20185/The Mark Of The Damned

The Mark Of The Damned
Date of Scene:	09 March 2025
Location:	Cedar Ridge -- Maine
Synopsis:	The demon Morgrith attempts to lure John into a trap and despite his precautions, Constantine just might take the bait...
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Madelyne Pryor

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John Constantine has posed:
Nestled along the rugged Atlantic coastline, Cedar Ridge is, on the surface, a nearly prototypical small New England town. This far into the northeast winter lingers, a biting chill and the briny tang of the ocean permeating the air, setting a somber tone for the night.

Full dark has already settled over the town and while the artificial lights that dot the streets, dot the homes of this village wage war against the night, strangely it almost feels like they are losing.

Weathered cobblestone streets and time-worn brick buildings are bathed in the soft light of fading street lamps, their shadows dancing eerily against ancient cedar trees that give the hamlet it's name. The sea roars in the distance, its ceaseless whispers ebbing and flowing, constantly lapping up against those oceanside wharfs that have both seen better days and greater activity. A half dozen fishing trawlers rock slightly in the surface, looking for the most part just as battered as the docks themselves.

At the rocky point that juts out into the water, a spire of white and red, the paint faded and chipped in better light, a deserted lighthouse rises up above any of the other buildings in town to cast it's swinging light over both water and oceam alike in a slow, resolving circle. But even it seems faded somehow, as if struggling against the gloom that has settled over the city.

An unsettling stillness prevails, one that seems both sad and ominous at the same time, almost like the town is at war with itself. Every gust of wind seems to carry a faint, barely heard warning.

While the hour is not yet midnight, the town seems to already linger beneath a blanket of sleep, the streets quiet and all but deserted, with only the occasional passing car on the old highway that runs along the outskirts of town giving any sign that the whole place isn't deserted.

A light snow falls, barely adding to the small dusting of white already on the ground and rooftops and vehicles that line the streets and on a craggy hill that perches looking over the town there is a shift. Between the blinking of eyes it goes from a deserted rocky promontory to one populated by a sprawling, Victorian mansion that looks like something from out of another age. It's weathered facade is still festooned with icy that clings to every outer wall, trimmed back only from those dark windows that glint in the moonlight.

After a moment the door to that unlikely building opens, a man in a beige trenchcoat appearing there on the porch, looking down over the sleepy hamlet sprawled out below. For a moment he just stares at the town, then tilts his head as if listening, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at whatever it is that he hears, sees.

Then hands plunge into the pockets of that flowing coat, otherwise unguarded against the wintery chill in the air and he starts to trudge down the slope, shuffling until he reaches the street his gaze focused on a small brick home that sits right near the bottom of that same hill, just shy of those docks.

The wind seems to pick up, stirring through bare boughs and the thickly needled pines alike and again John Constantine's eyes narrow consideringly, the wariness of a small animal being hunted by much bigger prey flashing through them as he shuffles along, breath misting in the cold.

Stopping outside the door he considers it for just a moment, eyes fixed on it with rodent-like intensity before a faint smirk seems to curl his lip, that brief resemblance to a tiny, helpless creature washed away by the seeming arrogance in the expression. Stepping up, he balls a hand up into a fist and instead of simply knocking he pounds the flat on that hand against the door repeatedly.

"Oi! Jonesy. You called, I came. Don't waste my bloody time."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
The first thing Madelyne registers is the cold.

It isn't gradual -- one moment, she's warm, tangled in sheets that aren't entirely hers, the familiar scent of Kurt's room at Xavier's surrounding her. The next, she's... here.

Not there. _Here_.

She exhales sharply, visible breath curling in front of her, a thin wisp of proof that she's somewhere she shouldn't be. The air is damp with the briny tang of the ocean, the bite of winter pressing against her skin. Beneath her boots -- boots? She went to sleep barefoot -- the wood is old and creaks ominously.

A house. A dark hallway stretches outward, its doors slightly ajar, revealing nothing but deeper dark. The scent of dust and salt lingers in the air.

Her fingers twitch, instinctively seeking something to hold onto. Her phone. Not there. No coat. No bag. Just the clothes on her back -- dark jeans, boots, the burgundy sweater she'd left folded over a chair the night before. The sheer wrongness of it sets her pulse thrumming in her throat, steady but heightened, a whisper of fight-or-flight.

She presses inward, testing the edges of her own mind. Did someone touch her memories? Did she teleport? Is this another cruel joke played by the Phoenix fragment buried deep in her bones?

The last thing she remembers is falling asleep.

Now she's here, and she has no idea how much time has passed.

A _pounding_ sound shatters the quiet. Rhythmic, insistent, close. It rattles through the house -- not from within, but from beyond its walls. Somewhere below.

Then, a voice -- male, rough, laced with irritation -- half-muffled through old wood and distance. The words scatter before they reach her, but the tone is unmistakable: someone who doesn't care for pleasantries.

Madelyne moves, quiet, measured, down the staircase, not rushing but not hesitating either.

She doesn't call out. Not yet.

She doesn't know where she is.

She doesn't know why she's here.

And she doesn't know who the hell just knocked on the door.

But she intends to find out.

John Constantine has posed:
It is a playbook he has fallen back upon almost too many times to count.

