3167/Imps and chakras

Imps and chakras
Date of Scene:	30 August 2020
Location:	Gotham
Synopsis:	What starts with Patsy trying to take on a demon ends up with John Constantine sticking her with a restaurant bill.
Cast of Characters:	Patsy Walker, John Constantine

---

Patsy Walker has posed:
It's one of those late summer mornings where the windowpane and plants along her balcony window had been covered with misty dew. The sun had banished it all once it had risen, but it presages the coming of fall.

Patsy, for one, is thrilled by it. The cloying heat of summer in the city had been almost unbearable even with the A/C in her apartment. Today's errand is self-indulgent: more bath bombs and face cleanser from one of the small shops nearby and a stop by the cafe for a dulce-de-leche latte with a pinch of cinnamon. In a thigh-length, long-sleeved sweater-dress in mint-green overtop black leggings and tan cavalry boots, her floral shopping bag swing at her shoulder, bath goodies and necessities inside. Her steps slow and stop in front of a new-age crystal shop in particular, brows meeting.

Her Weird-o-Radar just pinged. Magic? In here? Patsy eyes the shop window's contents and the sign and smirks to herself. Maybe...? Regardless, real magic always merits at least a check-in, to make sure nothing's going haywire. As such, she tucks away her phone into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater-dress and enters the place as quietly as she can manage. Hey, the OPEN sign was turned, right?

John Constantine has posed:
"D'you mind?" There's a voice from behind Patsy; it's a British accent, and it's more sarcasm than polite inquiry. A sallow-faced fellow's behind the woman, and when she turns he makes a 'move along' gesture. Seems she's obstructing his path into the shop while she surveys the place.

"Bloody tourists," the Brit mutters, and pushes past Patsy. He heads straight for the counter and when he doesn't see anyone, rings the little silver bell a with a piercing *dingdingdingdingding* until an older fellow with a ponytail hustles out.

"May I help you?"

"No mate, not here for your cheap crystals," John says. He digs a cigarette pack out of his coat pockets, shakes one free, and lights up.

"Sir, there's no smoking in here."

"Yep," John agrees, and puffs up anyway. "My mate Desmond said you've a bit of an infestation. I'm here to clear it out before it turns into a bleedin' invasion."

A card's produced and slid across the counter; the owner reads it, then his face pales and he holds his hands up. "I-it was an accident, I swear!" he stammers. "I don't want any trouble, I was just trying to-- just testing something I read in a book!" he whines.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Eeep!" A soft sound of surprise for the voice suddenly behind her and Patsy does slide to one side, the soles of her boots making soft sounds on the hard flooring of the shop. She watches John walk up to the counter and molest the bell there until even she's truly perplexed by the vehemence of the dinging.

It doesn't help her Weird-o-Radar that he too has this...aura about himself which makes the fine hairs on her neck rise not in dread, but in purely subconscious reaction. That gut instinct of hers is telling her the Brit involved in things beyond the norm -- and the way the shopkeeper reacts only increases her curiosity.

Suddenly, she's beside John, peppy and dimpling and asking, "What did you manage to do? If it's an infestation, that means you summoned something, right?" Her cornflower-blue eyes shift from the shopkeeper to John and back, expression of cheery interest cemented.

John Constantine has posed:
The shopkeeper looks alarmed and concerned. "N-nothing, fellow traveller," the fellow says to Patsy. His voice betrays his nerves. "Please feel free to look around and let me know if anything can aid your voyage into the mind--"

John side-eyes Patsy. "Blimey, you're nosy," he tells the woman with a scornful tone. "Piss off then, eh? Shop somewhere else." He looks back to the shopkeeper. "Wouldn't want one of your customers accidentally taking something home with them, eh?"

"It's not like that!" the shopkeeper says. His voice goes shrill with the emphasis. "I sell ethically sourced goods from all over the world!"

John's already walking away, going through the shelves. "Ethically sourced, huh? Pulled a wraith from home over in Greenwich last week." He picks up a crystal, examines it, and tosses it aside. The cheap mineral shatters on the tile near the counter. "Boggart in Chelsea five days ago." He knocks over a display full of pendants made of tinted glass, advertised as 'chakra purifiers'.

