth hole machined through it, and contrasting it, a white soft-plastic bracelet with a thick black stripe and a thin red one. She hesitates before surrendering either one, before deciding, narrowly, on the former; as if it were a decision that she couldn't have made until seeing this for herself.     'I will need it back, afterwards.'     "I'm not too fussed." Lilian says, shrugging and brushing her hair with the back of her hand. "It is a gorgeous night, though." she says to Matilda, so as not to leave it at that. "I'm reminded I need to stop by at that bar for a minor errand after this."     'I imagine you have handled the preparations, but I brought some modest materials with me just in case.'     Lilian is staring at that weird wooden hand. Of course, she pays various attention to each of the offerings anyways, just for the fact that they're supposed to be of personal significance to people she rarely learns anything personal about, but that one is by far the strangest.     'I don't need it back, so do as you must.'     "Really? It looks as if you put a lot of work into it."
Foundation Scions	'I'm not too fussed.'     Matilda is poking a bee's nest, for being someone who does not, actually, want to talk about what she handed over, for pressing interact when Lilian deposits the carved wooden rod. Hushed, like whispering during a class, "Was it, against instruction, to offer things that one intends to keep? The woodwork of that, it looked very-well assembled! Are you leaving it because it is something broken..?"     A little hum, and, "I wonder how close a large clearing is... On nights such as these one should not miss the opportunities presented!" For rituals, or is Matilda just talking about wanting to take an excuse to stargaze? A pause, "Wait, do bars not already shutter their doors closed at this hour? What-sort of errand?"
Lissandra	While maybe she's not a perfect little social butterfly, Lissandra does laugh softly at Shirou's mistake, and Matilda's enthusiastic curiosity gives Lissandra a lopsided smirk that feels like she's just advertising the deliberate choice not to correct anything or... Really, do anything that might throw off Matilda's vibe? Like trying to be really quiet while you watch a little animal do something funny. That's temporary though, since it's rude to fully ignore someone, and honestly it's a source of comfort amongst the serious mood that even Lissandra herself arrived with.      "It's supposedly common for music to be a part of worship, and their demon-summoning and wards seem to include many religious and cultural references from all over the world. I'm not particularly familiar with any of the specifics, but it seems like musical culture would be an easy way to stoke the emotional energies that their methods depend on, wouldn't it?" She offers that to Matilda, posturing as a fellow outsider, and trying to help the younger arcanist not land in one of her self-justifying loops. She can be considerate, sometimes.      Meanwhile, Lilian's curiosity is caught onto before she even has to say anything, but there's a slightly tense sort of non-acknowledgement as both of them likely recognize the other's attention before long, and Lissandra finally surrenders the game of pretending not to notice when Lilian just comes out and challenges her on it. Lissandra turns a sigh into a little nasal huff, with an almost wistful uptilt as she adjusts her hair around the back of her hand. "I suppose I did, at one point. Not enough work, though. I only have enough room for so many useless souvenirs."      It's not every day she's so immediately dismissive of her own work, but she does have a touchy relationship with her past self. And surely if she *really* had a problem with space, it would've already been thrown out.
Calvin Nash	Like an ice cream chain that also sells burgers and fried food?     That draws a laugh from Pastor Fred, a welcome relief from the tension in the air. "I heard a lot, 'bout this place, but never that." Straightening his glasses, he clarified. "I know, you probably seen the symbols, or the bell, or especially this," he says, patting the front of his habit. "But it's not really a place of worship." He shakes his head. "We call it a Tabernacle 'cause it's portable, like those were in biblical times--and 'cause it's a place of communion with the other world. As for this," he says, gesturing again to his habit, "I was a preacher, back in the day. Nowadays, I wear this more 'cause of what I am to this community, than what I am to God." How bad of 'pretty damn bad consequences' are we talking about? Should I get my medical team on-site? What do you need us to do besides be here if something goes wrong?     Calvin fields these ones. "This demon here is a Fiend," he says. "That's one of the types that tend to be real mean, and real strong. On the lower end, there's Matador. He's a nasty sumbitch that works for us--kinda like the final exam to see if you're the kind of Marshal that can fight or if they'll have you doin' other shit. Even with him you're lookin' at a knock-down, drag-out fight that's gonna test all of what you got."     "The Trumpeter blacked out the sun, and the guy I'm gonna try 'n fuse here chased me and two truckfuls of Elites across twenty miles of Interstate just to try and fuck us over. So if one gets loose, as in, no contract?" He shakes his head and swipes his hand outwards, palm down. "Needs to be sent packin', *quick.* That's the other half of why y'all're here, besides the artifacts you brought. So. You wanna give your people a call," he says, more directly answering Kale, "It wouldn't be the worst idea." Never seen an organ hooked up to a generator before.     Pastor Fred smiles. "What about one plugged into a wall? It's my little miracle," he says. "Don't know why, but one day, I felt like checkin' the old church I used to preach at. So, I asked Calvin's momma--or, I guess, back then, 'Director Nash'," he says with a chuckle, "If she wouldn't mind sendin' some boys out that way, to see what they could find. This woulda been about... 2012? Place'd been sittin' for 20 years, roof had started to cave in, they said. But that baby," he says, pointing behnid him, "It'd barely been touched. So they loaded it up and brought it back here, and it's been what I used to keep the place topped off ever since." Is this some like, solstice-type ritual where it can only be done today or else you gotta wait another year?     Calvin nods, frowning. "Some demons you can't just fuse whenever. Gotta do it on certain phases of the moon, certain times of day, certain times of the year. Compendium says 'midnight on a full moon.'" He taps his COMP matter-of-factly. "Now. Waitin' wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for some shit that happened recently. Since that shit happened, it might flare up again. So I don't wanna get caught unprepared if we get a tough fight thrown our way." I imagine you have handled the preparations, but I brought some modest materials with me just in case.     "'Preciate it, Miss Lissandra," says Calvin with a nod. "You got any chalk in there, think Pastor Fred said he was runnin' low on his." There's a blackboard off to one side where a number of equations and occult symbols take up residence. "Not to mention, we might need somethin' quick 'n dirty if there's an accident." I don't need it back, so do as you must.     "If you're sure," Calvin says. "Every little bit helps, but I don't want you to come outta here regrettin' it."
Calvin Nash	A quick rundown of your emergency response procedure wouldn't go amiss, such that we won't conflict with the local experts when it counts.     "Pastor Fred rings the bell," he says. "Then the band leave out the hatch at the back. He stays where he's at and works on undoin' the flesh-and-blood shell that holds all that energy here. The platform'll hold for a few seconds. We want our demon to stay there longer, though--which is where we come in, and hit 'im with everything we got to *hold* 'im there."     "'Hold' is important," Pastor Fred speaks up, with a frown. "Even little demons can take more punishment than humans. So the idea is that y'all lock 'im down, instead of blastin' 'im fulla holes, 'cause as long as he's in that circle, it's easier for me to use the Tabernacle's energy to undo what holds 'im here than it is to just break those bonds by force."     "If he gets *off* of that platform, even for a second, that option's off the table. But it's better you save your strength for if that happens than try and... knock him out with some haymaker." Fred sighs, the way that people do when a hard job is in front of them. "Now if that does happen, he's still gotta break out of here. He can't just come and go like you all do. And each layer he peels back costs him something to do. So you'll still have time to stop him, and the alarms'll give the Marshals outside time to post up."     "If he gets out, and he ain't on his last legs," Calvin picks up, "That ain't good. He's fast, he's strong, and all that grass and mud out there don't mean shit to his bike. Which is why we got Marshals all over the island right now, ready to wear 'im out. But we're gonna hope like hell it don't come to that." Calvin! I brought a couple of things that might figt the bill. Take your pick, huh?     Calvin points at the obi, rather than touching it. Pastor Fred moves some of the other items to clear a spot, but even he uses a white cloth to do so. Anything else we can do to help with the process? Rituals of our own?     Pastor Fred nods. "Yes ma'am, there is," he says. "For these rituals, we have two sources of energy. There's the reserves, that's stored in the planks and the platforms and what all else," he says. "A little bit of everything we do here gets squirreled away there, to make difficult stuff like this a little easier. Then there's the energy we give on the spot." The old man gestures with a wrinkled brown hand towards the Hammond organ, and to the band. "This demon... Calvin showed me his Compendium entry. He's angry," Pastor Fred says, with a heavy sigh. "So angry at the world, and, I think guilty for living past it. Or outliving his friends. So... the music that Adrian and Ms. McElwain wrote for us, that we all practiced, it's very angry, too. It ain't really my type of music, or really..." He laughs breathlessly, nervously. "Any of ours, except hers. But I'll go outside my comfort zone for this community. What I need from you, young lady, and your friends, is for you to hear the message in that music and engage with it, here," he says, pointing to his chest, "Even if it's uncomfortable. Music's one of the oldest ways of... taking that emotional energy we all have, and putting it into the world, and it's felt that much more, when there's an audience for it." Hein...? This is to be a... musical function? Is that how this is done...?     "Well, I'll be," says the old pastor with a laugh, his face lit up from the moment Matilda starts to speak. "A yankee and a Frenchie in the same day? Two accents I didn't never think I'd hear again. Yes, ma'am," he says, "It is."     "J.M. speaks French," says Calvin confusedly.     "That's Cajun French," Pastor Fred answers clarifyingly. "Not from-France French."
