17021/What's That Sound

What's That Sound
Date of Scene:	26 January 2024
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	John wants his coat back. John bargains to get it.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine

---

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The House of Mystery predates John.

Pre-dates, rather than preys-upon. Albeit it is a predatory house, sometimes, gobbling up socks and mail like a proper house should. We're getting off track from the point.

---

Back to the present. The house is older than he, and older than his wife, and certainly older than most of the Laughing Magicians that made any sort of claim to the name. The beginnings, as beginnings tend to be, are squidgy and murky on the point they actually start. Lots left to the discerning mind to edit and formulate out. But in their time together, the house's peculiar nature has often been in evidence. Like his coffee being on a different tabletop or Escher-ish plane from where he put it down.

Today the matter is plain. The door to the room where he left his coat won't open. The walls are moaning.

At least one wall moaned. Completely. A long, sorrowful groan of something releasing pent-up kinetic energy into sound.

John Constantine has posed:
"Oh, come _on_!" John shakes the door by the doorknob, frustrated beyond belief. "You're being BLOODY ANNOYING today, ain't'cha?" he tells the House, spinning around and wagging his finger at it. "If I find out this is because you want a new coat'a paint in one'a the rooms we dun even use, I swear t'the Presence itself--" which means he doesn't mean it, fuck the Presence "--I'll install _CENTRAL AIR_ in you!"

He turns to the door and grabs the knob again, putting his feet against it and pulling. Eventually, he slips and lands on his back. _Thud_.

He lets out a groan in concert with the wall. "_Fuck_. Fine." He slaps the floor and gets back up. "Let's figure out what's got you wailing like yer auditionin' for a role in a play by Emily fuckin' Bronte."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The doorknob rattles and refuses to satisfy, turning this what and that. It still won't part, as though the metal tongue is jammed firmly in the slot.

Wouldn't be the first time that's happened to Constantine, probably. The door rattles noisily, raising all kinds of hell if they had neighbours who cared.

This week the House might have relocated itself to Miagani Island in a neighbourhood it tends not to prefer, but there are probably reasons for that. If a sentient building actually *needs* reasons. It might have to do with the hairdresser down the street not posh enough to call herself a stylist. Or the beauty salon boasting some impressive collections of towering wigs, beloved of the local community of Queens and those who wish they could be.

The rattle settles into a creak in the foundations as John tramps around, throwing threats. Idle or not, a table slides into place just enough for him to stub his toe. Because he probably forgot that little end table was there, decorated with Tibetan singing bowls -- two -- and a weird sculpture crafted from fired clay that probably came out of a suspicious kiln. A succubus didn't make it, at least.

Still no coat.

John Constantine has posed:
"OWWWWWW!" John pulls his foot up and then looks at the table. "You-- this is borderline abuse, you hundred ton paperweight!" Is he shaking his fist at the House? He might be shaking his fist at the House. "What do you _want_? Why can't you be like Danny? At least he communicates with words." Constantine sighs. "Bloody loci." He turns to look at the sculpture and the Tibertan singing bowls. For a moment, he considers, and then he crouches to look at the statue, trying to see if he can sus out if this is a clue or just the House being a _biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch_.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Is he shaking his fist? Is he shouting at clouds?

As if to make the point, the condensation slowly bleeds out of the air to form a misty puff overtop John's head.

Splat. Splat. Splat.

Three little raindrops sprinkle on his shoulders. No coat to protect from the precipitation, but he's British so it's hardly going to melt away like the wicked witch. Flying monkeys, on the other hand...

The statue resembles nothing more than a slinky wobble capped by a rounded crown. It's not a snake dancing on its tail at least. The Tibetan singing bowl boasts its own wood-handled striker, or whatever he wants to consider the round-bottomed --girl-- mallet.

Danny can talk. Then again, so can a humming singing bowl.

John Constantine has posed:
Constantine sighs. "Fine." He grabs the striker and inspects it for a moment, before closing hsi eyes and trying to remember how they did it in Tibet, because he's been to Tibet, he knows how to do this, he just needs to _remember_ the right way because otherwise he's going to end up without _shoes_ next.

