2013.09.13 - That One Time We Broke Into Heaven

Amy Winston walks backward down the sidewalk so she can carry a proper conversation with the Doctor Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her way too big leather jacket, except for when she gesticulates to make a point, which is often.

"--so, there was this dragon, like an honest to god dragon, and I'm expecting it to be there for this armor. It seriously had diamonds spelling out the guy's name on the breastplate! Well, not his name, more like his house symbol--anyway, the dragon starts getting offended when I tell him he can't have it, going off about how dare I assume--"

She whirls around, which she has done a few times before, likely to get her bearings. The moonlight catches the silver buttons and safety pins and other pieces of metal either decorating or holding her jacket together. Even disguised, she can't help but sparkle.

This time, Amy stops facing away from the street. The building in front of her is squat, ugly, and brown. The metal roof is goofily large, likely to accommodate a makeshift vaulted ceiling inside. A weather-worn, corroded statue of a woman holding an excited child out toward the street stands vigil on one side of the stairs. The other side is covered by a crucified Jesus.

"I wanted to pick a big gothic church," Amy admits. "But all of them had too many people around, even at one in the morning. It's like, what's the point of being a Catholic if you don't get to hang out in the cool buildings, right?" She chews her bottom lip.

For the most part, Stephen's contributions to the conversation are limited to things like 'Mmmm,' and 'You don't say,' and 'Dragons are highly unpredictable'; this is due to Amy's exuberance more than any disinterest on his part, though, and his commentary is accompanied by wincing, or grimacing, or even smiles, where appropriate. His outfit consists of a black overcoat with a bright red vest and gold dress shirt underneath, as well as black trousers and a black tie shot through with a golden web of arcane patterns, and it's all topped off with a grey, red-banded hat. A chunky gold watch is secured around his right wrist, and as they close in on the church, it seems to sparkle a touch brighter in the moonlight.

"This should do just fine," he murmurs, studying the crucified figure looming over them. Glancing towards Amy, he adds, "I met a being that claimed he was God, once: a time-travelling wizard from the 31st century," apropos of basically nothing--a stray, blasphemous thought. And then, on that note, he strolls towards the entrance.

"He made a very compelling case; I doubt that the association will have much bearing on today, however, either way."

"Was his name Mordru?" Amy asks as she ascends the stairs. Her boots make a lot of noise, but it's not like they've seen anybody outside for the past three blocks.

The front doors are the kind you'd find in a convenience store. Mostly glass, so you can see into the lobby area, where there's a few ancient chairs and bulletin boards filled with community news. Amy presses her face up against the glass, cupping her hands to get rid of the glare.

"I heard about him from this guy from the future. Rokk Krinn. You know, the Legion of Superheroes people? He seemed to remember that I have a problem with him. I'm not sure if he was remembering me, or something else in my family. Not like I'm the only Princess Amethyst, like, historically speaking."

Amy draws back from the door, clapping her hands and then rubbing them together. She makes an odd gesture and then withdraws a silver key with a large amethyst gem set in the head. Despite the archaic design, the blade and millings look like they'll fit the front door.

She frowns, looking down at her creation. It's too easy. The moment of reflection passes quickly. Amy unlocks the door and walks right in. No obvious alarm goes off.

"His name was Sise-Neg," Strange quietly replies as they ascend the stairs, "and I watched him rebuild the universe after tearing it asunder in his quest for omnipotence. As I said: a very compelling case." He waits off to the side with his head bowed in contemplation while Amethyst peers through the doors, left hand curled just in case the young delinquent/magical princess somehow proves incapable of finding a way past them.

When the lock clicks, the corners of his mouth briefly turn up; rather than immediately follow her inside, however, he takes a moment to unfasten his watch and sets it on the ground the way one might a Faberge egg, or a child. With a wave of his hand, the accessory disappears, hidden mortal eyes and hands until he comes back for it.

"I've never encountered the name Mordru," he then says, crossing himself as he steps over the threshold, "but then, my library is woefully short on texts from the distant future. It must give you some comfort to know that your House will live on beyond you, though."

"Like, this universe?" Amy says, though mostly under her breath. She actually doesn't want to know. Maybe she should--Sorcerer Supreme problems are probably similar to Lord of Order problems--but not right now. They're about to break into Heaven. That's weird enough.