Calvin Nash	I'll need it back, afterwards.     "Of course, sweetheart," Fred nods.     Calvin gives a thumbs-up.     Sorry... I'll hand it over once you've collected everything else.     "Not a problem at all, young man," says Pastor Fred with a nod, holding up the white cloth he'd used a moment ago. This is for Hell Biker, right? Why are you trying to bring him back? I thought you hated him.     Calvin has an answer ready for that--or thinks he does. He hadn't expected anyone to ask, in truth, and the puffed-up matter-of-factness doesn't come. Instead, there's a sigh. "I don't think he's wrong to be angry at what he's angry at. He said somethin' that stuck with me," he admits. "'Normal people' have all the guns, and knives, and soldiers of the whole wide world behind everything they say, or think, or do. They decide what normal is, and they get to use all that shit on whatever isn't.' And for him, back before the bombs, 'normal people' said 'fuck them starvin' people, let 'em die.' They said, 'it's people that look like me that's the good guys, so if some poor sumbitch on the other side of the world gets blown apart, it's fine if it was somebody looks like me that done it.'"     "I hate that shit," Calvin says. "I hate that I can talk to any of the older folks around here and they say that's exactly what was goin' on. I hate that it happened, and I hate that people're still scared it might again. It's not that I'm thrilled 'bout workin' with 'im. But he's the option I have for keepin' that shit dead where it belongs. And you can't fight somethin' if you don't even wanna admit it's real."
Calvin Nash	And where you're getting it all if you can't look after a decent bell.     "Demons can't keep all of theirs when they cross over," Calvin says. "So you tend to find some that way, when you gotta send one packin'. There's your own natural supply, that goes in and out," he further elaborates. "And when we need a lot of it, like to make a lotta cells," he continues, pointing at the generator, "There's places you can go to, with enough prep. Old churches, stadiums, cemeteries." Places where lots of emotions were present all at once, all strongly felt.
Kale Hearthward	Kale nods along as explanations are given. He gets out his radio and sends a few orders. "My team's going to be on standby in my ship," he says, once he's done. "Positioned for rapid response to here, or to anywhere else on the island if the worst happens and the other Marshals get injured while on containment." "Myself, I'll be better off being the last first line of defense here. I can lock him down with my winds, but trying to do so here's just going to interfere with everyone else's efforts, unless people want to fight in the middle of an indoor tornado. And if he gets past I can also be in position to chase and harry him, another reason to be at the back with a clear line to the doors." "... Ideally none of that will be needed, though." > "What I need from you, young lady, and your friends, is for you to hear the message in that music and engage with it, here," "... More song and dance type stuff, huh. It seems to come down to that, somehow." He never did get the hang of Swords Dance, not in any sort of way that would let him consistently call on it, and eventually he gave up on it. Thinking about it annoys him anew. "You're right about comfort zones, at least," he says, crossing his arms. "You sure there's not another way besides 'engaging with it'?"
Lissandra	The specific request for chalk comes as a sort of relief, and Lissandra seems pleased to be able to solve such a simple deficit. "Of course. Pastor, I have typical white chalk, then a white with blessed salt mixed in a 4% concentration, and a black variety more tailored to magical beasts, so let me portion some out for you..." she elaborates aside to Pastor Fred while she walks toward the board and retrieves some small pouches from either bag; the type of chalk is helpfully indicated by a white, yellow, or black cord at a glance. If anything, she seems to take that favor as an opportunity to pretend she didn't hear Calvin double-checking that she's sure about her offering while she unpacks.      She, of course, has 'tuned in' again by the time her other question about the fallback plan is answered. "Understood. It isn't as if I bring a tremendous amount of firepower, and I imagine such a demon would have an appreciable-enough resistance to most substances and spells that I would rather not gamble on getting close enough to put it to sleep immediately. Not much space to make a 'labyrinth' in either, but perhaps he won't take well to a dizzy spell? I'll focus on emergency treatment and evacuation then, in the worst case." There's more about the rituals though, and she seems both reflexively pleased to make a proper guess about the purpose of the music, and a little bothered by the need to *personally* engage. She'd spelled out the principle of it in simple terms herself moments prior, but . . . Well, she'll get over it. Nobody has to know what's in her heart, and her face can still pretend. She can... Empathize a little, with being angry about outliving, at least. "I suppose that's more effective than counting on my arcane stores directly. Very well. It has been some time since I last saw a live performance at a proper venue."      She pauses a bit, tilts her head to one side along with her gaze while Calvin talks more about his thoughts on Hell Biker. Whatever crosses her mind, the thing to cross her lips instead is, "Spirits. They have so much longer to brood than we do. Well, hopefully he takes a good look at you, Marshal."
Riku Asakura	Riku is in his normal outfit.  A jean jacket with an orange shirt featuring a space logo, jeans, and a pair of tennis shoes.  He's not dressed fancy, but rather for a day out in the world that he normally dresses for.  As his questions get answered, he speaks up to make sure he's clear on the details.   "So we make sure he stays on the platform as long as possible, but if he gets off, we've got to fight him down real hard.  I can do that!" he says brightly, despite the spooky atmosphere of the tabernacle.  He also takes a moment to greet the people he knows and considers friends while they are here.   He waves to Matilda, Lilian, Meresankh, and Shirou.  He doesn't know Aika very well, and Futaba even less than that.  Kale is a coworker at both the Paladins and Trideag, but he doesn't know him either!  He only knows Medusa from the radio, and as someone who tends to keep Shirou in line. He's not very knowledgeable about Lissandra either, other than being a voice on the radio.   He also considers his options for transformation.  He doesn't have Primitive available because he gave up the Belial ultracapsule.  So that leaves him with Arco Smasher and Solid Burning.  Of the two, he considers Solid Burning the better choice today.
Meresankh	Riku gets a nod of greeting from Meresankh. "It's good to see you again." She hasn't had much opportunity to interact with him outside of dangerous times and places, but still considers him a friend. What sort of thing would remind her of him, she wonders, short of a Fusion Riser? Perhaps something woven from denim...     So the idea is that y'all lock 'im down, instead of blastin' 'im fulla holes     "Marshal Nash, these demons usually have elemental weaknesses, or at least aversions. If I were to form an energy barrier, what nature would be most desirable? Once I have appropriately tuned my scepter, I will be as ready as I can."
Futaba Nuki	"The Moon, she is paying such close attention! I, I am sure you will succeed!" That, more than many other things being said, gets an intrigued chuckle out of Futaba. "Wouldn't be surprised. This sure is a heck of a lot more interesting than what usually goes on out there, I bet. You got a direct line up there or something?" She asks with a genuinely curious tone, snapping two fingers to her forehead leaf in a pseudo salute to Matilda, and then another to Riku as another unfamiliar face. "Futaba Nuki, good to meetcha. You're learning from Miss Rook, then, yeah? Haven't seen you around before, but I remember hearin' your voice on the radio a good bit now." "We call it a Tabernacle 'cause it's portable, like those were in biblical times-" "That's why... Ah, easier to pull out and move it, I see it now." Futaba nods slowly as Pastor Fred explains that bit, looking over at the roof again and briefly starting to stretch before stopping herself a moment later. She can get a better look at the construction of the leather exterior after this is all done. "'Hold' is important," Following Lissandra's question, Futaba seems to loosen up at hearing Fred's rundown of what to do if things get messy. "Good thing you gave us the call, then. Holding folks down is one of my specialties, but I reckon it won't be easy anyway. Let's hope it really doesn't come down to it, yeah?" Exhaling softly as Calvin picks the obi, Futaba aids in gingerly removing the sash from the bag before taking her wooden sword and sliding it back into her fanny pack just as carefully. The obi still gets a long look from Futaba, and then she she turns her attention back to Fred as he speaks again. "hear the message in that music and engage with it" "Engaging with our anger, huh? That's..." Futaba trails off, her usually carefree demeanor looking a smidge more troubled as she grapples with that thought. "Anger's not really something I do much either, so you won't be the only one in that boat. For makin' sure this goes off right, though, I'll.. Yeah, I'll figure out something to get pissed off about." She tries to make it sound like she's joking, but it's not that hard to start thinking about what could fit the bill already. The obi being around certainly helps. "'Normal people' have all the ..." Hearing that answer from Calvin to Shirou certainly makes it easier, too, especially when it reminds Futaba of too many things she's seen already. She runs a hand from the front of her hair to the back, tugging on the ponytail a bit to relax herself before letting go. "Ain't wrong to be mad about that at all... Yeah, nah, I get why you want him on the crew, then, with those Patriot jerks still hangin' around." A beat, and then she looks over at Calvin. "Was that what they were called...? Eh. Anyway. One step at a time, and we'll make sure that type of crap really does stay dead the right way. He just better not expect us to stay as pissed as he is all the time." Another beat. "... On the outside, anyway. We'll be beltin' out plenty of that when things kick off, that's for sure."
Aika Rosewater	"The Trumpeter blacked out the sun, and the guy I'm gonna try 'n fuse here chased me and two truckfuls of Elites across twenty miles of Interstate,"     "Talk about a resume. 'Blacked out the sun,' like a forced eclipse, or just, poof, gone altogether?" Bad either way! "What about one plugged into a wall?"     Aika's eyes wander back over to the organ, as the priest explains its significance. She returns the smile, nodding. "Talk about lucky. Yeah that's reason enough, especially when music plays a part. Still not something you expect to see! Then again... not sure what I was expecting to see here." "A yankee and a Frenchie in the same day? Two accents I didn't never think I'd hear again."     One if Aika's ears twitch, and she fully turns to look. "Do you... not have a New York anymore? Or is it more that you're not inclined to travel so far you'd hear either?"     Well, speaking of 'firsts', it's the first time she's been told her accent is even remotely rare or unusual, or at least unexpected. "Some demons you can't just fuse whenever."     "'Fusing'. Think I overheard you and Lilian talking about that once or twice. Guess it's the wrong time to ask for a rundown, but as I recall it it's two people turning into a whole new one? Some traits stick through, and there was something about... functions, carrying memories and experiences?" She raises a hand, to be a bit dismissive about it. "Wouldn't mind the rundown when it's less inconvenient to give it." "'Hold' is important,"     A little bit of self-priming, and Aika smacks a fist into her other palm with a grin. "Easy enough. I've got strength, and I can pass it around. As long as it doesn't have some weird tricks like turnin' incorporeal I can hold on for dear life until the Sun's back up if I gotta."