Finally, John brings the strike down gently, and then slides it around the inside, trying to get out those dulcet meditative sounds. Or a fucking answer.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The prayer bowl rings to life in a hum. A voice that pipes up in a steady tone. "You haven't paid any attention to me."

A comment that holds a damning indictment.

John Constantine has posed:
_Are you fucking kidding?_

"What do you bloody mean I haven't paid any attention to you. I live inside you!" Meanwhile, he keeps playing the Tibetan bowl. "What kind of attention would you bloody want?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The door creaks, hinges shiver, and the wood rattles in the jam. When the prayer bowl hums, the voice of the House comes through, though she could just as easily manifest herself if she wanted. Apparently doesn't want to.

"Oh, you *live* in me. That is hardly attention." The even sound somehow contains an ascerbic bite. "You come, you go, and pay no heed. This is the first time you bothered to talk to me in forever."

John Constantine has posed:
"You're a bloody magical House, what do you want me to say? 'Good morning, dear'?" John keeps turning the bloody striker so that the House can answer. "Also, not to put too fine of a point on it but you're hardly an _engaging_ conversationalist, luv, what with having to play a bloody Tibetan singing bowl just to get resentment and reproach." Beat. "And _Cici_ talks to you _all the time_, you can hardly be lonely with her, she's bloody brilliant!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Maybe a fresh coat of paint, darling. How about a new drive, some sprucing up? Not using the janky plunger in the master bath, but the nice one?

Not the House of Mystery's concern.

"You left a carcass emitting a foul residue tainted by one of Mephisto's lieutenants in a cupboard," she hums along with the bowl, if a touch tetschy. "Flinging down your things and stalking off to smoke a cigarette or down a fifth from that bottle hardly constitutes interaction."

Oh, she can talk. This just requires effort and attention on his part, which John probably knows and doesn't care about.

The floor quivers under his feet. Not enough to throw him off, but a response all the same. "Stuffing a cupboard and wiping a counter occasionally meets the bar? She at least puts up her pictures. And this is not about the others. This is about you."

A sharp little hum of thought resolves after a second. "You won the right and the obligation. When was the last time you spent any proper time in your workshop brewing up an enchantment or kludging up a circle after pulling two all nighters?"

John Constantine has posed:
"House, I've got a wife, a kid, and a whole bloody world full of _idiots_ who think _magic_ isn't real unless it's cursing them every three days, my mother in law is the _Earth itself_, and you think _now_ is the time to add to my social plate? I'll ask you this, when was the last time I went to a footie match instead of 'aving to watch them on the bloody telly, _recorded, two days late_, whilst trying to evade the results so that the very JOY of it doesn't _seep from my body like dry c_--" He stops playing the Tibetan bowl for a moment, takes a deep breath, and then starts again.

"I. Am sorry. I will set aside weekly pockets of time to do some renovations. You are appreciated, and it was not my intent to suggest otherwise with my neglect."

If he gritted his teeth any harder they'd spontaneously combust.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The House's sense of time, since it essentially comes from some point between the start thereof and humans leaving caves, may be dodgy. It may not.

The bowl stops playing. The voice doesn't stop exactly. Not for that second. "Remember what happened with the stolen World Cup?"

Trust it to know about that.

"You've not heard of multi-tasking, which everyone does terribly? The child can draw and talk. You have more stimulating conversation than questioning the movements of the quarks under your feet. Very rude I might add, to ask a lady what she has under her underflooring." Then a pause. "You can put away the corpse and possibly brainstorm *aloud* once in a glacial while? It's hardly much to ask. Especially if you're going about grumbling under your breath anyway, add the good parts."

John Constantine has posed:
"That didn't count, that was work. I didn't get to enjoy the match."

Constantine frowns, but it's moke like sulking. "Can I get my coat now?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Sulking! Ooh, such a change in...

The door clicks. An unlocked gesture. "Mind you ignore me and I'll lock you in."

Beat. "And let the child have those chocolate espresso beans she's asked for."

John Constantine has posed:
"Much obliged," Constantine says, putting the strike down. Great, the last thing he needed: the House of Mystery being his daughter's fairy godmother. Fucknuggets.