Amy shuts the door behind Strange and locks it. The key disappears back up her sleeve, where she either has a hidden pocket or a magical garbage disposal. "I guess?" She shrugs, crossing the tiny lobby and opening the double doors to the sanctuary proper. It's a long, square room with sound equipment hanging from the ceiling and a colorful array of statues of saintly paraphernalia around the altar.

"I don't think it's really hit me fully. This whole princess thing still seems like weird vacation that hasn't ended. I mean, I missed out on getting a high school diploma."

The teen walks down the aisle and round a large cement fixture. It's a font of holy water, big enough to drop a baby in. She places her hands on the lip of the thing, looking down into the basin. "Not like it matters. My mom probably magicked up my ID and social security number stuff like that. Not even a US citizen."

Stephen doesn't seem any more interested in answering that question than Amy is in having it answered; instead, he busies himself with fishing silver chalk from the inside of his coat - where there really are pockets - and walking the perimeter of the sanctuary, studying its walls carefully as he goes.

"It's very possible," the Doctor replies. The sanctuary's architecture amplifies his quiet sympathy, and his voice easily carries from the edges of the sanctuary to the font it's focused around. "Men have long forged new identities for themselves through far humbler means than those at your mother's disposal."

Rather than wind around to meet the girl on the altar, he stops beneath a circular window, and soon enough, the scraping of his chalk against the walls echoes through the church. "That shouldn't keep you from experiencing life as mortals do, though, if that's what you want--even if those moments of mundanity are just vacations from your new reality." Glancing away from his arcane scrawlings, he offers the princess a wan smile and notes, "Your mother is certainly not the only one with the power to define your existence, now."

Moments after returning to his writings, he switches tacks entirely to note, "My Enochian is rusty without the Eye at hand, but these verses should - should - make this space a little more suitable for our purposes."

At her disposal, now. Amy looks at her hands as Strange speaks. She really could do just about anything. It didn't have to be fighting dragons or saving the kingdom or fighting space wizards from the thirty first century. She could fade into the background and live with her wants magically fulfilled.

The teen looks up. "Yeah," she says, smiling. "Too bad I'm at the part of my life where I'm supposed to be flaky and experiment with new identities, huh? I kind of miss being bored and having no options."

She pauses, turning around to survey Strange's work. Her lips move, at first wordlessly but eventually she is murmuring full-fledged Enochian. "Looks right!" Amy announces with a satisfied grin. She taps the side of her head. "Gem magic. Total hax, right? I mean--totally unfair," she hurriedly adds. Strange is an older guy. "Let me get dressed."

Amy clutches her necklace. A bright light sweeps over her body, leaving a trail of purple sparkles as it goes. Her clothes unravel, the threads coming apart and then snaking back together to weave purple silks and golden armor. It's very PG-13.

Princess Amethyst shakes her much longer blonde hair out, brushing it out of her face and over her shoulders. "Alright. Let's go meet God."

Strange stops writing to stare somewhat incredulously at the princess after she checks his work; compared to unicorn riding and ghost-calling, mastery over an arcane language isn't so unusual, but hearing such old words from such a young speaker is still jarring in its way. He resumes his work when she mentions getting dressed, though, and keeps his eyes politely lowered.

"It's a terrifying and exciting time; I'm envious," he says once the air isn't quite so full of magic. "Just remember that that freedom won't last forever--certainly not with Gemworld's interests to consider." He turns, then, to toss the chalk at Amethyst.

"If your--hax--are up to the task," he says as he fishes out a fresh piece for himself, "another set of hands would be helpful; all you'll have to do..."

Transforming an old church into a portal to the afterlife is a complicated process to say the least, and the Doctor tries his best to explain it to Amethyst without lapsing too deeply into its metaphysical underpinnings. Mostly, it seems to involve odd sigils drawn in seemingly arbitrary places, followed by lots of chanting and saint-invoking; the power of Oshtur, or the winds of Watoomb would be more than enough to grant them entry to just about any other plane of existence, but here, an entirely different set of entities holds all the influence.

All the ego Amethyst gained from impressing a powerful sorcerer (the powerful sorcerer) rushes out of her when Strange mentions Gemworld. She catches the chalk one-handed and slinks over to the other side of the church.

