Scene #2420: So Pz.IC of You

Owner	Pose
Leah	As a wise man once observed, some times, some crimes go slipping through the cracks. On the right days, in the right conditions, with the right motivators, even the Dead may walk. Though it is early yet in the year for such adventures, there is no rest for the wicked. The sky is the color of neon over the tight alleyways of shops catering to the students of Metropolis State. Some wag did a graffito that looks like a skull with six question marks, all in green. The question marks stiffen - the hooks grow sharper - things align - a green light glows... "<Augh! We are free!>" "<But in Amerika, the hated enemy...>" "<Even so, we have much to report. We must not let death deter us from our dedication to Adolf Hitler!>" Pause. "<You know I am starting to have second thoughts.>" "<Schwein! You will pay for that!>" "<Heinrich, Klaus, we are under great stress. We are without bodies and our torment is at an end. Let us resolve these matters later.>" "<Piffle!>" "<Fine, fine.>" "<But why are we in Amerika?>" "<I sense that our old steed is nearby...>" SMASH CUT TO Trophy Park, a small section of land with some like, benches and virtual highlights in those mobile games that make you actually walk around. Trophy Park is about the size of a 7/11 with a parking lot, but it has some old stuff won in various wars. A rusted Mexican War cannon, a seized Austrian artillery piece from WW1, and the real highlight - A Panzer! It's a lousy panzer. One of the early ones. Basically an armored car with a machine gun turret. Nevertheless people pose for pictures on it. Three ethereal streaks of feldgrau cross a major campus road, causing a chorus of honks and the near derailment of a Prius. "<It is just as we left it! Oh, wonderful day! I cannot wait to drive it back to Poland and rejoin the Fuhrer's armies!>" "<I think it has been some time, it may be obsolete. It may be, what, 1961? Perhaps even 1966...>" "<The soul of battle is never obsolete, Heinrich!!>" Either way, the three ghosts invest themselves into the Panzer. Nothing much happens right away beyond some ethereal green glowing, but those watching close would see that it's starting to look a lot more... authentic. Fast. BACK IN THAT ALLEYWAY A woman in green frowns at the distorted point of passage into the world, and wishes she had a tracking hound with her as she raises her eyes and looks around. Her eyes narrow, searching, but the Panzer is not quite within her eyeshot here. BACK IN TROPHY PARK The headlamps come on the newly HAUNTED TANK. The engine belches to life with a stink of diesel fumes! From within the cackle of ghostly Nazis rises! It then immediately roars forwards INTO TRAFFIC! That's not typical even for Metropolis drivers!
America Chavez	There are a lot of things in the universe that can make one question the faith they have, whatever form it may take. Imagine that, multiplied by the infinite possibilities of the endless branching universes of the multiverse; infinite possibilities, after all, mean infinite possibilities for horror. Even a sliver of it is like staring into the maw of madness for most. America Chavez has been to more than a sliver. And one thing she is absolutely certain of: Nazis, no matter the dimension, are still some of the worst of the bunch. And after dealing with her fair share throughout the multitude of existence, including a strange and nonsensical ephemeral mayfly dimension where Earth's greatest champion was secretly one of them (yes, that one (and the other one, too, for that matter)), one thing is also certain: America Chavez has no patience for any of their shit. Why does this matter? The loud sound not unlike a sonic boom thundering in the air above the Panzer as it screeches to rusted, eldritch life might be a hint. Especially considering how much louder it gets, and how much faster that volume intensifies, within the span of a handful of seconds until-- --until the smudge that interposes itself between the ghastly tank and the rest of the street with a loud CRACK of impact as something red, white and blue makes landfall. Crouched, dressed down in a black, red-cuffed short-sleeved crop jacket, blue tank top, white denim shorts, sneakers and a cap emblazoned with a symbol of Captain America's original shield, America Chavez slowly rises, her disaffected, unimpressed stare leveling on that old, belching engine of war with the slow tilt of her head. Shouldering that heavy piece of old, Austrian artillery as she does. "... Yeah, okay," she declares. She rolls one shoulder. Than the other. "Gonna make this quick, pendejos." Her fingers curl tighter around that well-aged weapon. "Don't feel too happy about it." Her eyes narrow, dangerously. "You just piss me off that much." And then she lunges. She might have given them enough time to fire on her. She doesn't seem to care. Because she's barreling at that tank, launching herself skyward -- and then bringing that piece of artillery down on them like it was the hammer of god, probably to just annihilate both in the process. She's just that tired of dealing with their collective shit.