Lilian Rook	'Was it, against instruction, to offer things that one intends to keep?'     "How should I know? They weren't too specific." says Lilian. "It just seemed sensible to have two options. Why ever go into anything underprepared?"     'The woodwork of that, it looked very-well assembled! Are you leaving it because it is something broken..?'     One moment, Lilian watches Matilda with dim fondness, and in the blink of an eye, it's steely-eyed disgust instead. Lips parted, eyes narrowed, brows knit in intense concentration, it'd all be readable as a moment of surreal shock if she didn't bare her teeth like that.     Lilian wipes the look from her face as quickly as it'd come on, but even a second is enough to make an impression like being hit in the ribs with a brick, corner-first. She says "That's correct. It's broken." to Matilda, and looks away from her entirely.     'Wait, do bars not already shutter their doors closed at this hour? What-sort of errand?'     "Plenty of bars are open all night. You should get out more." says Lilian, crossing her arms. "Just to deliver a little gift, as an apology."     'It's supposedly common for music to be a part of worship'     "Indeed it is. Even if people's appreciation for its importance during festivals has lessened to mere enjoyment, the effect of music, especially rhythm, on morale, coordination, and concentration, has been known absolutely forever. I know someone who prefers to phrase all her 'incantations' as verses of impromptu song and poetry just for that reason, actually." She thinks about Matilda for a while, without looking her way, then shrugs her shoulders in Lissandra's direction instead. "I struggle to imagine the SPDM teaching dance."     'I suppose I did, at one point. Not enough work, though. I only have enough room for so many useless souvenirs though.'     Lilian considers the logistics of pushing further while she stares. So hot off Matilda pushing her luck, though, she settles for, "If it's an embarrassing story, you don't have to share it. I can leave it at saying I'm not unimpressed with your work ethic if that's something you'd call a failure."     'On the lower end, there's Matador. He's a nasty sumbitch that works for us--kinda like the final exam to see if you're the kind of Marshal that can fight or if they'll have you doin' other shit.'     "Oh my god you have certification?" says Lilian, so evidently surprised by it that she covers her mouth in embarrassment right after. "Beg pardon, but this entire time I was assuming that 'Marshal' was a volunteer position that you had until you quit. A curriculum somehow never came up." She says that part like she's accusing Calvin of being half-assed in his explanation. Of what? His backstory?     'So if one gets loose, as in, no contract?'     Lilian claps the pommel of her sword twice, and rests her elbow in the cross.     'So, I asked Calvin's momma--or, I guess, back then, 'Director Nash''     Extended exposure to the City has caused this string of words to elevate Lilian's level of respect for Calvin's mother at hearing them. Which was already north of average, actually.     'Some demons you can't just fuse whenever. Gotta do it on certain phases of the moon, certain times of day, certain times of the year.'     "Some children you can't just have, either." Lilian mutters.
Foundation Scions	'That's correct. It's broken.'     Matilda is, unluckily, paying enough attention to notice the momentary shift- immediately, the disaster-gutpunch of 'a bit of fondness going down the drain' turns every faculty of Matilda's brain onto damage control, for all the good that a nervous-rushed, "Ce n'est pas grave- never-mind! Please forget I asked! Surely, it is but garbage!" A breath, quieter, "Pardon..." 'Plenty of bars are open all night. You should get out more.'     "I, I do not have so much free time as to gallivant at late-night hours, I have very early morning duties! To have a chance at this ritual-attendance, is only because of how fortunate it lined up with local-time at the Foundation!" A sigh, complaining- "I get out plenty, for one with so industrious a schedule as I!"     Matilda also notices Lilian not looking at her- this gets Matilda weirder. It's obvious that little sideways step-shuffling is intentional, and trying to move back towards Lilian's line of sight.     'It's supposedly common for music to be a part of worship,'     "I, I know that! But, this specific variety..." Electric instruments, loud stylings, "It's just all very... modern?" 'I struggle to imagine the SPDM teaching dance.'     "Hein? But it does?" 'Two accents I didn't never think I'd hear again.'     "C'est votre jour de chance!" Matilda says, absurdly pleased with herself. Sure, 'Frenchie' is a teensy bit close to rude, but, that's her, her personality is 'French'! She stands out and is memorable in that! Yippee! Everything's fine now! "Please do take note, not only am I a genuine, proper speaker of French, I was born and partly raised in none other than Paris, la Ville Lumiere~!" 'There's the reserves, that's stored in the planks and the platforms and what all else,'     "Ah! Is that some of the carving-array's functionality?" Matilda says, with a raised hand, like this is a class and she's trying to get answer-credit. 'So angry at the world, and, I think guilty for living past it. Or outliving his friends.'     Matilda, one to shuffle around and fidget, is quietly holding her hands folded in front of herself, now. Hesitant, a little uncomfortable already, and too still, "Is it needed for us, to get, angered?" Quieter-exhaled, incidental, like it's seperate from her response, "La colère est un peu difficile. Fais de ton mieux, Mathilde."
Calvin Nash	You sure there's not another way besides 'engaging with it'?     "Not with demons, and not with magic," says Calvin with a haggard smile. "The one's our stories, which you gotta listen to to get the most out of, the other one's *us.* How much of 'us' we're willin' to see, how much we're willin' to pull back the curtain of 'I.' Sorry, partner." Is it needed for us, to get, angered?      Calvin shakes his head. "No, uh-uh. You just can't pretend like what's there don't exist. Can't block yourself off to the music. Might not be *your* anger, but it's real. They're sharin' it with you." A curriculum somehow never came up.     "Oh, yep," says Calvin, nodding his head. "No, we got different levels dependin' on what you wanna do, plus a COMP and demonology course if you just wanna work with demons and not be no Marshal. You oughta swing by the trainin' campus sometime. Maybe we could help each other out." If I were to form an energy barrier, what nature would be most desirable?     "*Don't* do fire, or death," Calvin says, to Meresankh, speaking with such force that it must be from experience. "Other than that, hold off unless somethin' goes wrong; we don't wanna close off the flow from the Tabernacle--or me--to him." Talk about a resume. 'Blacked out the sun,' like a forced eclipse, or just, poof, gone altogether?     "Forced eclipse," he says. "Which we found out could be part of some elaborate hoax that might be goin' on, but that's a whole other thing." Do you... not have a New York anymore?     "Oh... sweetie," Pastor Fred frowns at Aika, like she just expressed vivid interest in seeing something that's been gone for years, for entirely preventable reasons. "No, we sure don't. It was a... two-thousand, I think they said, scenario. We don't even have an Atlanta anymore. I'm so sorry." Wouldn't mind the rundown when it's less inconvenient to give it.     "You 'bout to see it," Calvin advises. He flips open his COMP and taps a few keys. Clouds of green binary and data artifacts billow upwards from three of the four rings on the central platform. On one is the Angel, a rank-and-file soldier of God; her wings beat placidly to keep her in the air, and her eyes are shaded by the same leather bonds that serve as her scant attire. A symbol simultaneously of innocence and of servitude, her leather harness sports an O-ring just shy of the throat, from which a length of chain dangles.
Calvin Nash	"When we first met," the Angel says, "I was very suspicious of you. We still have our differences. But you've shown me that you care for your neighbors deeply, and they clearly love you, too. If things had gone differently, maybe you could have been a good Templar. As it stands, I believe you are a good man. I look forward to working with you, whatever this new form will entail." She is part of something larger than herself; her chains represent not servitude to any who will demand it, but only those who can--her brothers and sisters.     The next, in the next circle, is the Kelpie; a sickly green horse with eyes like a lamprey's and a mane of flowing seaweed. Its body terminates at the back half into a mass of seaweed and kelp, but it hovers in the air, slightly askew, as if peeking out from a lake to drag an unwary traveler to a watery grave.     "ME GOING TO MISS RACING WITH YOU!" The kelpie whinnies and bucks its front legs. "AND FISHING! YUM! ME SAD BUT EXCITED AT SAME TIME! YOU MEET ALL KINDS OF STRONG PEOPLE! ME GET STRONG TOO!" A free spirit, to the point of being dangerous, living for the thrill of the chase, the joy of ambush and a life without the burdens of men.     Then comes the final--the oni Ongyo-ki, towering even hunched over, his crescent staff in hand, fingers tensing along it.     "Part of me wants to ruin something for you, one last time," muses the oni. "We met as enemies, and I can't say we're exactly friends. But I do think we have something in common. I did what I did to give my people a good life." Once the familiar of a powerful sorcerer, but an oni, nonetheless. Rumored to be the originator of what mortals would call ninjutsu, there is little to distinguish his darkened form from his dimly lit surroundings, save the gleam of his weapon and the slight glow of the red features on his mask. "It was irresponsible and dangerous, but I did it for them. And now, look at you. Rolling the dice with so many allies in one room... don't roll snake eyes, Marshal."     "Aight, y'all. Showtime," says Calvin tensely. Moreso, for Ongyo-ki's last-minute needling.