She is a dutiful assistant. Though she spoke Enochian fluently, the princess makes several mistakes and only realizes half of them. The others Strange has to catch. To her credit, she never makes the same kind of mistake twice.

Amethyst takes her position up on one side of the font. Her pronunciation is again perfect and she readily keeps up with Strange's prayer-leading. Oshtur aligns with the time of mending, the winds of Watoomb spill onto new lands, and a seismic thud rises from the building's foundations. The basin of water quivers.

The princess stops, pale. She looks toward the doors leading to the lobby, then to Strange. Her expression is halfway between horrified and curious. Still, she creeps toward the exit without prompting. When she reaches the door, she pauses, and then throws it open.

Beyond the lobby is a silver city. Antiseptic brightness floods through the windows. It doesn't hurt. You don't even have to squint. It's like being able to breath underwater. It makes the mundane feel unreal.

Amethyst looks back to Strange, waiting to see what he'll do. She doesn't see the young man walking up the stairs.

The inside of the church is awash in a psychedelic flood of colour, due to the way the light is filtered through stained glass. Strange held his breath throughout their tumultuous passage, at once sure that the tremors must mean success, and concerned about the implications for his companion if it turned out he'd gotten it all wrong; now that they're here, though, he's able to slowly let it out and follow the princess into the shining city.

"This--" He pauses just outside, one hand visoring his awe-filled eyes for the few moments it takes him to realize it's utterly unnecessary. He's visited supernal gardens, dueled demons in their personal hells for the soul of humanity, and absorbed the wisdom of ancient goddesses as spoken from their own lips, and yet, there's still a part of him that just wants to bask in these impossibly exotic surroundings for all time, black diamonds be damned.

"--is--quite something," he finishes, voice equally full of fear and wonder. He looks over to check on Amethyst, and then with a small nod, he begins his descent into Heaven.

"I guess--"

Amethyst turns back toward the city, following Strange into the lobby. Unlike her elder, her attention is laser focused on the young man with curly blonde hair and a robe that may as well be made out of mist silk.

Oh, man, mist silk seems like an even dorkier name when you're in Actual Heaven. The princess self-consciously tugs on the ribbon trailing from her hand.

As they open the doors, the angel--presumably--looks over each of them in turn. His expression is not beatific. He is not smiling. He does seem to be at ease with the addition of Our Lady of Salvation to Heaven's street plan.

"You are Stephen Vincent Strange," the young man says. It's not a question. His amber-gold eyes move to Amethyst. "You are known another way." He does not elaborate.

Amethyst clears her throat and stares at the back of Dr. Strange's head with wide eyes. This is creepy. This is really creepy.

Stephen lifts his head as he takes his first step, and is greeted by the sight of an annoyed angel.

Apparently, gazing at the wonders of heaven is enough to render even the Sorcerer Supreme incapable of seeing what's right there in front of his nose; he lets out a small noise of shock, then presses a hand to his chest and does his best to wipe the surprise from his features as he meets the angel's eye.

"Yes," he exhales, nodding. "Hello." After an embarrassed glance back at Amethyst, he gives the angel a brisk bow, then gestures to the cathedral. "I apologize; we were, unfortunately, short on alternative means of coming here, but I do believe that the news we bring is worthy of your attention." As he finishes, he takes a step back so that he's standing beside the Princess. "It--concerns the original spirit of wrath."

The angel continues to stare at Amethyst. Amethyst stares at the angel. Amethyst begins leaning further and further backward as the contest continues. The angel does not flinch.

"That spirit passed to the Earth long ago," the angel comments. He returns his gaze to Strange and smiles thinly. "My fellows arrive. I think you will be given time to speak. The fullness of this truth is not for me to say."

He steps backward, his sandals leaving the cement steps of the church front and returning to the marble of the heavenly road. "Do not leave this terrestrial structure. This is not for you."

Amethyst remains silent. She is gripping the railing hard enough that the color has fled from her hand.

Strange wrinkles his noise at the order, but takes another step towards the cathedral to comply with it regardless. "Thank you," he says with a small nod. "I understand that your attention is valuable; I certainly wouldn't seek to take it up if the threat of Eclipso weren't so dire."

