#rebuildevent2

“FRIDAY,” Tony snapped as he made his way into the penthouse, pulling off chunks of the suit. Thor and Carol had left him off on the landing pad, and if that wasn’t degrading enough, there was a hole in his chest where the arc reactor usually was. On the fly over, the arc reactor, damaged from a Syndifucker’s knife, began to overheat. Tony had to rip it out, and it was it that was sitting, smoking, in the middle of his palm. “Get me a cardiac report. Run diagnostics, find out the damage, calibrate the electromagnets for immediate extract-”

Trying to keep his voice calm only lasted so long. With a sudden yell, he threw the arc reactor to the ground, watching as it smashed against the marble tiles, the cool blue energy draining to a dim light before cutting out entirely. He went behind the bar, pulled out a cigar box – the very same as the one downstairs in the workshop – and picked out a core. It was then that he realised why FRIDAY hadn’t answered him.

Jessica was on the sofa, her familiar features cast in the dim lighting. Tony paused for a second, chest heaving, meeting her eye through the darkness. He dropped his gaze, pulled up his shirt and lined the new reactor up with the gaping hole in his chest, thumping it hard with his fist until a loud click indicated it was in place. His heart began pounding, and a sudden shooting pain erupted from behind the reactor. Too long without the palladium core … too long he had continued to operate the suit. He couldn’t stop his hand from going to his chest, but allowed his shirt to fall again as he braced against the bar.

“I’m fine,” he said, to Jessica or himself or FRIDAY he wasn’t sure. “I just need a-” Hands went on instinct alone to the only semi-full bottle left on the counter. Vodka, Barnes’ favourite for the taste. A bitter smirk came over Tony’s face as he pressed it to his lips and tipped it back.

MJ was great. Netflix was great. Making out with MJ while they were supposed to be watching Netflix was even greater. Wanda had suggested that it wasn’t the brightest idea for Pietro to go out when the streets had broken into yet more violence, but when he told her he was headed to Clint’s, she had reluctantly accepted. Technically it wasn’t a lie. He just stopped to pick up MJ along the way, neatly dodging any carnage on the streets before bursting into Clint and Natasha’s place and taking up the spot on the sofa that he’d basically christened as his from the time he spent there. If Wanda looked into his mind she’d see only honesty there … and okay, maybe a little of something else.

“See, I told you Dorito kisses were a good idea,” Pietro said with a smirk, although the chips that rested between them had been well and truly forgotten for a while now, and Lucky had ran off with the tangy cheese in his mouth. MJ Watson was an amazing kisser, seriously. It almost allowed Pietro to forget that they were on Clint’s couch, and the fact that someone else’s face flickered in his mind for just a second. “What are we watching, anyway?” he asked, looking up briefly at the screen which was definitely not showing the same thing they’d put on in the first place. “Dog Cops? Why the hell did Netflix choose Dog Cops?”

Pietro looked back at MJ and shrugged, pressing his mouth to hers again, a hand going for her waist. Dog Cops faded back into irrelevance, and for all intents and purposes, Pietro Maximoff was satisfied.

It never lasted long. Clint fucking Barton.

                               New York City will never be the same.

It had been nearly a month, since New York City fell into war. The tensions had been mounting for over a year, but Karl Orse’s declaration, and his subsequent refusal to give up control of the Strike Force, was the final straw that pushed the city to its boiling point. The Syndicate grew more brazen. The Strike Force more ruthless. Unregistered and Registered heroes were caught directly in the center – as were the citizens of the city.

The day began quietly, like any other in the new order of things. Syndicate forces attacked a Strike Force warehouse where weapons were being stored. In the ensuing chaos, a bomb exploded, taking half of the street with it. Luckily, most of the buildings were unoccupied. Causalities were minimal.

The Strike Force reported the attempted to raid to Orse. Orse looked out from his high-rise, the penthouse suite, which afforded him a picture-perfect view of the Hudson. He ordered his men to seek ‘justice’ for the slight, which meant attacking the Syndicate in their home base: Attilan.