"Don't give two shites about you parting fools from their money, but I do take exception to giving free rides to spirits to make a buck. So where is it? Where are they coming in?"

John makes eye contact with the shopkeeper and puts a hand on a shelf filled with ornate vases, making it wobble dangerously.

Patsy Walker has posed:
John just gets one of those //profoundly spiteful// and smiling flutter of dark lashes for his 'suggestion' about leaving the premises. Patsy doesn't budge an inch from where she leans against the counter now, arms lightly crossed beneath her chest. She sips at her coffee and slowly, surely, her expression goes more and more surprised as something goes smash nearby.

Her eyes fall to the shards of the crystal and the gut instinct tells her that whatever //was// in it isn't there anymore, like smoke curls vanishing from a doused fire.

And another tinkling crash when the pendants hit the tiled flooring. Another sip of her drink and glance over at the shopkeeper who's gone the color of old parchment.

It's the vases which seem to be the tipping point by the way the shopkeeper's hands flail about before himself.

"Maybe you should tell the crazy British guy about what you did before you're down another five-hundred dollars in product," the red-head suggests lightly in the silence between John's question and the shopkeeper's quibbling.

John Constantine has posed:
"Do you not speak the lingo, Red?" John demands. "Bugger off before you get hurt," John tells the woman. "I don't need a bloody cheer squad from some tart looking to get her chakras calibrated."

"Oh god," the shopkeeper whimpers. John starts to push the shelves over and the man throws his hands out. "Okay, stop, stop!" he shouts. "Okay! It's-- I made a deal, okay? It wasn't supposed to be anything like this. I wanted to just-- it was a little glamour to up sales, that's what it promised me!"

John stalks over to the man, jaw set. "You know, give people a little pep in their step, and I could let it build a little threshold here--"

John grabs the man's shirt with both hands and hauls him across the counter. He's stronger than he looks. "You bloody *fucking* fool!" JOhn shouts in his face, and shakes the man violently. "You let something cross over and set up a *threshold*?! You gave it a home, you plonking git! That gives it leave to open a *door* to anything it wants! What is it hiding in?!"

The shopkeeper tries to answer, but John shakes him so violently all the fellow can do is choke and make inarticulate sounds.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Poor shopkeeper. He might have set up a threshold, but he's also managed to really grind John's gears at this point. Patsy sips at her coffee again and continues watching the interaction less than an arm's length from her with what appears to be an innocent disinterest in getting physically involved in the 'discussion'.

Still...there's something that twigs her senses towards the back room. Like a deer hearing a snapped twig, in one smooth motion, the red-head's gone and put her coffee down on the counter even as she executes a turn to give herself space. Her light blue eyes lock on the door labeled "EMPLOYEES ONLY" and then narrow.

"Might want to check behind door number one, Vanna," she says to John with a glance over at him, expression suddenly gone far less deliberately air-headed and far more jaded in turn. It's a learned wariness about herself now as she looks back at the door again.

John Constantine has posed:
John turns again with a hard look and an expletive on his lips for Patsy, but this time something pauses him. His eyes narrow at the woman in suspicion and he locks eyes with her for a second.

"Door," he tells the owner, and hauls him entirely across the counter. One hand collars the fellow and John propels him to the back. "Open it up. And I want to know what's in there," he tells the man.

"Oh god, oh god," the owner whimpers. He fumbles for keys to open things up. "I don't-- I don't know what it is. I found a letter in a book, it was /Mille Homina, Atique a Ineffibilem/. Most of the names in the book were-- nothing happened, but the letter inside, it said Bulshe--"

John clamps a hand over the mans' face. "Don't say the name aloud," he says with a deadly quiet. "You'll fetch the name for me once we're inside."

The door swings open and John propels the manager inside with a shove, then follows in after him. Lots of goods there, some of them actually legitimate occult props. A few rare books, some illegal exotic goods, and a few other items of interest.

"Allright, where's the bloke hiding at? And I want that name," John tells the shopkeep.