His eyes move from the angel to the princess, then, and he rests a hand gently on her shoulder. "We won't be here long, I'm sure; you've nothing to worry about," says for both their benefits.

The youth turns and walks away. It is unnecessary that he stays for the hearing, apparently.

"Did you hear what he said?" Amethyst hisses, whispering even though she is almost positive that it won't make any difference. "He didn't say my name! He said I was known another way. What does that mean? Why didn't he say my name?"

She straightens her back and releases the rail. Though stiff, she at least looks more presentable.

The sky darkens. Shapes descend, wings wide but unflapping. They are dressed identically, though they vary in shape and appearance. Even the ones that seem older have a certain timeless quality about them.

"What you are, princess," Strange murmurs as his eyes slide away from her, "a Lord of Order born of flesh--there are very, very few precedents for it. I--could, perhaps, guess at his meaning, but it would be just that: a guess." Exhaling, he takes his hand away and adds, "It--would be best not to trouble yourself with such thoughts, right now; there's a time for contemplation, and--"

There's a time for audiences with angels: now, apparently. The Doctor lifts his head and watches their descent for a little while before bowing once they're closer. A full bow, this time, arm over the mid-section and all.

"Thank you," he says when he straightens. "We've come to seek your aid regarding the fallen spirit of wrath that was once on Earth."

Why did she watch Children of the Corn last Friday the 13th? Oh man, why did she watch Children of the Corn? It wasn't even that good of a movie but it is such a bad choice in retrospect. Amethyst raises her chin and sets her jaw, looking as haughty as possible. She cannot speak while she is looking haughty. It would ruin the illusion.

The angels stand in no particular order, though they are evenly spaced apart in a loose semicircle that is several people deep. There are perhaps a hundred or more, all silent and watching.

One, a silver-haired older man with broad features, speaks: "Is this yet another idol you invoke, conjuror? Is this yet another power at which you grasp? Do you reach for another tool?"

"Of course not," Strange quickly assures, holding his empty hands up for the angels to see. His vest - if they are sensitive to such things - radiates potent magics of its own, but it's the only such thing on his person; the Eye of Agamotto is waiting for him in the empty lot where Our Lady of Salvation once stood. "I speak of the spirit once employed as the instrument of the Lord's wrath, cast from His service for reasons unknown to a conjuror like myself; it recently came to my attention--" His eyes flick towards the princess and her affected nobility before returning to the host.

"--that the spirit was imprisoned, and that its prison was since lost. It's my understanding that if it isn't found before Earth sees its next solar eclipse, the prison will be broken, and the spirit will be free to do as it pleases on the Earth; we're here to beg Heaven's aid in averting that terrible fate."

There is open discussion amongst the angels. It is not furtive commentary or whispering, but rather a brief development of orderly conversation. The broad featured angel does not join, though he is not the only one.

"You are two. You are 'we,'" the broad featured angel continues. "To this place you bring an abomination--" there is more open discussion. Another angel speaks:

"Do you speak with the truth of God?"

The broad featured angel responds sharply: "Do you?"

The conversation ceases.

The broad featured angel frowns, deepening the lines of his face. "The Lords of Order are pretenders. They are false gods. They lead men astray and claim dominion over Creation. Now they fornicate and bear abominable children."

His eyes are animate. They do not glow, but they are the eyes of a much younger man. "They corrupt Man. Do any of you deny this?"

The angels are silent.

"Fuck this." Amethyst's voice is tight. "I want to go home."

The Doctor minds his manners and listens as the debate unfolds--at least, at first. It's easy enough, at least initially, to assume that they're discussing the Eclipso problem - what could be more abominable than an instrument of God twisted into wantonly destructive evil? - but as the discussion continues and the truth becomes worryingly clear, Stephen's features sink from polite neutrality into bewilderment, then finally, tight-lipped frustration.

"We are here for a reason," he firmly reminds them - and Amethyst - after shooting the other a look of sympathy. Stepping forward, he continues, "And it has nothing at all to do with the circumstances of this woman's birth; we're here as children of Creation, not servants - or Lords - of Order. Surely, you must be concerned for Creation's well-being, if the thought of false gods ruling over it troubles you so; surely, that must be reason enough to hear our pleas, rather than dismissing us out of hand."