Calvin Nash	Pastor Fred nods and takes a seat at his organ, with the band at his side.     John-Wayne grunts. "Don't expect no..." He gestures frustratedly. "Van Halen shit from me," he says warily.     "Come off it, geezer," says Adrian in his startlingly out-of-place Yorkshire accent, jokingly affectionate but still nervous. "Near as makes 'n matters."      It starts with a count-off from Pastor Fred, seated at the Hammond. It's fast--"One. Two. One-two-three-four." BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4QKzzT_6OY      Seemingly too fast, for the first few chords, an uncharacteristically-of-Fred operatic and classical set of open ascending tones. The sigils along the walls and ceiling begin to glow silently, casting the room in purple hue. Condensation of that same color seeps from the planks like sap, before evaporating into a heady purple haze.     John-Wayne grits his teeth, thumb and forefinger gripping his pick, before ripping into an equally atypical-of-him classical fugue, his guitar distorted for metal rather than his usual washed-out western tones. He'd said not to expect 'no Van Halen shit--' but when the fugue breaks away into a sudden groove, there's only a small fumble from him of pick on string before he's in the thick of what sounds like a metal take on a Spanish concerto.      The Marshals at the corners of the room ready containment spells, embers of different colors burning steadily in their outstretched hands. The purple mist is drawn towards the central platform, as steadily from the walls as it is, now, from Calvin's palms, held towards the center of the room.      Tommy keeps time with him on his keytar, playing a frantic countermelody with a grimace that turns into a furious scowl, his fingers flying across the worn keys while Adrian and Pastor Fred alternate competing yet complementary chords on their own keys, their bodies thrown fully into the mixed anguish and anger of the piece.      The melody climbs a stairway to howl against the grievances of the musicians, and each step, an item offered up as fuel levitates neatly from the offertory plate to hover over the central platform. First, Riku's capsule, occupying the spot between the Angel and Ongyo-ki. Then, over the Angel, Kale's buckler. Between the Angel and the Kelpie, Shirou's ornate sword. Overhead Ongyo-ki, Meresankh's shard-prison. Over the Kelpie, Lissandra's wooden hand. Each placement by the ritual is deliberate--each in accordance with the emotional significance of the items and what the magic determines as the relationship of that significance to the themes of each demon present.      Through it all, Tiffany is the wild heartbeat that keeps this anthem of anger and frustration alive, her sidetail thrashing and giving the illusion of wildness to what in reality is a disciplined display of hard-won skill, her sticks finding cymbal crashes to accentuate every statement her peers make, and throwing more than a few of her own with rolls across mismatched toms.      Aika's tuft of preserved fur floats beside Shirou's sword, between the Kelpie and the Angel, while Futaba's obi and Lilian's broken hawthorn float between the Kelpie and Ongyo-ki. That leaves only Matilda's earring--which locks forcefully like a bullet into the center of the space between them.      Emotional energy pours from the earring into the eight relics below it, and from those, emotional energy spews like pressurized water, solidifying and congealing into chains that bind the three demons together. The offerings that their owners can stand to part with burn themselves up, adding heavy weights to the ends of the chains.
Calvin Nash	The temperature in the Tabernacle rises easily by a few degrees. Calvin sweats as surely as the musicians do, his teeth grit in concentration as he shuts his eyes and focuses on his anger at the old world. It's easy for him to find a core--because until recently he didn't have anyone he could point to and identify as being beholden to that murderous, greedy, abusive thing. Now, he does.      The thought of that doubles the flow rate and width of energy from himself, what was previously a steady current of mist now a brilliant purple light like the corona of a star glimpsed from the safety of protective screens. It illuminates his shadow in long and elaborate stretched-out form as the piece reaches a grand pause. Digging his heels in, he utters the age-old phrase in his mind--just a little more, as the melody drives home while Tommy goes insane on a solo as Tiffany and John-Wayne provide a thrumming, heart-pounding backdrop. The light of the full moon streaming through the steeple seems blinding, now.      John-Wayne's sweeping ostenato heralds the increasing intensity of the moonlight, until stabbing staccatos from Adrian and Pastor Fred see it spike in brightness--and heat. Lunar beams of searing light pierce the bound demons, slaying their physical forms and freeing their emotional cores, which are pulled like fish caught in a waterspout towards the central platform. The energy collides with the climax of the music, the final note coinciding with an earsplitting boom that fries the filaments in the mason-jar lightbulbs and blows out the band's amps. Thick fog obscures the central platform. It's dim--except for a flickering, like fire, that outlines a silhouette in the fog, and seems to be coming from two circular sources. As your ears stop ringing, you hear the idle rumble of a motorcycle.
Riku Asakura	To Meresankh, he smiles.  "Good to see you again, too.  Too bad it always seems to be when something is about to happen, eh?" 'Futaba Nuki, good to meetcha.' "Nice to meet you too, and you could say that.  I work for her in Trideag!  And yeah, I haven't seen you much either, just heard you on the radio a few times.  Nice to finally get to meet you in the flesh!" '*Don't* do fire, or death,' That leaves out Solid Burning, which means Arco Smasher. Riku stands to watch the summoning.  First summoning the demons to be combined into the new one, listening to their final goodbyes brings a half frown to Riku's face, who wonders if this is really goodbye forever, or if they can meet one day again.   But next comes the song itself, it reverberates in the great hall that they are doing this in, and through the people themselves.  He can feel the anger and the rage in the piece; it was all he could do not to give in to his own anger over things in his life, but he holds himself together.  He grits his teeth and listens to the song, watches the summoning.  He watches his Ultracapsule be used in the summoning ritual.   Once he hears the roaring of the motorcycle, he starts summoning the Ultramen needed to summon forth the form he needs.  "You go!" he says, clicking the first capsule.  "I go," he says again, selecting the second capsule.  "Here we go," he says after placing both capsules in their holder and scanning them with the Fusion Riser.  "I'll show you something shocking," he states, bringing forth the Fusion Riser up above him, before bringing it down across his chest.   "Geeeeeeeed!" he bellows out, as the Fusion Riser announces the fusion.   Ultraman Hikari Ultraman Cosmos Ultraman Geed Arco Smasher With that, Geed is standing at normal person size, transformed into an Ultraman with blue coloring and silver highlights.  He's ready for anything the demon can throw at them.  Or so he thinks.
Meresankh	Meresankh watches and listens as the Last Resort band and Pastor Fred begin their work. Anger... the wrath of a monarch is one thing, but when was the last time she felt angry for her *own* sake? She realizes, briefly, that she *can't remember*. Has she been so consumed by her duties as to lose sight of herself? Even the presumptions and grievances of Lady Nakhtmut, her own wife turning on her, provoked shock but hardly an ounce of ire. Even the C'tan and their ancient curses, she hates but coldly and from afar.     As the music seems to thrash at its confines, the melody crashing over octaves like a beast at the bars of a cage, Meresankh ponders all that she has denied herself since her reawakening. It's all been to execute her duties clear of personal distraction, she has told herself. She permits herself some diversions, projects of personal interest, but all in pursuit of her chosen purpose. When did she last really let herself *feel*?     There must have been true fire in her heart, once, before her flesh was replaced with living metal, perhaps lingering even through the violent casting-down of the ancient C'tan. How long, then, since passion truly drove her? Tens of millions of years, even if not all spent alive and awake, is a long time for a hearth to be left burning low. The queen raises a hand palm-upward, contemplating her past. The hand curls into a claw, then a fist. If her lip could curl, it would, in anger at the forces that have pushed her to such a state.     Her heart is stoked anew by the energy of this space, this song, this ritual. Not fully ablaze but at least *alive*, in a way it may not have been for ages uncounted. She grips her scepter forcefully, holding it ready in preparation for whatever the Hell Biker may do next...
Futaba Nuki	"Trideag? Oh, I heard of that. Been hearing a lot about you guys getting into all sorts of stuff, actually... Can't believe I'm meetin' a real Ultraman in the flesh, though. Next time, you and me should..." Futaba inhales deeply, remembering that this is a church, and then coughs into her hand before tipping an invisible hat/her leaf at Riku. The fusing ritual begins, and Futaba's attention goes to the demons brought in through those platforms. Each one speaks their last words candidly in front of Calvin and the audience of Elites waiting to lend their aid, and Futaba feels some tension in her chest. Her usual carefree commentary is nowhere to be heard, and she even remains somberly silent when Ongyo-ki speaks. She does snort a little at the snake eyes comment, though, but she remains respectfully quiet throughout. She even raises her fingers to her forehead leaf in a light salute to the oni, murmuring a silent prayer from home before turning her gaze towards the musicians. "Van Halen? If we needed that, I could've grabbed a vinyl from home." She finally speaks, albeit quietly and more to herself to try and lighten her own mood a bit before things kick off. She closes her eyes to just let the feeling of the music hit her without any of her surroundings distract her, unknowingly bobbing her head after a few moments before realizing- "Dang. This slaps." Futaba mutters again, clearing her throat lightly to suppress a snicker before taking a slow breath to focus on her anger, on what she's feeling from this music besides reserved awe. There's a lot to be angry about, certainly, but what's she angry about right now? A lot, actually. What Calvin had said about Hell Biker's anger is sticking to her mind a lot more than she had expected. How could it not, knowing that the fears of that kind of past coming back could linger so powerfully in so many people's mind? Or how that exact sort of thing could be happening in her own world, too? She doesn't have to think too far to realize that it's already at home, of course. She's seen the commercials, and she's seen the news already. She's seen plenty of people not admitting it's real, too, and that gets her blood to start boiling again, both at the perpetrators and herself for being so... Herself about things instead of fighting harder about any of it. Or fighting harder about anything, really. There's plenty of anger and self-hatred to go around, and the disgusted feeling in the pit of Futaba's stomach doesn't lighten up one bit even as she remembers that she's supposed to be doing this for the ritual instead of just beating herself up. The feeling barely eases even when she sees those lights ripping through the demons with the apparewnt completion of the ritual, although the loud blasting note does get her to wince a little and loosen her jaw up finally. Sucking in a breath through her teeth, Futaba squints slightly as she tries to see through the fog, taking a moment to clear her throat before finally speaking up again. "... Did it work?" She asks, a little hoarsely while inching towards the platform. Her limbs are already starting to extend some as she grows in height, legs pushing her higher to get a better vantage point while her arms shift around from the shoulders down as they elongate slowly in anticipation of having to bind the resulting of the ritual down.