Leah	"<I think it's a Spaniard.>" The PZ. IC skids on the avenue as the turret traverses, lubricated by ectoplasm. The machine gunning begins with a noise like God ripping the seat of His pants when suddenly WHAM How to describe it? The piece of artillery that America Chavez has hefted is, of course, filled with concrete, which was typically done with field pieces for the obvious reasons that otherwise some merry prankster would try to shoot the gun, probably taking out the Economics department - a truly dismal science. The Panzer I.C. has robust if thin armor - it was suited for handling most rifle fire, grenades, even lasting for some time under the loving embrace of a machine gun - and it was all reinforced by the hellish vapors and psychokinetic residuum of the Dead. All that latter stuff mostly means that the Panzer does not instantly vaporize into gaseous iron and Kruppstahl at America's blow. Down comes the artillery piece, through the turret. Metal crumples. There is a SHRIEK and a FLUNCH and a spen-SER! as the gun flies off, the psychokinetically infused ammo autoloader exploding with a series of ghostly green firecracker sounds, RAKATAKATAKAK. The tracks of the Panzer break and go sailing merrily forwards a few more yards, the front half of the tank ripping separate from the second due to the power of the blow. Green... SOMETHING oozes out from the center of the turret. The other two ghosts look over their shoulders. They resemble luminous gray skeletons in German uniforms c. The Big One. "<We are undone!>" "<If she's Spanish we can surrender. Franco will intern us at worst.>" "<Miserable louse! I will end your treason now! Heil Hitler!>" One of the skeletons pulls a pistol out and puts two rounds into the head of the other skeleton. "<You ass!>" says the shot skeleton. Armed skeleton turns his pistol on America. "<Hands in the air, bronzed harlot!>" "<I love Mickey Mouse,>" says the shot one. The bullets are spectral and seemed painful but not terminal. "<You know, it's funny but do you know who else does?>" As for the Austrian iron, it's certainly cracked, but that concrete gave it a certain springiness. "Excuse me," says someone who is actually speaking English. Who is it? It is a woman in a green dress. It is Leah. No mystery here. "Are you with them?" she says with crisp politeness, looking at America with curiosity but not fear. The two ghosts have not caught sight of her, probably because they're wedged in the front half of an extremely owned tank.
America Chavez	The machine gun starts its spin with a spit of hot metal and viscous spectral plasm. What would shred most people largely burns unpleasantly at America through the punctured fabric of her shirt. Fortunately, it doesn't last very long before the gunbarrel goes soaring with a burst of effervescent green fire rippling unpleasantly all around her as the PZ. IC is messily ripped in twain. Let it not be said that America Chavez is one to stand on the ceremonies of traditional superheroic interplay. Nope. She just punches the problem until it is less of one. Luminescent green wisps its winding way around America as the shrieking death of metal grinding metal slowly comes to a stop. Her expression remains as impassive -- if subtly irritated -- as ever, the tattered fringes of her tank top bristling against the dying expulsion of wind and force as she stares at the peering ghosts. Her one hand shouldering the cracked and brutalized remains of that artillery piece, the other curls into a fist as she eyes the two bickering soldiers. One brow slowly lifts. She hears them nattering on, bits and pieces. A question about Mickey Mouse? "Don't care," she declares, hefting up that artillery high into the air. Gunshots fire, ethereal rounds impacting superdense flesh painfully enough to make her teeth grind and her right foot drag backwards -- but she holds her ground, defiantly, as the Mystery Woman (?) emerges, paying no attention to her as her hands curl tighter. "And not Spanish. America." And here, she swings in one mighty, underhanded blow. Pretty much just aiming to uppercut the skeletal Nazi that shot her and send his skull on a one-way trip into the upper atmosphere and beyond. "Deal with it." It's only at this point that she registers Leah's words, pausing just long enough to squint at the woman, in the middle of completing that mighty overkill of a swing. Is she with them? "What do you think?" she asks, bluntly. Pleasant as always. "Surmise, chica."