"The spirit was cast out!" the broad featured angel speaks, his voice like thunder. "That is the decision. It will not change, no matter what the will of conjurors and abominations be. This is not a place for supplicants. This is not a time for bargaining."

He turns and spreads his arms open to the rest of the congregation. "He was cast out from the silver city for his crimes. Cast out by the Lord! Yet these Earthly powers force themselves into this place, where the first wrath was barred. Is this not a clear crime? Have they not trespassed?"

"No, seriously, fuck this," Amethyst says, turning and taking the stairs two at a time. She slams the front door open, striding through the lobby and disappearing into the sanctuary.

"You call for punishment?" a voice rises from the crowd.

The broad featured angel answers: "I do not call for punishment. The punishment is clear."

Strange grimaces at not just the volume, but the content of the angel's declaration, and while he manages to suppress the sudden, rising urge to prostrate himself before these beings and beg for forgiveness, he has to turn his eyes down from them for the moment.

"Regardless of our methods--" His terse attempts at injecting a human perspective into these alien proceedings is interrupted by Amethyst's outburst.

"Princess--!" he calls after her, taking a step back towards the cathedral as if to give chase. She's gone too quickly, though, leaving him alone with the host.

"We may be conjurors and abominations," he simmeringly murmurs as he looks back at the host, "but it would seem that we care more for Creation than the servants of its Creator. Save your punishments, if that's all you have to offer us." He heads towards the lobby's doors, albeit at a much more measured pace than the Princess.

"We'll find a way to clean Heaven's messes ourselves."

Inside, Amethyst has found a bucket from some mop closet. A trail of holy water follows her to the altar, where the final sigil was etched in chalk. The princess raises the bucket above her head, inspects her target, and then pours a gallon of forgiveness on it.

She stands over her work, snarling and red eyed. "Who knew angels were such dicks?"

A seismic thud rises from the foundation. The windows go dark.

Amethyst exhales, unsteady on her feet. Light headed. She tosses the bucket over her shoulder. It clatters somewhere behind the altar. "Heaven looked really boring, anyway."

"The ancient Egyptians, I suppose," Strange dryly responds, idly inspecting the Princess' handiwork as he walks down the aisle. "I apologize; I knew that our chances were slim, but--"

The sudden upheaval interrupts his apology and flings him into a nearby pew, where he grips the seat in front of himself to avoid being tossed around any further. When things settle down, he exhales, lifts his head, and tries not to let the disappointment of once more sitting in a dim, abandoned cathedral rather than a celestially illuminated sanctuary linger too long.

"--hh--there are other options at our disposal," he promises, retaking his feet and briskly moving up to the altar in case Amethyst needs supporting. "This is just one door that has been closed to us; don't let their fear of what they can't understand disturb you."

"I don't even understand this!" Amethyst snaps. She flushes red and slaps a candle from the railing.

By reflex, the princess raises her hands to show empty palms. No, officer, I'm not carrying any weapons. She turns away from Strange and walks in no particular direction, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. Every time someone tells me about this, they just say the vaguest fucking things."

She crosses her arms. "I was doing really well with not swearing. It's not becoming. Of royalty, I guess."

"I can only imagine your frustration," Strange muses, looking from the fallen candle to the enraged princess. He remains near the altar while she paces, hands sliding into their opposing sleeves. "but if it's any comfort, I do know, without a doubt, that you are not the first person to struggle with the question of who he or she is; the nature of its answer may ultimately be--unique--where you are concerned, but the rest of us would be no more equipped to provide it if you were merely a girl, and not a goddess."

After taking a moment to think about it, he winces at himself and tacks on, "Still: I appreciate the--epic--fail--of this situation; I am truly, truly sorry."

"I--" Amethyst lowers her head. She giggles, but is too tired to be energetic about it. "Christ, doc, epic fail? Really?"

The princess turns around. She's looking up toward the ceiling. "Does that count as taking the Lord's name in vain? Whatever."

The light returns. Or--not really. It streams through only one of the stained glass windows, and it is fiery red, revolving as if attached to a wheel. Outside, a trumpet sounds a single, pure note. It pierces the building. There is no way that's natural. Amethyst's eyes widen.

"Oh my god, they are exactly like the cops."