Aika Rosewater	"Oh... sweetie,"     "Oh."     Aika chews on that for a moment. She supposes, for every averted apocalypse, one goes off somewhere, too. "I guess I never thought about *accents* disappearing like that too. Same way most languages endure past their people at least a bit. 'xcept the ones that didn't. Damn. Shame." Somehow that feels like too little to say at the revelation huge sections of the map were wiped out. "You 'bout to see it,"     "Yeah? Well consider me takin' notes."     The Angel, the Kelpie and the Oni take their turns speaking. Aika watches silently, with increasing attention as the pastor finally seats at the organ.     "Now I'm wondering if the reason people keep summonig demons when nobody's looking is because it's so metal," she muses to herself, evidently jokingly, but with the slightest hint of actually wondering.     The music rises, and the temperature with it. Calvin's not panicking, so Aika presumes this is normal, or at least adjacent enough to normal to stand her ground for now. Her eyes trail the fur she provided as it positions itself along the other items-- she presumes significance with its placement, and then smiles to herself at it.     That's about right.     Would she be pissed, that she used this like that? Hm. She's pretty easily ticked off, so probably. It'd make a good chat over coffee.     The BOOM rips Aika out of her thoughts, then the rumble of a motorcycle. So it worked? She steps forward, cracking her knuckles and pumping her inner fire through her arms, a silver-blue flame that flickers around her and both colors her eyes and illuminates her markings.     "So what're the odds he's cooperative?" she shoots Calvin.     The Oni prodded him about gambling. Might as well.
Kale Hearthward	> "Sorry, partner." Kale had honestly sort of figured, but still felt the need to ask. "Fine. I'll *try*." He watches the offerings float into place. Should he have said he was willing to give his up? It's been hanging on his wall for ages, unused... maybe he should have. But no, on reflection, he's still not willing to part with it. The music starts. Kale hurriedly moves towards the back of the group, entirely for previously discussed tactical reasons and not because he doesn't want anyone watching him during this. Anger. Anger at the world. At outliving it. He tries to find that thread. Kale's never had a truly bad day in his life, he figures. The worst things that've happened to him are going bankrupt, getting fired, breaking up, getting kidnapped, and crashing out. Not like what's happened to other people. He can be upset and dissatisfied with things but he can't really feel like he can be angry in any way that wouldn't feel fake. That's not the thread. He can't be angry at the world himself. But... ... He's been around the City enough. He's been around other worlds. Ones that have plenty of things to be angry about. And this new demon, who he's been told has enough things as well. He closes his eyes. He doesn't have to *be* angry. He just needs to... engage with it. Yes. The music builds. He vibes. He tries to put a mental picture to the music - the sort of things that the instruments are speaking to. He lets it flow through him, he tries to take that anger and make part of it his. He tries to understand it. He tries to sympatheise with it. He tries, with all of his being and all of the sincerity he can muster, to be part of it - the emotions and the music both. (If anyone looks backwards at him it looks like he's spacing out and bobbing his head and dancing a little bit please nobody look backwards he will literally die if he knows he's being watched)
Lissandra	Lissandra deliberately drains the accumulated tension out of her body in a perfectly even, slow, deep breath. In, in silence. Out in a slow and quiet 'fuuuu' as she adjusts her posture, finds her hand reaching for her wand, and instead tosses her staff gently from the left into the right so that she can feel prepared. The demons Calvin summons for the fusion seem to say a lot about the time and effort that he has placed into this endeavor, and she's almost tempted to pick at them with a few questions along those lines, but... No. Not the time. The closest she comes is a brief, searching moment of what might be one-way eye contact with Ongyo-ki. Otherwise, she stands silent and stern, but not stiff.      The music kicks off, and it's obviously not a genre Lissandra is especially familiar with going by the slight flinch and the way her head tries to tilt slightly away from the performers, before she manages to acclimate and settle back how she was before. Her gaze has turned sharp, a stare-nearing-a-glare that fixes on the ritual and watches each little movement, of demon and of offering alike. It's not the music really; she's a bit slow to ease her way into beginning to interpret the pace and feeling of the song, and her glare-like expression has more to do with her tense concentration... Watching for any small thing to go wrong.      When the music starts to make a sort of sense to her, even if not completely, it softens her gaze instead of sharpening it further. Her grip on her staff shifts from a low-grasping clenched fist to a looser one, fingers angled upward while her free hand settles over the opposite forearm, right around the time the moonlight pierces each demon through. She hardly flinches when the fusion finalizes except to unevenly squint her eyes against Calvin's energy and the booming eruption, and momentarily touching fingertips to her ear as she checks that nothing is damaged.      That rumbling isn't something she's highly familiar with, only just recently familiar enough with the sound of a motor to understand it isn't some large beast's unnaturally steady growl. Even then, perhaps she aught to frame her understanding as if it were; Calvin insisted on no shortage of caution for tonight, and creatures of anger may resemble beasts regardless. Moments before the smoke clears, she twists and gives her staff a whirl as her grip shifts closer to the base, extending the dark-stained oak length further out and sweeping the crystal-headed silver cross at the end across an arc in front of herself, loosing a handful of motes of energy that flow barely-visible through the air like the oily heat-distortion above a gas stove. Each mote is aimed at an ally, quickly applying minor magical boons; toughness for the Ultraman as he transforms, strength for Lilian who has speed in abundance already as well as for Aika who claimed to emphasize it already, and agility for Matilda and Meresankh to help them react to danger more easily.      From there, Lissandra motions to drop her staff, letting it halt its own fall horizontal in the air as she drops to seat herself upon it sideways, steadily drifting into the air and vanishing from sight. It's probably for the best that a demon with an attitude like Hell Biker's won't be met with that unmitigated glare right off the bat; it's not the time for idle complaints or grievances, but something about watching the ritual play out has her riled up.
Foundation Scions	With Matilda today, are a number of charms and ornaments, considered to be for luck, for protection, for bravery, for success- glass eye-pendants, wire-bound gemstones, a small hamsa, jade (studded, not wrought, unfortunately) bracelets. Matilda, brave little Matilda, seems to not feel like she's brought enough of them, with how she's fidget-clutching at various ones, but it's not a practice like casting an incantation, or hunkering behind some ward, just audience-nervousness. 'Other than that, hold off unless somethin' goes wrong;'     "And, er- you will be sure to cue when that is the case, for those less-than familiar with this manner of ritual..?" A little look-around, "I'd, quite obviously, be able to infer, but! For caution, it is an important question, no?" 'It was a... two-thousand, I think they said, scenario.'     "A 'two-thousand' scenario? As in, the year?" Matilda pipes up, overhearing, interrupting, with that as a specific mote of curiosity- she's familiar with disasters relating to (nearly) the year 2000, it's on her radar. Quiet, "I hear New York's theatre scene is quite festive!" Apologetic, "Was."
Foundation Scions	Bated-breath, as the ritual starts- sure, this music wasn't her expectation (what was her expectation, really? Older-fashioned, more formal-feeling, quiet and somber?) this is still perhaps the largest-production magical ritual she's ever seen, the most participants, the largest stakes- the only things close to it in her personal periphery are matters like the Foundation's inter-branch teleportation techniques, largely obsolete, nowadays, and she's only used that a scant few times. So, that it works, that the objects start to rise out, towards the demon-figures on the central stage, Matilda is surprised that she's surprised; and amazed that she's there to see it, there's just one problem-     And the music! It's loud, it's energetic, it's hard to not move a little to it, to shuffle, to let her tongue inside her mouth click-hum little bits, as she starts to match patterns, silent in the air-filling noise, of course it's magic, of course it's part of the art of it all, and there's the tide-pull feeling, heavy-soft in the deepest nights of the full moon, that whatever veil between worlds and feelings is thin and porous; there's the fog leaking up through the floorboards, even. It's moving closer-on, crescendos rise, it's capturing all of her attention to take in, except-     There's a few emotions that collide, in the midst of all of this, watching one-by-one the offerings float out, in whatever order, to the figure they resonate more with: there's that of scanning down a posted test-results page, to find your name not where it's expected, there's that of thumbing-through the horoscopes of others in worry, there's that of hoping to hear back on mission-details that those you know made it back, all a mess of anticipation-worry, in this very-charged circumstance, to have to be the only person whose offering is last, and central. She didn't pick it thinking she'd be able to avoid the feelings attached to it, but she didn't prepare for having to have them linger.     It's a good thing it's dark, it's a good thing it's loud- at a point in all of this, Matilda Bouanich, exemplary Monitor Assistant, has tears in her eyes; something she truly doesn't want noticed, for once. When the temperature rises, Matilda feels it on her face and thinks first it's them spilling over; only after, that it's more likely a facet of the ritual- fire and death, were the aspects, after all.     Shaky, Matilda goes for her bag, to grab her heavy quartz orbuculum, a 'just in case' and a 'find something to use hands for', glittery-reflective in the fog filled room.     On a little distracted instinct, amidst the increasingly-glowing room, as the trio of demons are burned away, the light-mote of Lissandra's magic collides with her, much like slapping a slice of cheese on a cat's face; she's a little stunned for a moment to realize it's anything beneficial, but still nods generally her way, and sits-waiting by, her own casting implement in hand.     At the end of the music, too preemptive, a little sniffly, "Ah-? IS that the end of it? Is it done..?"