A ship was commandeered for the mission. Without seeking approval, the Strike Force boarded an ordinary cruise ship, one that was scheduled to tour the Hudson and the city coast. Families and children were aboard. The civilians had no choice but to comply, but when the boat approached the floating city, people began to panic. A Strike Force soldier fired his weapon to regain order, but the bullet ricocheted into a young child. The child did not survive. A bloody riot was started.

News of the child’s death spread quickly. More riots sprang up. Citizens took to the streets en masse. The NYPD was flooded with reports of looting, fires, and public destruction. The city’s rage would not be quelled.

Deep in the heart of Attilan, the Syndicate leader watched the news reports come in. She turned to her cult, and with a nod, they understood. It was time to end this.

Orse felt similarly. He gave orders to his men to secure the city – by whatever means necessary.

The Unregistered heroes who had gathered under Captain America’s call to arms, decided enough was enough. Enough innocent blood had been shed. It was time for heroes to clear their names, and to prove that they could make a difference.

The Registered heroes, who had signed the Accords in order to take responsibility for their actions, decided that accountability meant little if those they were accountable for were corrupt. The Panel had been in utter disarray since Orse’s proclamation, and by and large, the Registered were on their own to handle this crisis.

Strike Force troops landed on the shore of Attilan. Syndicate forces were spotted in every corner of the city.

And heroes? There was no shortage of them. They would fight for peace, no matter the cost. No matter what side they had been on. The lines were blurred and bloody now.

New York City was on fire. But some still hoped that the flames could be doused. That peace could once again come to the city. It would not be easily attained. And it would be dangerously wrought.

The week had barely begun, but Wednesday July 26, soon began to be called the ‘End of Days.’

WHAT’S HAPPENED:

It’s all-out war. The city is in chaos. Your character must choose how and when they will enter the fray, because staying on the sidelines is no longer an option. Destruction, death, and danger lurks around every corner. No one is holding back anymore. Civilians are caught in the crossfire, Syndicates are attempting to take out everyone they can, and the Strike Force is enacting a hostile take-over under Orse’s command.

Please refer to these prompts and pairings for the event. You are also free to explore other options and start other threads, but after a week, the fighting will cease. So write quickly!

As always, any major developments, like serious injury or death, should be run by the admins before enacted in a thread.

Enjoy the chaos. It will all be over soon.

The event will last one week. Ending next Wednesday at midnight EST.

Most of the diner was still standing, and there was still a coffee pot brewing in case anyone came in. (The owner was crazy and no one but people seeking shelter had entered, what self-respecting hero would stop for coffee right now?!). But now it was a little quieter, a few less people about and Shelly was checking to see how much of the diner could be salvaged. At least it seemed like a clean break in the wall. Plus, there hadn’t been any thefts - they were clearly really lucky. As she swept up some of the rubble, she heard something from outside and felt herself go cold as she noticed the guys outside. Not that unusual, plenty of guys in NYC - not so great to see some with weapons though. Wasn’t the carnage over now?

So when she was walking home from her office late at night and noticed a large group of Strike Force members hanging around the corner, she stopped in her tracks. She thought about turning around, taking a different way home or maybe crashing at a friends house, but then she heard footsteps approaching from behind, and her whole body tensed up. Jen didn’t want to hulk out if it wasn’t necessary, especially since she was wearing a brand new dress that fit her just right. Instead she turned around slowly, waiting to determine if the person behind her was a threat or not before making any impulsive decisions. 

M’gann kept her eyes tightly shut. Part of her still prayed that this was all just one of the terrible nightmares that had plagued her ever since she’d escaped the Lab. But the sounds and the terrible, burning heat were all too real. She couldn’t avoid the awful truth any longer. The Panel had finally succeeded. The Martian had been captured once more and this time, she feared, there would be no escape.

Hazy memory flooded her mind. A crowded sidewalk at morning rush hour. Cell phones ringing. A woman yelled for a taxi. M’gann knew she had been heading to the park. Or the library? The good doctor’s office? Then someone blocked her way. The scientist. M’gann recalled the terror and then a sharp pain in her back and then darkness.