When in doubt pick the brash route. Present the confident, even arrogant face. Sure, it has gotten him into trouble before. More times then John can count. But it has got him through so many varied situations without them devolving into something truly dangerous. Something that maybe he would - finally - not be able to handle.

This should have been simple enough. An old friend, someone from back in the day, someone who he owes, asking for help. Unwilling to say too much over the phone. Clearly whatever it was happened to be enough to coax the House of Mystery into action. To make the strange, mystical confluence that he calls home transport him to this nothing town on the coast of Maine. That alone is enough to tell him there's something to all of this.

But this town? It just feels wrong. It's too still. Even for an out of the way hamlet, it's too dead right now.

So he pounds on that door in front of him, beating his fist against the solid wooden barrier. He slams his hand into it again with that jarring impact and raises his voice in obnoxious fashion. "'Urry it up in there already mate. I'm freezing my balls off out 'ere," he bellows, seemingly indifferent to how his voice carries over the quiet street.

But even as he stands there, his gaze darts about, sweeping over the nearby street, over the nearby homes, looking for a light to go on, for the shifting of drapes rustled by curious, annoyed eyes peering out into the dark to see what asshole is causing a disturbance at this time of night.

And nothing.

That nothing clearly tells John something though, because he goes right on hammering at that door, his mouth set into a thin line.

Inside the house that Madelyne Pryor happens to find herself, there is a stirring. It takes a moment, but as she creeps towards those stairs leading down, the light downstairs flickers on and a shambling figure briefly passes by the stairs, a glimpse of him visible momentarily through the bannister.

A big man, a strong man is the initial thought. But one who has gone to seed. Too many late nights, too much drinking, that flesh beginning to drape awkwardly on his frame. Visible only momentarily, he shuffles past, those steps slow, hesitant, shambling along as if feet are too heavy to life more then an inch above the ground as he approaches the pounding from his front door.

And when the door opens, Archie Jones - Jonesy - stands there, practically a caricature of himself. Only a few strands of greying hair cling to his head, jutting out from his scalp like porcupine needles. Eyes, heavily shadowed and bloodshot peer out from sunken depths. A huge sigh makes that mountain of flesh stir in almost disturbing fashion and a brief, pained smile slides across the man's face.

"Johnny. You came," he rasps out, his voice sounding like it desperately needs some lubricant. Maybe from one of those nearly empty bottles that are perched on almost every available surface. The end table by the shabby couch. Atop the fireplace mantle. Even scattered haphazardly on the floor.

Jonesy extends a hand, a greeting between old mates, but Constantine's hands are back in the pockets of his trenchcoat now and he edges past his old friend into the old brick house that has clearly seen better days, careful not to so much as brush up against the sad figure of a man.

"You called, I came," he reiterates, a certain resignation to his words. "So. Lets get down to it, right?"

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
The house feels... wrong.

Not in the obvious ways -- not in the peeling wallpaper, the stale scent of old liquor clinging to the furniture, or even in the uneven warmth that lingers on the first floor.

It's something deeper, something beneath the surface.

Madelyne doesn't move.

She barely breathes.

From where she lingers in the shadows of the staircase, she watches.

The light downstairs flickers on, casting long, skeletal shadows through the slats of the bannister. A figure lumbers past, his form briefly bisected by the wooden railing -- large, but sagging.

Like the house, something about his gait is wrong -- not unsteady, not drunk, but shambling, like something weighing him down with each step.

He doesn't see her.

She waits, pressing herself back against the curve of the stairwell, as still as the house itself.

The pounding at the door reverberates through the space again, shaking dust loose from corners long undisturbed. The front door groans as it opens, hinges whining like an old wound being forced apart. The man -- Jonesy, the stranger called him -- says something. She can't see his face from this angle, but she doesn't need to.

She can hear it in the weight of his breath.

In the resignation.

The other man steps inside. British. Smug. Arrogant. She can hear it in his voice, even before she sees him. He doesn't trust the man who let him in. Not really. There's a pause before he speaks again, before he moves further inside, like he's assessing the air itself. Like he knows something is watching.

Madelyne presses her palm against the stair beside her, grounding herself. The wood is warm. Not in the way a lived-in house should be -- this isn't body heat, isn't life. It's a warmth that settles under the skin like an infection.

She isn't supposed to be here.

And whatever brought her here knows it.

She stays still, carefully reaching out with her telepathic awareness to touch the minds of the two men, to shield herself from perception as much as to determine their intentions.

John Constantine has posed:
"It's good to see you John," Jonesy rasps, seeming to go for an alternate tack.

But the words are almost clumsy. Slurred. It could easily be taken for drink - certainly there is plenty of evidence to that effect laying about - but it doesn't sound quite like a voice too thick with drink. To a mind slowed and impaired by alcohol. It sounds more like... a tongue that is too thick, too heavy. Too big to quite fit properly in the mouth that holds it.

Again, as he speaks, the bloated sack of a man turns to follow his old friend's progress, that hand still jutting out, offered up. Some of that strength that must have been apparent in this man in his younger years is still apparent there in that big, beefy hand, though the skin is winter pale, as if it has been far too long since it has seen the light of day.