Lilian Rook	'Please forget I asked! Surely, it is but garbage!'     Lilian's fingernails dig into her arms. She twitches as if that choice of words were somehow just as bad as the opposite. Then she stops expressing anything about it at all.     'I get out plenty, for one with so industrious a schedule as I!'     "Then you need a less industrious schedule." One finger taps irritably against her skin. "No one needs someone who completes all their work but doesn't have a life outside it. Even humans need experiences as much as they need money."     'Hein? But it does?'     "Ballroom, I bet." she says to Lissandra.     '...and the alarms'll give the Marshals outside time to post up.'     "More than adequate." Lilian concludes. Not without an approving tone, either. She'd been picturing the entire process as a distraction, rather than as a serious analysis, but the clear effort and forethought involved in its planning and execution put her in a better mood anyways.     'And you can't fight somethin' if you don't even wanna admit it's real.'     Lilian opens her mouth, tries to choose one of the endless ways she can leap off of that sentiment, and then closes her mouth again. She waves back at Riku instead.     'You oughta swing by the trainin' campus sometime. Maybe we could help each other out.'     Lilian arches an eyebrow. Her crossed arms adjust slightly to make for a more 'patiently disbelieving' posture. "I'm certain that my insights on training could help 'you' out." she says, and leaves the vice versa implicit. It's all the time for humour she can afford to spare before the main event, and she intends to use it. Otherwise the last thing she says before the ritual starts is, [ansi(243,'I did what I did to give my people a good life.')]     A little too quiet to be heard. At best, '--who have wronged--' is readable from her lips.     . . . . . . . .     Lilian finds it bleakly appropriate that her 'offering' would end up between those two demons. Just below hearing, she laughs out of black and bitter sarcasm. Then she laughs louder when she thinks about Calvin's stern and thoughtful warnings about how necessary it is to open her mind to the feeling.     She couldn't close it off if she tried. The one and only day she had ever let her thoughts wander and felt its absence instead of its presence was the day that Sakura told her everything; it made hard to feel much of anything for a while after. Only now does Lilian stop and wonder wonder if she had chosen the first few hours of that specific date as a silent act of kindness towards her. The thought makes her revile her own fragility even more.     Reaching for that bitterness comes as naturally as breathing. The one and only moment of hesitation in her way is only a reflex; a learned instinct not to touch a hot stove even on purpose. Once she decides to, it rises up out of the deep, dark hole that she never quite succeeds in burying it in of its own accord. There's no turbulence, because she doesn't need to dig. It's sickening instead, how smooth it all is. Her heart lurches, as if she'd been falling all this time and suddenly come to a jarring stop. A hot flash in her chest, mirrored a second later in her throat, and then behind her eyes, makes her grit her teeth. The pressure makes them squeak when she has to fight the urge to swallow it back down again. That, blinking thrice, holding an empty breath, would brush it away again, and right now, she isn't supposed to.
Lilian Rook	'A pathetic, blood-soaked animal' It's Karel's words that come to mind first, not his. It's her own voice repeating them inside her head, just like it had back then. The hawthorn broke so many years ago that she barely recalls it. The owner is long dead. The way to make herself sick and bitter; to taste bile and blood and salt on her tongue, feel that phantom fever scorch a wave across her skin, leave cold and numbing prickles of abortive electricity in its wake; to hear her jaw creak in her inner ear and feel her fingernails bend against her stinging skin and go dizzy and deaf from the fluttering illness that pumps through her veins and the weightless squeezing in her chest; is to think about her entire life after.     Lilian thinks about burning drawings, screaming matches, and pages of manic dossiers; of dust and gravel and the stench of blood and the sound of sobbing and the sick, guilty thrill; she thinks about panicked phone calls to her sister and the empty seat in her class, crumpled bloody tissues and a stark white cell, her friend's cold and lifeless body, the single word she'd burned out of the mind out of someone even closer; about 'animal' and 'broken' and 'arrogant' and 'silver spoon' and 'hollow' and 'put down', and her shaking hand holding the scissors while she wondered if anyone would see it at all; and out of nothing more than vicious, punitive spite, she holds it in mind for the longest she has in years, and relishes the way it burns her hands to do it.     When the music comes to its crescendo, Lilian thinks about the pages of black ink in the autobiography she'll never write, and runs her fingers around the edge of the lukewarm void beneath it, starkly imagining its ragged contours, and feeling so overwhelmed by its size and emptiness that she realizes only after that she's started seeing stars for lack of air. Lilian thinks about the old world that Calvin has learned to hate through Hell Biker, and then wonders how many truly irreplaceable people have come and gone completely unacknowledged; how many souls who had everything it takes to change the world within them, born filled with compassion and drive and love unlike anyone else, and died hateful, miserable, and utterly anonymous instead, only because they were born at the bottom of a pit and no one with a rope ever walked by.     It's too much to hold in mind at once. Too much for any one heart. She knew that from the very first time it all spilled over into the world it wasn't supposed to exist in and made the rest of a human life only just very slightly heavier than half a branch of hawthorn. But even if she wishes she could get so angry at it all that the whole Tabernacle would blow up and everyone would see for themselves just how much it is, she can't. And so Lilian has nothing to show for it but blood under her fingernails and stinging red burns on her back. One of the two, she did herself.     Before she can even confirm that rumble means anything went right at all, Lilian releases the feeling held in every single muscle of her body all at once, drops her arms to her sides, curls her fists, and spits to a demon she's never met in her life, "Fuck yourself you nasty bastard. Why are you so special you get to be a demon about it?"
Calvin Nash	Your personal offerings, so long as you wished to keep them, are returned to the collection plate in the same condition they were offered--it seems the primary use here was their emotional energy, with 'spending them totally' affording the extra bit. Did it work? So what're the odds he's cooperative?     "Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE," shouts the figure in the center of the platform. "Not YOU."     Three seconds pass. Hell Biker stays right where he is. Calvin checks his COMP. .load roster Demon Roster v 1.0 developed by Stephen Name H M MG Chernobog 100% 100% 1400 Loa 100% 100% 750 Cerberus 100% 100% 820 Hell Biker 100% 100% 1000     Calvin is more stunned by his apparent ideological alignment with Hell Biker than the fact that the ritual succeeded--a genuine moment of confusion as he mutters, "One thousand...?" Before he remembers where he is and everything else that's going on. "Got 'im," he announces. "All clear."     Hell Biker flips the kickstand on his bike, steps off, and marches through the fog to get a better look at Calvin. For those meeting him the first time, the demon is about as tall as Calvin, slightly less built, but, judging by his fashion sense, looks much more likely to start a stupid fight, and that's saying something given Calvin's posture. 70s style black leathers, complete with a stylish red scarf that flaps behind him in the wind. He might be mistaken for human, if not for the fleshless, leering, eyeless skull peering out from beneath his helmet, or for the fact that the wheels on his bike are made of fire.      "Reeeeeally wish I could hit you in the mouth right now. Or knee you in the gut." His voice is a gravelly baritone, his accent something west-coast and distorted from a life of shouting and vocal strain--maybe to be heard over his bike, maybe just because his temperament is that foul. "GOD you piss me off just the way you stand like that. JUST THE WAY YOU BREATHE! This contract is gonna suck ASS. You guys go to places with working trains, right? Subways?" He looks around the room for confirmation. "Maybe I could jump onto the tracks while you're not looking and just let it--" he clicks his tongue, an impressive feat for the fact that he doesn't have one, and pantomimes being decaptitated. For Lilian in particular, she might just be thinking that Calvin summoned his own Petra.     "You better get all that bitchin' out of the way right now," Calvin belts out, chest puffed out and Finger on Full Point, "'Cause you drag your ass on assignment with *me* and I'll *give* you somethin' to piss and moan about. You hear me?"     "I didn't think you actually MEANT that shit you said on the highway. You sure DID give me somethin' to bitch about. I don't wanna work with you, hick."      Calvin's nostrils flare as he fumes, and jabs a finger into the demon's chest. "Did I ask you what you wanted, or did I tell you to do somethin'? I got a 55 gallon drum of whoop-ass, and I ain't got no problem pourin' it on your head."      "Christ, ENOUGH already! Fine. Might as well see the other mouthbreathers you're workin' with." Eyeless sockets peer at each of you in turn.