The fellow extends a trembling hand and points at a huge grandfather clock in the corner. The clock ticks, but somewhat ominously neither pendulum nor hands move.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Forget the coffee. This is far more entertaining (read as: dangerously fascinating) than a dulce-de-lache latte. The drink is ignominously ditched as Patsy shadows the duo back behind the counter and slings her bag's strap sideways across her body to better anchor it rather than leave it free-swinging against her side. Her steps in her boots are surprisingly silent.

The room smells like a storage room, but there's something else to it now. Patsy inhales carefully through her nose, a few sniffs, squinting. Books, yes, older books -- treated wood -- metal -- sulfur...? Brimstone. An acid? Something too sweet that catches in the back of the throat like a treacle-medicine. She swallows, nose wrinkling, even as the shopkeeper reveals the hiding place of The Being.

Patsy narrows her eyes at it and again feels the fine hairs on her neck rise. "And here I didn't bring my holy water," she mutters. "...unless that crap won't work on this kind of creepy." John gets another glance. He seems to know what he's doing.

John Constantine has posed:
"Don't say I didn't do anything to warn you off," John tells Patsy. "Blimey this isn't some book. You're going to get killed if you go into this blind."

He accepts the parchment from the shopkeeper and shoves the fellow into a chair. "You sit there, keep your mouth shut, and don't move. You run from here, the first thing I'll do is sic it on you and you'll watch it eat your dying heart."

John moves to the clock and examines it carefully. A hand rests on the wood; he sniffs at it, examines the mechanism, even knocks once.

A moment later, it knocks back.

John digs in his pocket and produces a number of oddiites. A crystal tuning fork, an iron compass; a set of tiny seals on a keychain. He does some kind of testing, obscure and deliberate.

The crystal and the iron both seem unresponsive, but when he touches a seal to the clock, a low rumbling at the very edge of human hearing fills the room. "First pentacle of Saturn, eh?" John leans closer and puts a hand on the clock. "Invocem requiro conjuro iubes," he mutters. The clock groans; the room darkens.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"You might want to consider how I'm not dead yet," the red-head mutters even as she sidles in the direction of the shopkeeper shoved to the chair. Languid, her movements, but no less attentive, light eyes falling to what appears from the Brit's pocket and then flicking to his hands in their motions.

"You're actually pretty damn lucky he showed up," she then says to the shopkeeper, giving him a gimlet squint. "He might be talking what sounds like nonsense, but you screwed the pooch on this one, buddy." She seems to want to continue chastising him, but the sudden introduction of the subsonic vibration in the air has her teeth on edge.

Carefully, she slips into a readied stance, face lifting to look towards the lighting automatically as the atmosphere dims and the air thickens. Whatever sounds that grandfather clock is making, they're unhappy ones. Surely the shopkeeper stares.

And with his attention diverted, Patsy focuses in the familiar mental koan. Like the tumbler in a lock falling into place, her fashionable get-up is immediately replaced with the sunflower-gold and black-accented Hellcat suit. John might note it as a brief blip of personal magic from the red-head.

John Constantine has posed:
"It was just a little bargain," the shopkeeper whimpers to Patsy in supplication. "I didn't think anything would come of it. I just didn't wanna spend five hundred bucks for an ad in New Age Quarterly."

John's conversation with the clock is growing more urgent. His words come fast and fluid, a low and constant utterance in something that sounds Latinate but which would challenge any scholar of that tongue. The cloak groans as if the wood is straining. Shadows curl around it; the lights overhead flicker and dim. It seems dense and heavy even from where Patsy stands. Reality twisting against her senses.

John backs away slowly, holding a hand out with the Seal extended. Sweat slicks his forehead; the words keep coming. The hands fly in circles and the pendulum swings with wild and chaotic energy. The low moan becomes bigger and more all-encompassing. The concrete shakes; books dance on the shelves, a tuning fork pressed against the world.

The voice stops. John's chanting stops. Everything freezes for a moment.

Then the clock explodes outwards with a spray of glass and wood panelling. John covers his face with the raised collar of his duster but the force of it carries him off his feet and sends him hurtling backwards.