Once more Constantine simply ignores the gesture entirely, simply brushes past it, his gaze sweeping over the room and it's unkempt state. Over the dozens of bottles, most of which appear to be empty or nearly empty. At the threadbare carpet on the floor that doesn't appear to have been vacumed in weeks if not longer. At the fireplace and that faint spill of soot that spills out over the brick at the base of it, dribbling down over the lip.

He walks in a slow circuit, passing the sofa and it's sagging cushions and for a moment he comes in view of those stairs, that blond shock of hair apparent, those blue eyes flickering upward, peering through the slats of the railing.

Almost like he can see Madelyne there in the shadows of the upper floor. Almost like he can sense the redhead's presence.

He doesn't let his gaze linger though, abruptly turning his back, planting himself at the base of the stairs as if he intends to stand sentinel there, turning once more to face his old friend, a faintly self-depricating smirk sliding over his features, some of the arrogance that Madelyne hears in his voice, feels emminating from him present there. "So," he says flatly, none of the humor in his expression touching his words. Not even a little. "Are you gonna get down to it or not, mate? You might have all night, old friend," he says, an almost mocking note touching his words at the last. "But not me. Places to be. People to see. You know 'ow it is, eh?" he offers up flippantly.

For a moment the sad sack of a man simply watches John with those deeply sunken eyes, that pained half smile wiped from his expression in the span of two heartbeats, replaced by something akin to a grimace instead. "Not much of a way to talk to an old friend, Johnny," he says, those words still too thick, still slightly slurred. "'Specially not given what you owe me," he adds, his accent almost a match for Constantine's. And a definite note of anger touches those words now. Of resentment. And a hint of something else. Something harder to define.

"I don't hold a grudge though. So put 'er there John and lets put aside those differences," he says, forcing that not-quite smile bck onto his face as he extends his hand once more.

Then, with a speed that belies his size, that seems to have none of that shambling gait that has been in evidence, that mountain of flesh simply lurches forward towards the trenchcoated man as if he intends to seize his hand by force.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
For a man who seemed barely capable of shuffling across the room, he moved fast.

Madelyne's breath catches in her throat as Jonesy lunges, his bloated mass shifting unnaturally, a sudden, violent burst of motion that doesn't belong in the slow, sagging inertia he'd carried before. The wrongness of it sends something sharp and primal skittering up her spine, a sensation she should have noticed sooner -- should have felt before now.

But she hadn't.

Because she wasn't feeling anything at all.

She should have known better. She'd spent too long as a prized target -- Sinister's failed experiment, mutant extremists' fixation, a pawn in the hands of those who believed they had the right to claim her. She should have been assessing her escape, mapping the exits, feeling for minds lurking just out of sight. But she hadn't.

Instead, she'd been watching. Entranced, like a spectator in some slow-burning, inevitable tragedy. The same way she'd once watched through other people's eyes, slipping between their thoughts, letting their perspectives wash over her like warm water.

That's what this was.

Something wanted her to stay.

And for those moments before Jonesy lunged, she'd been helplessly willing to obey.

That realization jolts her into action.

She gasps -- loud, sharp, instinctual. The kind of breath people take when they've almost drowned. And before she can stop herself, before she can consider that maybe she shouldn't, she's already moving.

The house groans under her as she bolts the rest of the way down the stairs, feet barely making contact with the threadbare carpet as she rushes forward, reaching without thinking, because whatever was happening down here -- this wasn't just two men settling an old score.

She doesn't know who Johnny is. Doesn't know why he's here or what he's done to deserve this.

But she knows what it looks like when a man isn't in control of his own body.

And she knows what it means when something else is.

John Constantine has posed:
That sudden surge of action, that abrupt lunge, the shocking speed that the otherwise sad sack of a man can man should come as a surprise. As a shock. People who look like Jonesy, who slur their words as if they have been drinking since sun up and it's now closer to midnight then not shouldn't move with that speed. With that sort of intention.

But nothing about the situation seems to surprise Constantine in the least. It is apparent there in the mocking expression on his features. It is there in the dismissive way he talks to his old friend.

Sure, he could just be an ass. Hell, he probably is just an ass. But he speaks as if someone who can see exactly what is going on. That can see right through the theatre of the moment to the underlying truth. That he sees that this is all one big setup. That he is just humoring all of this for purposes that only he can fully understand.

So the trenchcoated man doesn't seem to be taken by surprise at all when his old friend lunges for him, when he reaches for his hand like his life depends on it, like the only thing that matters is that he get his hands on him.

His hands remain stuffed in the pockets of that tan trench coat. Even when Jonesy lunges at him they don't emerge to fend off the bloated, sad-sack of a man. Instead he just seems to roll, to twist and drop his shoulder. To slide to one side with almost a boxer's grace avoiding a blow.

The only man tries to grab at his coat, to get a hold of him, but John gets a leg between his, he gives a little jerk and sends him sprawling to that dirty carpet with a crash that actually seems to crack the floorboards beneath.

Which is when he spots Maddie racing down those stairs towards him, his eyes narrowing in consideration as if trying to determine whether she is another victim here. Or the next part of the gambit.

Before he can come to any sort of decision however, a series of loud thumps sound from across the room, from behind the door there that likely leads down to the cellar. Heavy, clumsy footfalls on wooden stairs.

At the same time, there comes a pounding at the front door as well and dark shapes can be seen through the curtained windows moving outside. Another thumb sounds and the door shakes in place as more heavy blows rain down by new threats trying to break in.