Calvin Nash	Lissandra, presumably still invisible, he doesn't see. So he starts with--"Let's see. You're new," he says to Kale, "New," he says to Matilda, pausing when he thinks he notices something. "Je-hee-sus Christ," he chuckles, shaking his head. "New," he says of Meresankh, Riku, Shirou and--Medusa gets, "Heyyy--"      "N.O.," Calvin spells out, speaking over him as if he were chastising a dog trying to get at something it shouldn't. "NO!"      Hell Biker scoffs. "Fuck, don't have a fit. You're new, too," he says, turning to look at Aika. Fuck yourself you nasty bastard. Why are you special you get to be a demon about it?      "You said it yourself, baby! 'Cause I'm a nasty bastard. A scumbag piece of shit. A real son of Earth! You want the nitty-gritty wizard details, I couldn't tell you. The last thing I remember's the cops raiding us. Blam, blam, blam," he says. "You look like you got shot once or twice. Sucks, doesn't it? At the end, there, I thought, 'fuckin' pigs.' Then I thought, 'least my friends are here.' Then I thought, 'if I wasn't such a useless piece of *shit*," he says, uncomfortably harsh in his enunciation of the t at the end, "Maybe it'd just be me and the pigs that died. Instead of the guys that gave me a hand when nobody else would.' So I guess there's your answer. Some people are bastards, and they get to live through shit that good people don't."
Calvin Nash	"Yanno, it's the funniest thing. I woke up one day. From the shit you're not supposed to wake up from. You know what I saw?" He pauses. "Every little corner we managed to build, away from all the *shit,*, fwoosh!" He pantomimes a big explosion. "Gone, just like that, because some kid-diddler in a suit couldn't keep his hands off the big red button. But I'm an optimistic guy. A real glass-half-full type. So I says--'hey, at least all the bullshit is gone, yanno. No more, ~protecting our values,~ with bums dyin' in the street, no more ~saving democracy~ with sendin' kids back to their parents in boxes, no more ~war on drugs~ with the pigs beatin' the poors and the blacks and the Mexicans and the queers 'til they can't walk no more.'" A sarcastic little hand flourish with each one. "Sure," he continues, "Lots of people died from those bombs, but the motherfuckers in their little bunkers, they died, too! And they died more scared than anybody.'"      "But then, then, one day, I find out people are gettin' ideas. They're putting things together, lady," he says, not knowing Lilian's name. "And I can't be optimistic about that. Because I see it, and I think, 'here we FUCKING go again." Futaba he recognizes, too, and this draws a laugh. "Well, Bubba, you're pretty progressive for a hick! Hangin' out with all these women, TWO black guys," he says, then gesturing to Futaba, "And a retard too--"      "Megidoga!" It's the same magic Meresankh, Lilian and Lissandra saw him use with his shotgun--telling the world to take the quickest and most expedient path to erasing whatever it touches. Only this time, it's not painstakingly inscribed onto a cartridge and suffused into magical shot. This time, it's wreathed around his fist as his knuckles crash into the underside of Hell Biker's jaw. 'Almighty' damage, as it's called, is never cheap to command, even for demons. It attacks the target's tether to Assiah directly, rather than using the tools of Assiah to prod at holes in a defense. Hell Biker didn't take a step backwards--but his chin budged. He felt it, enough to be stunned into glowering silence.      "You listen to me." Calvin's other fist has found the lapel of the demon's jacket. "These people put their lives on the line for people they never met to have a better chance at a good life. What the FUCK have you done lately?" Silence fills the room like a leaden blanket. "I ain't gonna act like it don't piss me off when you call me hick and redneck and Bubba and Jethro. It does."      "But that ain't a toy, that shit you're sayin'. And I'll slap the shit outta you before I let you play with it like one. You told me you hated the old world. How the hell can there be anything else when you won't let GO of that shit? Huh?!" He shakes the demon by the lapel, then shoves him away. Hell Biker sullenly stands in the same spot, but doesn't answer. Calvin fumes, and calms himself.      "You don't have no damn *respect.* But you're gonna sit your ass down and *learn* it, if I have to knock you into that chair every *day.* Now *get* your sorry ass in here. I'm tired of lookin' at you." Calvin recalls Hell Biker into his COMP, then pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sharp sigh.      "Sorry."
Lissandra	It takes Lissandra perhaps a little longer than it should to fully believe that this is what 'success' looks like, but when Hell Biker strides down off 'stage' and doesn't immediately get shot or start taking swings at Calvin, she does tentatively peel back her invisibility magic around her fingertips as if a sheet of the fabric of reality were simply laid gently over her from anyone else's perspective, and poke her head out like a curious rodent from on-high. The look on her face is a mix of genuine confusion and amusement, but the latter is more the 'induced by shock' kind. Her evaluation of the situation did a few too many flips and loop-de-loops in about one minute flat.      The buffs she passed out, proving unnecessary, will fade within a minute or two given how hastily they were cast. She doesn't bother giving that much thought, slowly lowering back down to the ground and stepping off of her flying broomless stick again. "That was..." She doesn't quite find the right word, and instead lands on "Fascinating?" with the question-like inflection and everything. As if she isn't perhaps the person in the room with the current most overactive adrenal response aside from Calvin, she pats Matilda's shoulder as she walks past, stealing a little comfort in the guise of offering it instead, while she approaches Calvin next.      "No, no... I think you handled that rather well, all things considered." She means it, but the breathiness in her voice at first might make it sound a little sarcastic, until she clears her throat to fix that. "... Your spirits really are fascinating. How is your hand?" Maybe punching a demon to make a point is a *bit* stupid, but it's a stupid that makes sense in the context. "... Either way, well done Marshal. I'm happy not to be working very hard tonight."
Riku Asakura	When the ritual ends right, and no demon comes swinging at them, and Calvin confirms that it went perfectly, is when Riku releases the Ultraman form and returns to being regular old Riku.  He collects his Belial capsule and places it back in the holster for them while the initial complaints from Hell Biker come out.   Hell Biker seems to be angry about how America is currently, or was before the bombs blew up his home.  He listens with all the patience of a guy just trying to get home when a pranktuber is trying to get a video of them.  Then Calvin hits him with the spell that was quite punchy.  The exchange causes his eyes to widen, paying prompt attention to it.   Calvin lays into him, verbally this time, and it seems to be absorbed by the demon.  When Calvin is done and apologizes, Riku shakes his head, still stunned by the exchange.  "It's not you, but that guy is... something else," he says, shaking his head.  "You did a great job handling him!"
Aika Rosewater	"I hear New York's theatre scene is quite festive!"     "Oh yeah. Festive is a way to put it. Broadway's this part of the city where it's brighter during the night than day. Every building's covered in screens, every other theater's got something on offer you've never heard of before, or never seen a take like it at least. Bit disorienting for first-timers, I'm told. Lots of lights and loud sounds, you don't expect it. Whole of Midtown is like that but Broadway's apart. Hm. Little night out into town could be fun for those of you who've never been..."     Something to think about when they aren't mid-crisis(?). Lissandra.     Aika spends a moment closing and opening her hand, then gives a thumb up to the Witch. "Nice, actual witchcraft and it isn't trying to set me on fire for once. Thanks!" You have to take the wins. Hell Biker.     "Damn you're a fiery one," Aika laughs, though doesn't make any immediate efforts to attack the newly formed(summoned?) demon since he isn't hostile... physically, at least.     Calvin roasting him seems to set the tone. "You're new, too,"     "Sure am," Aika grins. "Let's get along, and all that, so I don't gotta break that arm of yours and cram it in your mouth."     Why she almost seems a bit ticked off when the Biker goes on his RANT, until Calvin takes the matter into his own literal hands.     "Nice punch," she whistles appreciatively.     It ends with Calvin dimissing the demon, and Aika blinks, to look at him. "What'd you just do? Is it-- is the threat of him breaking out just, gone, like that?" As easy as that? No, it probably wasn't actually easy?
Swords of Justice	Shirou mulls over Calvin's explanation. Or as much as he hasn't already mulled over himself already. People really are the best at making other people suffer for the worst reasons. In this case, he assumes the normal people here are the elite, with a lowercase E. While he's thought about this before, unlike Calvin, he doesn't really know how to approach this topic. If Hell Biker is his answer to this, though, well... Shirou's had worse ideas, and he trusts the Marshal to know what he's doing.      Medusa feels as if she can empathize a bit with Hell Biker's reluctance and anger at the current situation. Being defeated only to be summoned for the one responsible for doing so is definitely a frustrating experience. Probably more so if you can actually remember your defeat. However, between his aggravating rudeness and-      "Heyyy--"      Medusa places her fingers on her glasses in response to Hell Biker, though she doesn't do anything more than that as she waits for Calvin to chastise him, and for the demon to comment on her newness as well. Her grip on her glasses and gaze linger on him for a bit longer, before she lets go of them and focuses her attention on her phone.      "Sorry."      "Hit him harder next time and I'll accept your apology." It's hard to tell if Medusa is joking or not about this, considering her facial expression doesn't change at all. Shirou, meanwhile, just gives Calvin an empathetic nod.