What emerges from the clock walks on like a man but on two cloven hooves, with a face like a baboon and the mane of a lion. Red scale, red fur, red eyes; black ichor drips from talons and the feathers on its back, and two spade-tipped tails lash and swipe through the air.

"Traitor!" the devil accuses. The voice is deeply resonant in ways no mortal speech could be; a claw points accusingly at the shopkeeper and the devil drops low then bounds towards him on knuckles and hooves with shocking speed!

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Next time, cut a check you can cash," Patsy manages to reply to the frazzled shopkeeper even as she spreads her fingers into readied curls, her gloves tipped with those sharp claw-extensions as things stand. She squints, challenging the magic attempting to warp reality in tur, and while things don't immediately clear, it doesn't cause as much of a visual miasm as it might with another person -- one of the few things she brought out of hell with her, this ability to see more clearly in magical chaos.

It doesn't stop her from wincing at the increase in intensity of vibrational sound. Her teeth feel like they're buzzing in her jawbone.

It doesn't stop the sudden hanging moment from making her heart clutch behind her ribs -- her breath stops behind her tongue -- her brain tries to make sense of it before reality crashes back into its existing rhythm once more.

And there goes John. Patsy moves to avoid being bowled over by him and crouches as the being emerges from the grandfather clock. Her nose wrinkles behind her cowl-mask as she squints, viscerally afraid and knee-jerk reactionary to get this thing out of her personal space.

One might even say it's ugly as hell -- bah-dum-pssht.

In an attempt to see about at least diverting the thing's unnaturally-quick and shambling run at the shopkeeper, she launches herself and an outstretched boot aimed for the creature's leonine-ruffed head.

John Constantine has posed:
The demon goes flying sideways at the kick, knocking over a shelf. Even in his terrified state the shopkeeper somehow moans at the loss of more product. It's not likely his insurance will cover acts of destructive demon.

The creature uprights itself in a flash and whirls, roaring at Patsy. The scream is simian and leonine all at once and unearthly in its resonance. The hooves are meant for tearing through dirt and flesh though, not for concrete, and the demon scrabbles while claws rake at the smooth floor for purchase.

"Domine Deus deorum et Dominus dominantium Deus creator agmen ignei--" John's words are cut off by an explosion of fury from the demon followed by a wad of spittle. He dodges the latter and it slaps against a bookshelf with an acidic sizzle.

"Bloody hell," the exorcist snarls. "Fine, short version," he says, and digs in his pocket for a squirt gun. The trigger depresses and water shoots out with a battery powered pulse-- *fsst* *fsst* *fsst*. Where it hits, the demon's flesh sizzles and bubbles like it's been exposed to intense heat.

John's luck turns again when the demon's claw catches a flaw in the floor and it lunges for Constantine, seeing him now as the greater threat than Patsy.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Ouch! That thing has a hard skull. The kick's impact resonates up into her knee and Patsy lands as gracefully as she can manage before, quite frankly, gracefully gaining as much room as she can manage betwee it and her. There is a small part of her brain that wants to hide in a dark corner and quiver -- then there's the part of her which wants to react to the discomfort of the entire affair and titter.

Which is what she does beneath the far more strident tones of John's incantation. She titters in a high, high pitch of fear.

"Ugh." That short commentary on the caustic snot-blob. At least it wasn't near her. When the creature's got attention on John, she makes to dart over to the shopkeeper.

"Hey, buddy old pal, you terrible choice-maker, you! We're out of here, so do me a favor and don't scream like a baby when I pick you up, okay?" Says the young woman shorter than him by two inches -- and then Patsy makes to do just that: sling the shopkeeper over her shoulder like a sack of rice in order to head for the nearest exit!

John Constantine has posed:
John does a double-take over his shoulder. "NOW you leave?!" he shouts at her. The exorcist dodges the clumsy lunge, but barely; a hoof clips his shoulder and he gets knocked sprawling to the ground again. More shelves go scattering along with the impact. The creature must weigh well over three hundred pounds. He rolls onto his back and fires the squirt gun again, and the holy water sears and bubbles demonic flesh.

The creature's plenty irritated with John, but Patsy's got the... well, patsy, and the demon wheels around to chase after her.