It seems to make John come to a decision. Maybe it's the fact that there is something in Maddie' expression, something in her eyes that makes him think she's not part of this, but he simply says, "I think you might want to come with me luv. Feels like this place is about to get a little crowded," he drawls out, motioning towards the back of the house, to the arch that presumably leads into the kitchen.

But he doesn't offer her his hand.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne stops at the edge of the wreckage, boots scuffing against the thin carpet. Jonesy is a heap of flesh on the floor, but he's still moving -- small shifts, one shoulder twitching, a knee pulling in.

She doesn't go any closer.

Constantine's looking at her now, his attention sharp and focused. Oddly enough, he doesn't exactly look surprised to see her, which is somehow worse than if he had. He's assessing, not reacting. Trying to place her.

She doesn't really offer him anything to work with. She doesn't trust him any more than he trusts her, but there is that look in her eyes.

Fear? Anger? Barely contained rage at being dragged into yet another situation she knows nothing about?

How is it possible for one woman to keep waking up, completely disoriented, in places she doesn't recognize... and not be some kind of drug addict?

The house gives a low, structural groan. Then comes the sound from the cellar -- wooden steps under too much weight, slow and deliberate. Another impact hits the front door.

She angles her body just enough to keep all the threats in view. The man on the floor, the man in the coat, the ones trying to come in. Her hands are half-raised again, loose and ready. She's already reaching out telepathically, still trying -- still nothing. No minds to touch. No edges to find. Just a gap where thought should be.

She watches Constantine a moment longer, even after his 'suggestion' to follow him, without saying anything. Given what was lying on the floor, now, what do you even say to that?

Another crash hits the door, heavier this time, and she moves. She doesn't trust him -- not even a little -- she needs to get out of this house.

"What in the hell is going on?" she finally demands, even as she passes him.

John Constantine has posed:
While John might not deliberately throw people into the path of danger, might not delight in letting innocents get consumed by the lions, it doesn't look like he is going to try and force her to follow him. Maybe because he doesn't trust her either. Maybe because he has learned that he can't be responsible for other people's decisions. He makes enough shit ones all on his own.

But he can at least try to give her a little bit of the picture - at least as much of it as he knows - to let her make her own, informed decision. "Don't rightly know myself. Jonesy is an old friend. We've been in the trenches together, but that was years ago. For the looks of it, he ain't the bloke I remember. Not sure that it really is him at all anymore," he says almost conversationally as he strides for that arch leading into the kitchen and - hopefully - an unblocked door out the back.

"If I were a bettin' man - and I've been known to lay a pound or two on the ponies - I'd say that Jonesy, maybe this whole damn town - is under the sway of one of the many demons I've pissed off," he says matter of factly, as if everyone goes around with a half dozen demons raging at them at any one time.

He barely has that explanation out when there is a loud crack from behind them and both the cellar door and the front door splinter at almost the same moment, bursting open. Almost immediately a half dozen more people - looking rather bloated and shambling, not like zombies, more like marionettes not entirely in control of their own action - begin pouring into that shabby room behind them, staggering towards them in that unsteady gate.

"Close your eyes for a moment, will ya luv?" John suggests and rather causally flicks his wrist, what looks to be a red velvet pouch flung from it. He jerks his gaze away, continuing for that back door, reaching to jerk it open as that pouch hits the ground behind them, exploding in a brilliant crimson light that draws a pained gasp from the growing crowd that pursues them.

Flash powder. Does John have the magic to do the same without the theatrics, without the gimmicks? Sure. But he has learned that power comes at a price. And those little gimmicks, that street magic only comes with a price tag measured in dollars instead of little pieces of his soul.

Given a choice, he knows how he prefers to pay.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
She doesn't answer him -- not yet -- but she moves when he does, keeping pace a step behind, close enough to follow, far enough to act if he turns on her.

The hall narrows. The air smells like mildew and something that's been left too long in a drain. She ignores it. Focuses on her footing, the angle of his shoulders, the exit ahead. If it's an exit at all.

There's a crash behind -- cellar, front door, both splintering in at once. She still can't touch anything with her mind. Not the ones outside. Not the ones now inside. Just silence.

Close your eyes for a moment, will ya luv?

Something flung. A flick of his hand. She closes her eyes before he tells her to, lifting her hand.

FWOOSH

Light flashes through her eyelids -- hot, clean, painful. The sound that follows isn't human.

She opens her eyes again and keeps moving, not even breaking stride.

"You really go through life with this many demons on your tail?" she asks, voice even, eyes forward. "Starting to think you're not very good at this."

She doesn't wait for a reaction. Doesn't care if he laughs or bristles or tries to defend himself.

None of this was meant for her.

Which somehow makes it so much worse.

John Constantine has posed:
Is he good at this?

It's a pretty debatable point really. By the main way he measures things he'd have to be considered a pretty big success. Afterall, he's still here. Dozens of creatures from the lower hells, numerous other dark powers annoyed, infuriated or betrayed and yet here he still is. Still alive. Still kicking.

Now if you choose to measure things in lives shattered, in friends lost, betrayed or abandoned and maybe things don't add up to such a rosy total for John Constantine. Maybe when he is finally weighed, measured and sent to his just rewards the final sum isn't going to look all that pretty.