She shook the memory out of her head. With great effort, M’gann forced herself to sit up and scan the area. A red light filled the space and numbed M’gann’s skin. The heat and the noise made her mind and body behave sluggishly. M’gann cautiously held her palm out in one hand and a lock of hair in the other. Nothing moved. Muffled laughter filled the orb. There would be no telekinesis and no shifting in this cell.

Reluctantly, she looked around for more. The space was barely large enough for her to lie down and contained no furniture of any kind. Aside from her own body, the cell was entirely empty. The cell itself was a spherical orb which reflected everything inside the orb back like a mirror. M’gann stared miserably at her own reflection and pressed a hand to it.

The wall was burning. She pulled her hand away fast, like she’d touched the surface of a hot stove, and clasped it to herself. Faint laughter resonated from outside the orb. M’gann narrowed her eyes. Although she might only see her own reflection, someone was right outside the spherical cell and was looking in at her. Perfect. A burning two-way mirror, she realized grimly. The distractions, the sweltering heat, the shape of the room. Everything was precisely designed to keep her contained.

And she could think of no way out.

@pxterparkour

Her city was burning. Hell’s Kitchen looked like an actual goddamn hell. And she was tired of it. Enough was goddamn enough. She’d spent the last five days detoxing and sobering up, and she still wasn’t 100% on her feet, but she could stand again. And the old familiar rage was coursing through her. That was enough to keep her going.

She couldn’t go after the Syndicate. She knew that much. She didn’t trust herself, knew that she wouldn’t be able to hold back after watching what they’d done to her family, her home, and to the people she cared about. They’d attacked nearly all her friends -- and even if they hadn’t been able to touch Stark while he was wearing that terrifying white armor, they’d tried. Besides, they were a by-product, a symptom of the real problem. The real problem was the goddamn Panel. 

In the five days when she’d been down for the count, when she wasn’t throwing up, she was researching. Combing through Stark’s database while he conveniently pretended not to notice. That access gave her a location. The Panel’s new headquarters. But it was the prison that really caught her attention.

The prison they would’ve certainly thrown her into, if they’d ever managed to get their hands on her. She was smart enough, clear-headed enough, to know that this city needed all the goddamn help it could get right now. Her powers were C-grade at best. She couldn’t do this alone. But the superfreaks they had locked up in that prison? They were the real goddamn deal. She couldn’t rescue the city, couldn’t save the world, but she could help the people who could. 

She left a note for Stark, armed with apologies and explanations, and left her phone behind. She couldn’t take the distractions, honestly. Then she made her way through the burning, hell city, and found the enormous, grey building. No windows. Surrounded by a barbed wire fence. 

Laughable. Or it would’ve been if she felt like laughing. Jessica reached forward easily and ripped a hole in the fence. She wasn’t subtle about it. She wanted them to know she was coming. They’d started this fight, and now it was at their doorstep.

Security was stretched thin -- two guards at the door aimed at her, but she jumped, over their heads, and landed behind them. She knocked their heads together, and they both crumpled. Alive, but unconscious. Just how she liked her Strike Force Assholes. 

Quickly, quietly, Peter stepped into his room and pushed the door shut behind him. The change was practiced by now: the suit draped over the back of the desk chair; t-shirt off; the spandex sliding on one limb at a time, adjusting to fit as he went; mask and gloves on last; spare web fluid clicked into the belt; and showtime. The whole process took about a minute (fifty-one seconds was his running best), and, before he could stop to think, he was sliding out the window onto the fire escape.

Realistically, anyone would try to talk him out of this. Sneaking out his bedroom window to fight in a war, no plan, no preparations, no practice--even he could admit it was stupid. But he didn’t have any better ideas, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit around and watch it unfold on TV. No, it would be better to just get out into it before someone could stop him. All roads led back to a grounding in Queens and a sulky billionaire, neither of which Peter particularly wanted. 

So he stood up to get his bearings, climbed onto the railing, and crouched to prepare for his first shot. And then he heard a door and footsteps and breathing, closer, closer, closer. Eyes closed, without turning around, he sighed. “I know what you’re going to say.”