Leah	The Nazi with a gun is given a firm punching. There is a sense of nothing yielding to the sheer force of America's blow for a fraction of a second and the armed fascist is about to say something when the coupling force of the blow reaches his ectoplasmic form and ripples through his skull. The decoupling of skull from spine comes with a twisted and screeching yi-na-po-LSSS as ligaments tear apart and the Headless Hitlerite slumps back against the wreckage. Being already dead the ghost is not destroyed, but it only has one working arm, and it's not the one with the gun. The other ghost seems nonplussed at this turn of events. Leah steps forwards, looking at America dead on. Her eyes meet the other woman's and then run down for one and a half seconds exactly before returning. "Hm," she says. "It does seem unlikely." Leah turns her attention towards the remaining intact ghost. "You know you shouldn't be here." "<You can't blame a body for trying.>" Leah's head tilts five digrees to the left. She raises her palm. The glow rises, a sickly feeling prickling in the air - "<Hail Hy->" The light fades. The two ghosts are gone. Leah lowers her hand. Looking back to America, she states with crisp formality, "Thank you for your assistance, unwitting as it may have been. Please accept also my apologies, for the disruption to the..." Her eyes turn to the tank and the smashed piece of artillery. "Objects. Though - there were three, were there not?" Ectoplasm keeps dripping from the turret. "Hm," says Leah.
America Chavez	"Tch. Jackass." This is America's generous send-off to the skeletal bigot's likely equally bigoted skull as it goes flying off, eldritch trails curling around her clenched fist. Considering she doesn't relax even for a bit, it seems like she's planning on dealing with the last of the sorry sods shortly. But first, a brief diversion. Intense stare rolling down to barely peer at Leah from the corner of her gaze, a frown is already settling itself across America's lips as she sizes the woman up from her peripherals. She rolls her neck with the faint sound of a crack. "Good guess," she declares, lifting the cracked remains of that artillery with apparent intent to just hammer the remaining ghost into fine, phantasmal paste... ... when she feels that familiar tingle of magic in the air and her frown just deepens all the more. Magic. Things never go well when magic is involved. And so it is that she is just half a second from pulverizing the remaining Hitler-loving HYDRA when the light intensifies... and those two ghosts disappear. For a moment, America just stares at that empty space. And then she shuts her eyes, heaves a sigh, and drops that ancient artillery right onto that tank with a raucous clang of ruined metal on ruined metal before pivoting sharply on her heel to face Leah. The question is raised. America looks from one side, then the other. Then, at the turret. She knocks on it once, grabs it, bends it downward with a groan of metal as if to demonstrate the dripping insides of the ruined weapon. "Safe bet's on that," she observes, deadpan, before she has every intention of hopping down from that tank. Brown eyes peer intently at Leah, hands shoving themselves into the back pockets of her shorts. A second of silence passes, before: "Two questions," she begins, in a tone that doesn't make it much sound like a request. "One -- who the hell are you? Two --" Her head jerks in the direction of the ruined tank and dripping ectoplasm. "-- you responsible for all this?" That's probably the most immediately pertinent of the two, all considered.
Leah	The air of Metropolis smells slightly sweeter, now that there are fewer Nazis. Also, the ectoplasm slowly vaporizes. In an enclosed area one can become stuporous - in bad neighborhoods, some people huff "ghost juice" to "cop a buzz." Not here. Leah remains still as America inspects the equipment, and then tilts her head as the turret is opened to reveal... goo. "I see. Well, it can't be helped," she says, before she's confronted with two questions. Her hands come down to her sides as she's spoken to. She doesn't seem to take it personally. "To answer your first question, that's correct. My name is Leah." She pauses for a moment afterwards. "I think you did most of it," she says. This may or may not constitute answering the, you know, actual question. "You deserve a fuller explanation," Leah says, hopefully pre-empting having her own head punched off. "I will render the sordid tale, but not standing in the roadway." As if on cue, a car honks - a lengthy, extended honk. Really leaning on that horn. Leah looks that way. The horn stops.