"Bloody hell. RUN you git!" John shouts at Patsy, and scrambles to his feet to give chase himself. Hands dig in his pockets to find whatever he can slap together to bind or banish the beast before it tears the shopkeeper and Patsy limb from limb.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"PRIORITIES!!!" screeches the Hellcat in reply to John's first shout as she scarpers for the exit from the storage room, the door which they entered again. Her boots grant her better purchase than the demonic creature with its hooves, but the thing's building up a head of steam and momentum both -- and it'd be a helluva way to go smashed between it and the closed door.

His further shouting lends wings to her heels. She makes it to the door and flings it open hard enough for the handle to dent the opposite wall. Out into the shop she goes, hurdling over the counter with a grunt of effort while the shopkeeper wails and garbles and huffs and whimpers about vomiting after she lands, breaking for the front door now.

There goes her drink, kicked on the fly as she crosses the counter, in a spatter of dulce-de-leche. Coffee, we knew ye well.

"STOP STALLING AND BANISH IT ALREADY, TWIDDLY-FINGERS!!!"

John Constantine has posed:
John chases after Patsy and her cargo, and though he doesn't have her athleticism he keeps up well enough with the demon's scrabbling pursuit. The creature smashes the doorframe apart, not bothering to ease through it, and lunges onto the counter. Constantine doesn't miss a beat, he leaps into the air and drop-kicks the demon in the back of its heel. Those digitigrade legs put a lot of weight in a very slender location and it doesn't take much to kick one out. A bone *snaps* and the demon drops; John's ankle does a thing and he's on the ground rolling not far behind. But the magus is made of sterner stuff and clambers over the counter while the demon struggles to rise again, slavering and hissing. More acidic drool is horked at Patsy and the shopkeeper, and then John lands astride its back and bears it to the ground.

A letter opener slashes against demon skin, not harming it in the slightest. "You lying prat, this isn't silver!" John shouts at the shopkeeper, and hurls the overpriced thing aside. He digs in his pocket for a switchblade (highly illegal in New York) and flicks it open, then drives it into the demon's shoulders. The dagger pins a Seal and a length of coiled gold wire to the demon, and fire-red blood spurts from the wound. It screams, this time in high agony, and John forces its head down and mutters through the incantation again as fast as he dares. Beneath him, momentarily drained of strength, the demon cries and kicks and slavers, but seems unable to fight back.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy is about halfway across the length of the store when she hears the crash of the demon making a new doorway out of the old one. The shopkeeper himself lets out a shrill sound indicating that the creature is still very much not yet banished.

"BANISH IT FASTER!!!" yells the Hellcat, still moving at a fast-enough pace that the snot-hork splashes behind her. It still manages to spatter up onto the back of one heel and behind her knee. John bears it to the ground after the awful sound as Patsy makes it to the shop's front door. The bells jingle again as the letter opener fails to do its job -- what a liar, this shopkeeper -- and then Patsy's dumping him on his ass on the sidewalk. A black-gloved, taloned finger ends up pointed a centimeter from his nose.

"You...stay right here. You run, I send him after you." Him being John, not the demon, though it's perfectly fine with her if the shopkeeper thinks of the demon. He just nods hard enough to clatter his teeth together.

Back inside Patsy goes, taking a moment to turn the shop sign from OPEN to COME BACK TOMORROW! and then she locks the front door with the turn-bolt. Bullish, catlike wailing makes her shiver from scalp to toes and freezes her in place as she stares. John has the creature under control from what she can tell, but there's got to be a way she can help.

As such, after lifting it on high, the Hellcat brings down a very large vase dead on the demon's head with a grand kerSMASH of impact. Helpful!

John Constantine has posed:
John stops the incantation and looks up at Patsy. "A vase? A bloomin' vase? How's that--"

He grunts and rodeos the demon when it bucks under him. The knife digs deep and he continues the chant once more. The demon bucks and howls, and claws lash at Patsy, but it seems unable or unwilling to injury John. The magus keeps whispering that incantation in a firm and steady voice until the demon wails and starts to dissolve underneath him. Red blood and flesh turns to a near-transluscent ooze somewhere between grey and white, then that too evaporiates moments later. The last lingering cries of the demon vanish and John rises with evaporating stuff of the astral plane smoking up off his clothes.