Honestly? His own assessment varies day to day.

What he knows right now is that he doesn't intend to let this be the day that he finds out just what the final scales read on his life. Not to whatever second rate demon is after him here.

Her rejoinder only draws a soft snort and then he is into that kitchen, the lights off, the room lit only by the scant light that crawls in from the living room behind them or from the moonlight that creeps in through the windows that look to have not been cleaned in about a thousand years.

Like the room they just abandoned, empty bottles seem to predominate here, so many in fact one has to wonder how Jonesy is still upright, how his liver hasn't simply burst out of his torso and taken flight to try and get away from his self destructive tendencies. Here though it's mixed in with scattered, unwashed dishes and the scent of rotting food that isn't quite overpowering but still adds a distasteful miasma to the air.

"Guess that depends, huh? I at least have some idea of what's going on here. Seems like you have pissed off someone too, to end up here. And you don't seem to know fuck all 'bout what brought you 'ere," he counters casually. "So which of us ain't looking so good luv?"

He doesn't linger, doesn't wait for her reaction. To see if that provokes her. Instead he jerks open the rear door that leads out the back - and finds the way blocked by plywood boards nailed across the door way. An expiative escapes him and his foot rears up, kicking out hard at one of those boards, splintering it, a hint of freeze cold air filtering through the gaps between those boards.

"Looks like they want us to stick 'round. Don't know 'bout you, but I ain't findin' them very hospitable at all.

Again that foot rears back and this time the board simply snaps, breaks and falls away. Great. Only about seven more to go. And already the sound of stirring can be heard from behind them, the heavy, thumps of bloated bodies clambering back to their feet.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Bottles line the counters, the sink, the tops of cabinets -- some empty, some not. There's a plate in the sink with something growing on it. She doesn't look too closely.

Madelyne follows him into the kitchen without comment, though the look she gives him after his parting shot could cut glass.

So which of us ain't looking so good luv?

He's not wrong. She doesn't know what brought her here. Doesn't know what's watching them. Doesn't know why she can't hear a single mind in this place. But she knows what it feels like to be thrown into someone else's nightmare. She's had enough of them hijack her life already.

"Fuck you."

There's no heat to the words. They're dry as dust. Defeated. She doesn't even have enough in the tank to stand there and try to make a decent argument.

He kicks at the door. Boards groan.

Another board snaps under his boot. Cold air slips through the gap.

The thuds behind them are getting louder. Closer. She turns just enough to glance back, eyes narrowing.

Some part of her wants to let him do this -- to kick at the door until they're both overrun, just to spite him. The worst part about it is that she's not even sure why she's mad at him. She woke up in this house alone, and despite the fact that he's the only 'living' soul who seems at all interested in helping her, some part of her has decided that this whole thing is his fault.

And why shouldn't it be his fault?

Why else would she be here... wherever the hell here even is? If Jonesy was going to eat her brains, he would have done it by now. Someone put her in that bed. Someone set her up for this. And if she ever finds out who took her away from a life she was thoroughly enjoying...

Dark fire licks at her shoulders and in her eyes, black flames tinged with orange -- unnatural and somehow wrong. Not demonic. Psychic. And yet twisted, broken, fractured. Not beautiful. Fragmented.

"Move," she says simply, once those sounds have drawn a little closer.

She barely gives him a second before her hand comes up, and with a flare of the tiny flames licking at her shoulders, a wave of telekinetic energy blasts out from her open palm.

John Constantine has posed:
The whole place just has a feel of rot and decay about it that is subtle but equally undeniable. There certainly does not appear to be any escape from it.

It's there, hanging in the air like a barely discernable miasma, an unpleasant odor that one catches just a sniff at but seems to linger. Seems to be impossible to get rid of.

It's a faintly sour stench of rotten food, of mold growing on plates. The scent of old vomit that hasn't been cleaned properly. The sickly sweet smell of decay that can't help but tickle the noise. Distasteful and ever-present but not quite overpowering.

Not yet at least. But it certainly seems to be getting stronger. It certainly seems to be growing more prevalent . More difficult to ignore with each and every passing second. Like those bodies that thump ever closer are carrying it with them with each janky step that they take towards the kitchen.

Each step they take towards trapping them inside this house where the horrors might be hidden. But that feeling of wrongness is growing. Growing and swelling with each passing moment until it feels like it very well might be impossible to ignore.

Some might consider John hammering at those planks that block their escape a sign of panic, but there surely is none of that on his expression. To the casual viewer, it might appear to be stoic determination. But there is a hint of something more. A base, primitive survival drive that tends to see him through the situation no matter what. When so many around him are not so lucky.

He doesn't seem either dismayed nor surprised when he provokes her to obscenities. It is practically a gift with him. Even those that know him, that like him, will probably swear at him sooner or later. Will be ready to tear out their hair in frustration at something he says, something he does.

Honestly, it's a little reassuring and while his back is turned to her, a faint, sly smirk slips over his expression.

It might not just be the joy he takes in stirring the pot though. That she can show that kind of emotion perhaps is a little reassuring. A sign that she isn't one of the puppets that are lurching their way down that passage towards them. That she is still whoever the hell she is, and not some devil's plaything.