America Chavez	"Leah. Sure," America begins, slowly, those brows lifting less with incredulity and more with scrutinization. Mainly, though, she looks expectant, waiting for that second answer. As if on queue, when she gets a glib diversion, her fingers curl towards very dangerous fists made for heinous amounts of punching like clockwork. Her brows lift a bit further, her stare so much more threatening when coupled with the intolerant frown that touches the corners of her lips. Her lips part. But fortunately, whatever words preface whatever (likely punch-based) doom America has in store for Leah are all waylaid by the other woman's swift follow up. Her head tilts to the left, slowly. She looks towards the cars when Leah reminds her of their existence, clogged at the other end of the wreckage. She squints as the honking ratchets up and then just suddenly stops at the Asgardian handmaiden's icy stare. One might expect some rude response to all that honking, maybe something flippant. Instead? Instead, America just offers a very reasonable, "Sure. Sec," in response to Leah, before making her way to the remains of that tank. "Yeah, I know. Taking care of it, alright? Be outta your way in just a--" And, gripping onto the scrap metal of the tank, America just -tanks- off. Not even a second later, she's landing in the park, shoving the panzer back upon the stone surface it once occupied. Good as new. And belching smoke. And cleaved in two. And having another exhibit just kind of jutting out of its wreckage like it was some sort of anachronistic accessory. But, mostly, good as new. It takes another second before she returns, landing with a rush of wind beside Leah. She doesn't say anything immediately. Just looks Leah over for one critical moment, jerks her thumb in one direction, and then starts moving. Only -then-, once she's well on her way, does she speak, hands shoving into her pockets. "C'mon. There's a diner up the road. Good food. And it's out of the way, in case I have to hit you across town." At least she's honest.
Leah	When America comes back, Leah has stepped out of the street but is still in the area. Fortunately, her swift intervention - America's, not Leah's - means that this has not really even gone further than the local police precinct, because what happened, exactly? A car started driving, apparently, and then got punched. The cops aren't coming; the Justice League has not been notified; Superman may continue to eat hamburgers in peace. The diesel engine smoke eventually trails off. High up in the ionosphere, a glowing skull turns... BUT, down here, Leah nods once. "I understand." MONTAGE. Part of the way there. "Ah: the reward. I suppose that this may ease matters." Passing a charge plug. "Two for each. Half for the one you destroyed. But I lack your currency, so one again." In front of a boarded up building laden with posters for musical acts. "That makes six," Leah says. Passing a bus stop: Leah hands six small coins to America. They feel like they've been in the refrigerator. In normal light they look like gold. About an ounce, all together. Leah stops outside of the diner, not opening the door herself. Perhaps she wants to speak. Maybe this is some kind of power play. "Do you wish for the full tale, or the summary with illustration?" It was neither: Leah is reading the menu. Her expression grows visibly less dour at the sight of something on it. (Inwardly, Leah thinks: Thirty-two flavors. Intriguing.)
America Chavez	America Chavez is disconcertingly quiet throughout the montage. She provides absolutely no colorful commentary; like the perfect straight(wo)man, she just stares forward with that ineffably blase look. Part way there, silence. Past the charge plug, silence. She only stops at the boarded up building, in front of a poster for the musical 'Gangly Orphan Jeff.' One can simply imagine the montage music perfectly pausing right here. "Only reward I need is not having to deal with the pain of beating on your ass." Resume music... here. It also doesn't stop her, necessarily, from taking those coins; she stares at the chilled metal resting against the comparable warmth of her palm for a moment, but it's hard to say if it's from confusion, or some variety of recognition, which would raise many questions in and of itself; regardless, she pockets them soon after, shoulders lifting in a shrug. She'll happily accept the coins. Probably won't stop the violence if things don't go how she wants, but. She'll happily accept. Just as much as she walks past Leah and pushes that door open for her without so much as a second thought; power play or not, she doesn't seem too bothered. She even couples it with a simple, "After you, chica," before slipping inside and settling into a comfortable booth in the back. "Whichever's gonna get to the point without wasting too much of my time," she finally answers. A second passes. She squints at Leah, expression shifting to a shade of slightly less glum so slightly less it might as well be elation. "See something you like?"