Foundation Scions	'Then you need a less industrious schedule.'     Matilda's on Two Social Strikes right now! This means the only deployable 'continue hoping people pay attention to me and like me' technique in her playbook is lined up and shot out, unhesitatingly, "You are correct, I may, in fact, be too industrious! I should go to bars!" . . .     Matilda is incredibly quick to scramble back for her offering- not shoulder-past anyone quick, but 'just try and be at the front of the line first' quick. It doesn't go back into her ear, but safely into a pouch of her bag, buttoned-up and cinched-shut, so she's sure it won't go anywhere. There's no instinct at all for her to put it back in her ear- it was only there, for this, for now, anyways.     Only after, still readied-up with her crystal ball, does she ask, a little bit disorientated, "Did, it work?" 'Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE,'     Matilda, pretty much on instinct, half-mouths a chastising, "Language!" at Hell Biker's shout. Quickly, however, she decides she Does Not Like his attitude. With all the ritual-effort, the emotion in it all, obviously, there's something there to this result, there's the entire story as to what he stands for, his anger, why it's there and what it's pointed at, but- "Could you please be less crude?"     Matilda stares at the demon, pouts a little bit, stares a little bit harder- like she's trying to see where all of the feeling went, in all of him, and like if she can just squint a little tighter, she'll focus right and be able to see it. More quiet, "A lot of work was put into this," She adds, like it's a bargaining point. 'New,'     "I, I have been here for more time than you have!" Matilda says, her exact tone the type that will never at all work against this attitude of Guy. She's holding a thirty pound crystal ball, her face is a little bit red-puffy, and if she could, she'd have her hands on her hips to proud-stance her way through this. 'Je-hee-sus Christ,1     "Hein?!" 'Yanno, it's the funniest thing.'     Matilda, listening-through, adds, unhelpfully and ambiently upset-sounding quiet, "That isn't particularly funny at all, none of it. That sounds to be sad." Matilda doesn't, at all, know about how this particular post-apocalyptic effort, to do things better, works; none of the points to defend it, but she is feather-ruffled enough to try and add, nigh-fully unfounded, "It's most-often more correct, always, to decide on optimism instead, Mr. Biker. I, I do not think there are people of the evils you spoke of, here, so! It would have been revealed in my divinations, were there to be warmongering-sorts present."     Matilda should probably feel silly for saying all of that, but she's a bit upset, isn't sure exactly at what or whom, and Hell Biker is just kind of miserable. 'Megidoga!'     "...Ah." Matilda decides that's a good point to start packing-up and looking elsewhere to meander-out. The ritual's done, isn't it?     At the door, the threshold with that so-noticeable shift, Matilda takes a big breath of the Tabernacle's air, like she's about to be diving back under-water, on the other side, or like she's passing by a graveyard; just before she steps outside it to leave.
Lilian Rook	'Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE. Not YOU.'     FOr a single, brilliant instant of directionless misery, Lilian feels gratified by the fact that someone else is arbitrarily on the receiving end of her petty spite.     'Reeeeeally wish I could hit you in the mouth right now. Or knee you in the gut. GOD you piss me off just the way you stand like that. JUST THE WAY YOU BREATHE! This contract is gonna suck ASS.'     "Grow up. We all have feelings like that and we still do our jobs without going postal." Lilian says. It's unexpectedly lighthearted, actually. Creepily so. Weightless in a way that doesn't mean 'positive' or 'unburdened', but 'without gravity' instead. Honestly, she's thrilled that Calvin has to suffer for this too. Given sudden, unexpectedly cathartic relief from her pointlessly bottled rage, she almost titters away at Hell Biker acting like a total dipshit at everyone.     'Je-hee-sus Christ'     Lilian glances at Matilda, then looks back at Hell Biker, wide-eyed, and says "Oh my god can you tell?"     'You look like you got shot once or twice. Sucks, doesn't it?'     And then it's her turn. Lilian stiffens up at the cold call, thinks about Schneider, then tries to assume he meant more broadly than just that, and then stiffens up even more. "Yes. It fucking does." she says, off-the-cuff and squinting. "I just think it's fucked that you get a magic motorbike and the Expanse thinks you're soooo fucking important that it should take a triple sacrificial dagger reacharound to get your attention instead of calling you a pussy and pouring a Pabst Blue Ribbon into the fucking dirt."     Ah. Oh no.     'no more ~war on drugs~ with the pigs beatin' the poors and the blacks and the Mexicans and the queers 'til they can't walk no more.''     "Now back up real quick you illiterate bitch; I can't let that historical misrepresentation stand." Lilian says, arms folded, finger raised, utterly and completely unseriously and with immaculate kayfabe. "They kept it in their pants for a little while hoping AIDS would kill them first now didn't they?" Perhaps it's the neurochemicals after that angry silent crashout, but she's smiling now, despite herself.     So it's going to be like this.     'Well, Bubba, you're pretty progressive for a hick!'     "Isn't he just?" says Lilian, with a certain tone that makes it sound like a very properly British 'ain't'. That's all she gets out before Hell Biker escalates, Calvin blows his stack, and the whole thing instantaneously gets so volatile that Lilian finds it unbearably funny and holds her fingers splayed out before her mouth in conflicted-delighted shock. The fact that her enthusiasm fades when Calvin gets suitably deep into castigating his contractee unfortunately lends definition and character to it in retrospect; as ecstatic indulgence by-proxy in a moment of hot-blooded, disinhibited violence, quickly smothered as soon as she noticed it was visible.     'How the hell can there be anything else when you won't let GO of that shit?'     "I'll admit. The way you described him made me think he'd be a little bit better than this." Lilian says to Calvin, in that way that means it's really meant for Hell Biker. One tenth 'cat pretending it didn't just slip off a porch' and nine tenths 'peer pressuring some nerd to smoke'. "Let's hope it's just a bit of that Ongyo-Ki influence, and that it'll buff right out. I'd hate to think a demon that makes such a big deal of holding the world world in contempt was secretly its leakiest most passive-aggressive cheerleader."
Lilian Rook	'Sorry.'     Lilian breathes deep. With Hell Biker gone, she finally drops her arms back to resting position, then uses one upturned hand to conversationally gesture. "Marshal Nash, if you think I've never gotten shit for being a woman where 'women aren't supposed to be' before . . ." Lilian that's really not the point. "Well, never mind. That was certainly much less of a disaster than having to fight the bastard going rogue. It's only words."     She watches Matilda leave with a little reluctance; too late to mean anything now. "Even a bar would have been a better choice for her night than here." Lilian says, and shakes the thought out of her head.
Calvin Nash	I'd hate to think a demon that makes such a big deal of holding the whole world in contempt was secretly its leakiest most passive-aggressive cheerleader.     Calvin stores away 'leaky' for future use against his enemies, having immediately understood it (real, not fake), and nods. "You and me both." Hit him harder next time and I'll accept your apology.     That draws a short bark of a laugh from Calvin. "Prolly got one comin' anyway." How is your hand?     "Fine," Calvin says pigheadedly.     "It's bleedin'," Pastor Fred says, blowing Calvin up with paternally unbothered matter-of-factness, as if he had a newspaper to not bother looking over. Marshal Nash, if you think I've never gotten shit for being a woman where 'women aren't supposed to be' before . . . It's only words.     "Well. He shouldn't'a said 'em," Calvin says, still cooling off about it.     "Son, I dunno about Adrian, but I agree with Lilian. Heard a lot worse in my time," Fred says, between a dry chuckle, shaking his head.     "It'll be reyt, Calvin," Adrian agrees with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I ought to pack up and head t' bed."     "Same here," says Tiffany.     "Yep," agrees John-Wayne. "Might head to the Last Resort, see if Charlene's still up."     "Want some company?" asks Tommy.     "Sure."     The band packs up, the four other Marshals file out with them, and Pastor Fred dabs at his sweat-moistened brow with a dark handkerchief, uttering a sigh as he leans against the organ. John-Wayne pats Matilda on the shoulder as he passes her on the way out.
Calvin Nash	What'd you just do? Is it-- is the threat of him breaking out just, gone, like that?     Calvin steps over to show her his COMP, still on the Roster screen. "It was gone from the moment I seen this here," he says, pointing to Hell Biker's name on the list. "That means the contract's been made. Meanin' he can't just haul off and hit me. And since the kelpie and the angel trusted me, there's just enough... left-over goodwill, if you can believe that, to where he ain't liable to try and fuck me over some indirect type of way."     "Now, just like with humans, trust ain't set in stone. It's a runnin' balance. *He* trusts me less than they did. Consequence of fusion. And if I take him for granted..." He frowns, looking up from the monitor. "Well," he says, meeting her eyes. "'Accidents' have happened to people in the past. So you wanna avoid doin' that. I made my peace with havin' to keep him at least a little happy weeks before I fused 'im just now."     "What this is," he says, closing the COMP's screen and patting it twice, "Is just modernizin' somethin' that's been around a whole long time. All the symbols 'round here," he says, gesturing with his left hand, "They're older than the Expanse--the 'demon world', you want the simplest word--gettin' torn open. But it was a lot harder to do before then, 'cause without that door wide open, it was harder to know what was bullshit and still pretty hard to do the stuff that wasn't bullshit. Not to mention we don't know how much *real* stuff got lost."     He shrugs, but continues. "Anyway. Back in them days, when you made a contract with a demon, you either had 'em out, or not. But to bring 'em out, that meant you had to bring 'em all the way from the Expanse, and that's expensive to do even now, with the door wide open--back then you had to either have a whole lotta energy to do that, or you had to have a special place built up," he says, gesturing broadly around the Tabernacle, "To go back to. That's how come the Key of Solomon tells you what all the demons in it do, and how to stay on the right side of 'em, so that you didn't waste a whole lotta energy a lotta energy and a lotta time summonin' somebody you couldn't get nowhere with. And it's also how come a lotta your stories 'bout demon summoners have 'em kinda tell the demon to work on somethin' for a while, 'cause it just wasn't practical to send 'em back and forth."     "So what this does," he says, "Is it lets you do that, by givin' 'em a third place to go to, which is inside a computer, as bits and bytes or whatever. Still technically on Assiah--Earth--but not with no physical form that takes magnetite to keep up."      He hooks his thumbs into his beltloops. "Well. I figure Pastor Fred prolly wants to get some shuteye, too. Y'all wanna see if the bar's open?"