Still, when she tells him to get out of the way, to move aside, John glances back towards her an arches a brow. A second board has come loose, the grinding sound of nails being pulled violently from the wooden frame where they are imbedded particularly unpleasant. He's making progress. But he's also running out of time.

So he does step aside, he does gesture for her to take the lead, waving a hand, inviting her to be his guest with a certain undeniable skepticism on his expression. One more taunt, one more suggestion that she is just some hysterical woman.

Until that flare of power. Until that wall of force slams into the boards and blows them outwards with ease, clearing the way. Then that skepticism fades. Then there is only a certain vague sense of being duly impressed.

"Not bad luv," he comments casually, glancing back over his shoulder where the light from the front of the house grows dimmer, blotted out by that mass of bodies that no longer just thumps towards them in that ungainly fashion. But fills up the doorway enough to cast a deeper shadow over them both.

"But it's time to be makin' our exit I think."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
The shift in his posture, the change in his tone -- it's enough. Madelyne sees the flicker of something like approval in his expression, and for once, it doesn't irritate her. There's actually a little wry smile in return.

It's not trust, but it's a step toward something that isn't open hostility. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who's easily impressed. And if he's glad she's not one of the shambling meat puppets crowding in behind them, then maybe -- just maybe -- he's not the one who dragged her into this.

The sound behind them changes. Heavier now. Closer. She could try to wait, try to throw up a shield, try to send another burst of power towards them, but there are so many. She'd be stuck there fighting them instead of doing what they both know is the right decision. Running.

"Agreed," she says as her boots hit the threshold.

Not a sprint. Not yet. But fast enough.

The night outside is colder than the air inside, and that smell clings to her clothes, crawls up the back of her throat. Her hands tighten. The power's still there, burning low and steady beneath her skin.

She glances over her shoulder once, enough to know they won't have long.

"What the hell are they?" she calls, not slowing. "Zombies? I've seen zombies made by some kind of poison, and they don't move like that. But I can't touch them... telepathically, I mean."

The psychic silence is the worst part. A void where thought should be.

She should be flying. That would be the smartest move. But flying alone means leaving him behind -- and for reasons she hasn't figured out yet, she can't seem to make herself just abandon him. She blames Kurt.

She cuts a quick glance to the man beside her, her voice flat.

"Madelyne, by the way."

A beat.

"You got a name, or do I keep calling you asshole in my head?"

John Constantine has posed:
It's hard not to be a little jaded when you've seen as much shit as John Constantine.

It's not particularly pleasant admittedly, but he pretty much dwells in the seedy underbelly of civilization. The parts of that most good, respectable folk have no interest in visiting in anything but movies, television or video games. The kinds of places that would make most people wet themselves.

Throw in his tendency to get involved with all things supernatural and it's not exactly difficult to see why John might not be prone to being easily impressed.

But most people can't practically rip a doorframe out of a wall. That tends to make an impression on even jaded English assholes it would seem.

He is no more inclined to stick around then her and if the cold night air holds a twang of rotting fish and seaweed in it, mixed in with the scent of newly falling snow, it is still a hell of a lot better then that cloying hint of decay that is steadily growing behind them.

In the dark of the kitchen it is difficult to make out much, the world reduced to greyscale instead of the vibrant color of day, but it is practically possible to see that creeping decay wash over the shambling mass of - well, they don't really seem to be 'humanity' anymore, do they?

So he follows her out into the night, another of those pouches appearing in his hand as if by magic. This time he doesn't simply toss it behind them, doesn't simply let it explode in a bright burst of color and light designed to distract and disorient.

This time John pauses only long enough to fish a lighter out of his pocket, to set the little wick at the top of the pouch aflame before he casually tosses it back through the threshold they so recently crossed. And when the pouch bursts this time? The entire doorway is suddenly engulfed in flame, a burning white-hot flame that rapidly begins to spread.

Somehow it doesn't seem likely that the local fire department is going to be turning out to tend to the blaze, does it? Assuming that there is even a local fire department any longer.

Even with those raging flames consuming the house behind them a figure shambles through the wall of fire, the sad, bloated form of Jonesy still able to be made out as that fire consumes him. Still shambling after them that hand extended as if still determined to shake his old friend's hand.

"Coooooonstannnnntiiiiiine," comes the plaintive wail from a body increasingly being consumed, but any trace of Jonesy's British twang is gone, replaced by something even more exotic, something more otherworldly.

"We might want to step lightly, luv," John suggests, his steps hurrying just a little. "Call me what you will. John. Constantine," he adds, jerking a hand towards the shambling, flaming figure behind them. "Or asshole."

"As to what they are? If I were to guess I'd say that it demonic possession. S'not impossible it could be something else but it's the demonic sort that I usually piss off."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
The fire spreads fast -- too fast for the cold to dampen it. The house behind them groans as the flames climb, swallowing dry wood and glass in sharp, crackling bursts. Maddie keeps her pace steady, boots crunching over frost-lined pavement as they move deeper into the dark.

She doesn't look back until the voice calls out.

It's barely a voice anymore, just a stretched, unnatural mockery of one. She turns just enough to see the shape in the fire -- bloated, staggering, half-consumed -- and the way it keeps coming, that outstretched hand still reaching like the rest of the body doesn't know it's already dead.