Leah	Leah steps forwards ahead of America. There isn't a seam in the back of her dress. Maybe it has some other trickery. "Thank you," she says, and SOON "Yes," Leah answers. She then takes a deep breath and begins to speak. "The three you confronted escaped from the afterlife to which they had been justly sent by the authority of my mistress, Hela. I am not yet fully aware of the method by which they accomplished this, and I believe that they had accomplices in Midgard." Leah says, in a slightly more parenthetical voice, "(This world.)" "I had pursued them for some time which is why I have shown great desire to sit and eat," Leah explains. There is an interlude with the waitress. "I wish a strawberry-and-banana milkshake and a plate of the 'Super Fries.'" Back to America. "They had, no doubt, some connection to the vehicle which you so ably destroyed. I'm very impressed. I have met strong persons, but to strike the skulls of the dead from their spinal columns is not typically accomplished with such ease. Please do not take this as an insult: You are among the living?" If anything Leah seems curious. Also, the gold coins have little faded imprints in script. One of them seems to have a fat dude on the back. No, there's two other guys. But mostly the fat guy.
America Chavez	Really, considering Leah just did what basically, in America's mind, amounts to ghostbusting with even more special effects, she's just going to chalk that dress up to yet more magical nonsense. It's probably for the best. "Yeah, I know Midgard," is her first, off-handed remark to Leah's explanation as she leans back into her seat at the booth. Her arms rising up, they drape across the back of her seat leisurely, fingers tapping against the surface as she peers at Leah beneath the brim of her cap. "Asgardians." The word is uttered from her lips both with familiarity and the measured ease of someone who already had an idea as to Leah's identity. The gloriously fat man on the coin was a bit of a giveaway. But how she knows that particular realm isn't really something she feels like divulging. Instead, she just utters a simple, "Figures," in an easy-come easy-go kind of way, and lowers a hand to slide her menu towards the waitress. "Okay, we're good. I won't kick your ass," she declares, simply, in front of said waitress, offering her a simple, brief look. "Bacon pancakes. Thanks." All of these things uttered as simply as someone reciting the alphabet. "So, they gonna be a problem anymore? Any chance of more of them coming through?" America continues on easily enough once she's ascertained she doesn't have to hit Leah (yet). The blunt compliments just earn the faint arch of the Utopian girl's brow, head cocked ever-so-slightly to the right. "Yep. Pretty damn alive," is her first observation. She even pinches herself exactly once, as if to void all possibility of counter-argument. As to how she accomplished what she did: "It's just what I do. I punch shit. Don't worry about it." The perfect explanation. %
Leah	Leah's eyebrows raise when America says 'Asgardians'. While it would not be clear save through those who use intrusive telepathy (and that is its own dating site), America firmly enters the category of 'people' in the handmaid's estimation. "I'm pleased," Leah says, regarding her ass's safety. Then she tilts her head as if to give the matter consideration. "The three in question will be no more of a problem," Leah says. "I shall place them, to be certain, in a place which will be far more difficult to flee." Did something just groan somewhere? It's hard to say. Might be the train or a car or something. "I do not think more escapes are likely, but I will not tempt the fates by claiming absolute certainty. If there were escalation, I would be informed." Leah seems satisfied with that, and her head tilts in the other direction at America's explanation. "As you intend to remain, may I have your name? It would make conversation easier." BUT WILL IT RAT YOU OUT TO HEL? maybe.
America Chavez	"Good," comes America's first simple but resolute summation of Leah's plans to deal with those three soldiers. Was that an ominous groan? Her brows crunch inward in response, bound at their center in a thoughtful knot before she appends, helpfully, "Fuck 'em." And that settles that, as far as she's concerned. "I'll find whoever helped them over here and take care of it," she offers afterwards, in a way that isn't so much an offer as a 'declaration of inevitability' from the sheer, blunt matter-of-factness of her tone. Her hands locking behind the back of her baseball cap-covered head, brains rocking slightly to the left as she moves, she watches Leah from the other side of the booth for a quiet moment as if judging whether she should really hand out her name to the handmaiden. Three seconds of potentially tense silence passes. And ultimately, the response comes as casually detached as can be, for all that brief lead up. "America Chavez," she greets simply, ratting herself out to the depths of Hel without much more of a second thought. It might help that it's a name that probably doesn't exist in any book of the dead. The benefits of being born outside the conventional boundaries of 'time' and 'space' and 'universes.' "Thought your boss only went after Asgardian souls," she adds, after a moment of rumination as she waits for her destined pancakes. "There some kinda Nazi clause here I don't know about?"