Her jaw tightens. She turns back around and walks faster.

"This town," she mutters, "what the hell is up with this town?! Where the hell even am I?"

She keeps saying hell. Maybe because it keeps jumping into her mind. Maybe because some part of her thinks that's where she is.

The cold stings her lungs. The flames that once licked at her shoulders and the corners of her eyes have gone out, and she flexes her fingers once, still fighting against the rage -- the power -- that wants to be let out, like it's clawing at her from her inside.

They need cover. A barrier. Something to regroup behind. But every building looks just as compromised as the one they left.

"We need somewhere defensible," she says, scanning rooftops, porches, anything that might give them better angles or at least fewer entry points. "Someplace that doesn't already look like a deathtrap."

She cuts a glance toward Constantine.

"You've got some kind of plan for dealing with this, right? Or am I supposed to start improvising?"

A pause.

"This is the first time in my life I've ever wished I actually watched The Exorcist. So, any idea _you've_ got for what to do would be appreciated. Do we need to find a priest or what?"

John Constantine has posed:
On the surface at least there is no apparent reaction from John as he watches his old friend consumed by the flames that engulf him, standing there, hands still very much stuffed into the pockets of that trench coat that drapes over him. It looks more appropriate for the chill rains of England then the snows of New England, but Constantine seems just as indifferent to the chill breeze that blows in off the Atlantic, still carrying that sense of rot and wrongness that seems to permeate this town.

Still, there is a faint tightness about his eyes, just a hint where the lines around them crinkle. It's not the first friend he's watched die. It probably won't be the last.

"Welcome to the lovely town of Cedar Ridge. 'M sure it was a garden spot 'fore this particular ass of a demon decided to show up and turn all the locals into his meat puppets to try 'nd lure me out," he offers up, giving her slightly more information then she had seconds earlier while also not truly helping her identify just where she is.

"Do?" he asks, that brow arching once more as he turns back towards her, as he starts walking across the grass covered by spotty snow, picking his way through the scattered trees down towards the waiting road which will hopefully lead them out of this miserable place.

"Far as doin' anythin' is concerned I thought I'd mosey on back up the hill to my place and get the hell out of here. Not a whole lot I can do for these poor blokes by the look of things. Ain't much left to most of 'em by the look of it," he says with a matter-of-fact shrug of his shoulders. Like it is simply some unfortunate truism, with nothing to be done.

"I've already told ya that I'm a bettin' man so if I was gonna lay a wager on what's what it would be that a demon by the name of Morgrith is responsible for all this. Right nasty piece of work he is alright," he says with a shake of his head.

"But he comes with limitations. He burns through bodies pretty damn quick, 'specially when he's spreading himself among this many. Imagine he's just about burned through most of the townfolk 'ere. By the looks of things the only reason ol' Jonesy lasted as long as he did was 'cause he took it easy on him. Kept the possession light. Let him stay drunk most of the time, almost to the point of insensibility," he continues.

"But he's usin' himself up plenty quick now. Doubt he'll last until mornin' at the rate he's burning through the locals so if we just absent ourselves, and barin' some unfortunate passerby getting' caught up in this mess, it'll be back to Hell for him by morning," he says with a certain smug satisfaction.

It's probably that smug satisfaction that does it. The universe doesn't generally like John to get too high on himself, not without knocking him down a peg or two. So as they are passing one of those trees, a shadow suddenly detaches itself from that rough bark, lunging out, hand outstretched, reaching for Madelyne's hand.

His reaction is instinctive. As callous as he might sound, talking about an old friend's soul being devoured by a demon, John's survival instincts don't always win out. So when that gaunt figure reaches to try and touch the redhead stranger, he reacts. Without thought. Smugness and lack of thought. It's a double punch right to the gut.

His hand emerges from his pocket. It grabs the figures arm before he can reach his companion. And that gaunt - is it a man or a woman? Or does it matter anymore? - that gaunt figure whirls, his other hand whipping about, covering John's as a sunken smile spreads over those emaciated features.

"Thank you Joooooooohhnnn," it rasps out, it's voice like sandpaper, but only rougher.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne throws her arms wide in disbelief. "So that's it? We just -- leave them?"

It comes out sharper than she means it to, but she doesn't walk it back. He doesn't seem like the type who needs softening. Still, she isn't shouting because she wants a fight. She's shouting because she wants an answer that isn't this.

She's taken lives before, but not like this. Not innocent people. Not with a shrug and a dirty coat and a muttered, not much left of 'em.

It's not that she doesn't understand triage. It's that she hates that this qualifies. She's still too focused on the argument in her head -- too used to being able to 'feel' everyone around her -- to register the movement in the trees. Her eyes are on John when the thing lunges.

The hand reaches for her, and it's his reaction -- not hers -- that saves her. He grabs its wrist before it can close the gap, and she jerks backward with a feminine shriek she'll have to be embarrassed about later. It's high-pitched and involuntary, a flash of startled panic she can't bite back in time.

The creature turns on John instead, half-rotted, sunken in around the eyes. She doesn't need to see the rest. Her hand comes up fast, power flaring without ceremony or finesse, telekinetic power wrapping around the thing, twisting around its shoulders like a cable.

The voice that follows, raspy and ragged, cuts through everything. Thank you Joooooooohhnnn...