Leah	"I understand completely," Leah says, "but they may not be here, exactly. It may be as little as a very lucky scape." She dips her head at the name. It is not one that comes to mind for Leah, but nor does she inquire further on it. Then America shows herself to be well informed further. Leah folds her hands atop her paper placemat. "That is correct," she states, "but there are some few who are destined for her halls as well. There is an unfortunate number of those who you mention; there are also some others, even now. Not many, but you seem well travelled." As the food arrives, Leah says, "There are so many mortals, lately." Her attention goes down to the Super-Fries. They've got cheese on 'em. And well shredded pot roast. Leah opts not to use a fork. The resulting process is tentative yet satisfying and occupies the organs normally used for speech.
America Chavez	"Yeah, maybe," America seems willing to concede; not that she's not going to look into it. But, considering how many ghosts and other various forms of undead wander around pretty much everywhere, it's hard to discount it as a very real possibility. And as these thoughts run through her head, she ruminates wisely: "Ghosts are a giant pain in my ass." Truly she has a way with words. She seems fairly content to listen as Leah explains, though, gathering that stack of bacon-laced pancakes towards her as she plucks up a knife. Brown eyes lift the handmaiden's way, a single brow lifting upward. "Like overcrowded prisons, or some crap," she surmises as to the presence of mortals in Hel. "You're some kind of supermax for super shitbags." She seems well-traveled, and to that, America offers no argument. She just stuffs a slice of pancakes into her mouth and chews, only answering with a non-answer of, "I get around," before suddenly -- there is a fork invading Leah's personal space, laden with pancake. "Trade," America offers simply, offering the fork to Leah even as she unilaterally decides to take some of those fries with her other hand. Just like that. "So many mortals, so many more ways for them to get screwed over."
Leah	"You speak truly, America Chavez," Leah concurs about ghosts. "Hm. Not crowded," she then says, "but what you say isn't wrong. Do you think that death is a prison?" Then - Fork. Leah's eyes go down to the proffered fork for a moment. She reaches up to take the fork, fingers right where America's are, even as her fries are plundered. She raises the bite to her lips, slides it in, and draws the fork out from between closed lips. From her expression, the taste is surprising in a positive way. There is a faint 'crnch' from within her mouth from the crispier bits. "Excellent," she concludes. The milkshake is brought nearer to herself then, even as she twirls the fork to proffer it handle-first with the other hand. "Are they a local speciality?" Leah then begins to drink the milkshake. The process does not stop during America's inevitable answer, even if that answer is silence.
America Chavez	"Depends on where you end up after," is America's answer, curt but to the point, as Leah takes that fork from her. Her hand falls away, elbow resting on the back of the chair as she lifts those very cheesey, pot roasty fries to her lips. "My experience, the prisons usually end up being the revolving door kind." And then she eats. She chews, swallows, frowns quizzically. "Damn," she mutters, peering at that basket of fries. "Super." Just as advertised. Who would have thought? Regardless, as Leah expresses her own opinion, a muted look of approval makes its transient way across the Latina's expression. Fairly content with her water, she just takes a sip as Leah indulges in her apparent love of milkshakes; by the time she's done, Leah is still imbibing, inspiring a slow 'huh' of an expression to etch itself into the rise of her brows. "I guess. Don't really come here often. But..." she considers. "... it's not bad." Which basically amounts to her seal of approval. After that, she just sort of watches. With some kind of impassive fascination. "... Really into milkshakes, huh, chica." It's not exactly a question.
Leah	There is a low, guttering sound as the milkshake is finished. "No," Leah says, gazing without blinking at America Chavez. She is smiling, but only with her eyes. "Quite the reverse."