She doesn't wait to ask if he's alright. She tries to use her power to tighten that 'cable' and fling the thing away, not realizing that it's already too late -- that whatever damage the possessed had been trying to inflict wasn't necessarily blunt force trauma or bites or eating of brains. That it was just the simple act of touch.

"John! Are you okay?!"

John Constantine has posed:
That can't be good.

As that hand clamps over his own, John can't help the look of disgust that slides across his expression. It's not because of the too cold, clammy flesh that grips him. It isn't the way that the bones of those fingers stand out, the flesh that covers them practically eaten away. It isn't at the scent of rot that comes from the creature's breath as it thanks him.

No, the disgust is entirely directed at himself.

He had done so well. He had recognized the trap for what it was , he had refused to play Morgrith game, he had looked on impassively as yet another old friend got caught up in 'old business' and paid the price for his association with John Constantine. He did it all right.

Right up until the moment that he didn't.

Sentiment is a bitch. He doesn't know this woman. Sure, he has a name to put to that face now, but it's not the same as knowing someone. But it didn't even occur to him to hesitate. It didn't even occur to him to hold back, to maybe not intervene. Clearly she doesn't need anyone to protect her, not if she can practically tear out the wall of a house. She could have flung that creature away before it laid a hand on her.

In fact, she pretty much does exactly that, sending it flying, ripping it away from him with ease, those skeletal fingers never having a chance against the force exerted on it. In seconds that haunting, rasping call of his name is gone and the once-quaint little town around them is once again plunged into silence.

And John? John stares down at the hand that he finally exposed, the hand that he had kept stuffed in his pocket until finally giving his old adversary what he was looking for. An opening. He looks down at it and watches as the patch of skin where the creature's palm pressed to his own flesh seems to? wither, the skin tightening, wrinkling and the first traces of black creep up to the surface of his flesh, just a trip of little dots for now, easily missed in the dark surrounding them.

"Fine luv," he says with a grimace, that hand once more disappearing from view, stuffed back into the pocket of his trench coat as he continues to pick his way across the frozen field, eyes more wary now as they peer at every tree they approach, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

And when they reach the street? When they reach those dim pools of illumination that seem even more muffled then they should be by the falling snow that is starting to increase, starting to swirl around them, caught up on that stinking ocean breeze that bathes them in it's caress? What they find are bodies. Dozens of them, laying out in the street, like marionettes with their strings cut, left to fall.

Discarded toys. Toys that have served their purpose.

"Best come with me luv. My place is just at the top of the hill," he says, gesturing with a bob of his head towards the unlikely Victorian mansion perched their atop the bluff overlooking this part of town. "I can drop you where you need to go."

Which seems a strange thing to say. But then, as should be apparent by now, John Constantine is a pretty strange fellow.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne scans him quickly, breath still catching in the back of her throat. She's not a medic, but she knows what blood looks like, what broken things look like. There's none of that. His hand goes back into his coat before she can get a real look, but he doesn't wince. Doesn't stumble. Doesn't go pale. Even if she had seen the marks in the dark, she couldn't have understood them.

He doesn't seem to turn into a zombie.

Fine, luv.

She lets out a breath, her shoulders easing by inches.

"Alright," she murmurs. "Good."

They keep moving. The grass underfoot is stiff with frost, the snow falling harder now. Her boots crunch quietly as they walk between the bodies, most of them sprawled in unnatural heaps where the street curves and dips. She doesn't want to stare. But she keeps looking anyway. Half-expecting one of them to twitch. To drag itself up by the elbows and start the whole nightmare over again.

None of them do.

She glances sideways at Constantine, walking with his hands in his pockets like this is just another bad night. Maybe it is.

When he gestures up the hill, her eyes follow the motion, settling on the outline of the mansion silhouetted against the cloudy sky.

"You live... here?" she asks, incredulous. "Cape Nightmare?"

But she moves toward it anyway.

The offer that follows lands strange. Drop her where she needs to go. She blinks, confusion flickering behind her eyes. He's offering a car ride, maybe? Back to... Westchester? How far is that from here? She still doesn't even know where _here_ is. Besides, people who offer favors usually want something. It's just taken her this long to start meeting people who didn't.

She thinks of Kurt. Of Nathan. Of Emma. Of Longshot, even.

"Yeah," she says finally, her voice quieter now. "Thanks."

She doesn't look back at the town. Not because she doesn't want to -- but because if she does, she's not sure she'll be able to keep walking. All those people. Just... dead. Bodies left in their wake like useless trash. Empty shells.

And it's one more step down a darker road.

They're not her problem. None of this was supposed to be her problem. She didn't ask to be here. She didn't want to get involved in whatever this was, and she still had no idea how she'd even gotten here.

Maybe a car ride with John Constantine wouldn't be the end of the world. Maybe she could figure out a few more answers before they made it as far as Xavier's.

But first...

"Do you have a phone I can borrow? I need to call my..."

My what? Is Kurt Wagner her 'boyfriend?' Does that describe their relationship? Does it encompass his role in her life? He's certainly more than a friend. But she's nearly thirty years old. 'Boyfriend' feels so young and naive and hopeful and... insufficient.

"...I need to tell someone what's going on."

Whatever. She'll figure that out later.

One insurmountable task at a time.