"A /vase/?" he demands again. "This isn't an episode of Scooby-fucking-doo!"

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy's gone and retreated back a dozen feet in an agile leap when the demon tries to throw John off. Landing three-point with one clawed hand upraised, she then slowly stands upright after calculating that the magus has things under control.

Away goes the demon and the Hellcat lets out a slow sigh of relief. Hey, it's a problem resolved, even if no insurance agency is going to replace even a quarter of what's been broken or accept the reasoning for it.

The demand from the Brit is met by a flat, half lash-veiled look and folding of arms beneath her chest again. "It sure as hell isn't a damn episode of Supernatural either, but look at you and your coat and your Latin blabbering. Missing some wings there, buddy," she says, wrinkling her mouth for a second. "And besides, that vase weighed about four-hundred pounds. I knocked a few screws loose in that thing's head with it. Or pebbles. Or whatever counts as brains for it."

John Constantine has posed:
"Are you taking the piss?" John asks with a scornful tone. "Sticking your nose in someone else's business, then lecturing me on how to do the job?" The last of the phlogestine evaporates away, leaving John's clothing looking scuffed by dry. He digs a pack of Silk Cuts from his pocket, shakes one loose, and tugs it free with his lips. A battered old Zippo laps a tongue of flame under it and John puffs steadily to stoke the tobacco to light.

"Tell you what--" the hand holding the cigarette lowers and he taps an extended two fingers against Patsy's folded forearm, making pointed eye contact. "Next time, I'll stand around yelling like billyoh, and *you* can do the exorcism," he informs her. John transfers the cigarette back to his mouth and looks over at the shopkeeper who is forlornly tapping on the glass.

"Fuck off, mate!" John shouts, and raises a 'v' at him. "Jog on down to the pub or something, I'll leave it open when I leave. Bugger me if I don't need a pint after this," he says with a sour expression. A flask emerges from his pocket and John takes a few healthy gulps of what smells like cheap scotch before it's capped again and tucked into his pocket once more.

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Yeah, you need something..." It's a very low mutter from Patsy who then arranges her mouth in the unamused slash once more. She continues more loudly, "Besides, you did fine." Just 'fine', apparently. "Nobody's dead, nobody's cursed, nobody's agreed to another pact, and that disturbing son of a bitch is back where it belongs."

When she glances down as if to make her point as to which direction (in theory) the demon has gone, she toes aside one of the shards of the large broken vase. "But hey, if I'm going to be doing the exorcism, that means you get to fly-kick the demon in the head next time. Wrap your ankles first, it'll spare you a hospital trip later," she offers with a sassy little flutter of lashes at John and sharp, close-lipped smile. "Can't be partners without knowing your name though. I assume you have a name? Or is it a title like...the Glamourous Guru of Gubchaka or the Master of Mystery and Magical Menace?"

Talon-tipped fingers are wiggled in John's direction in a silent 'boogity-boogity', her smile slipping towards a smirk.

John Constantine has posed:
"/Partners/?" John repeats, looking a little shocked. He laughs-- a brittle and slightly unamused thing. "Bugger me, gel chucks around a few vases and gets a lick in on a demon, suddenly she's keen to be an exorcist."

John ashes his cigarette near Patsy's feet and starts walking towards the door. The shopkeeper's still there; John unlocks it, rather pointedly hits the guy with the opening door, and bulls through his personal space with an aggrieved expression, making poiinted eye contact the whole time. "I come back here and find you've made a deal with anything scarier than the Avon lady," John says, "and I'll personally put you in the ground." He exhales smoke in the shopkeeper's face. "Got it?"

"Got it," the shopkeeper stammers. John digs in his pocket for a business card and pen, slaps the card on the shopkeeper's chest, and scribbles a number on it. "My fee. You've got a week to pay."

" I can't afford this!" the man stammers, and John shrugs. "Suit yourself mate, it's not like anything bad happens to people who welch on services rendered."

John flicks his half-smoked cigarette in the guy's face just to make a point and starts walking down the street. He makes it ten feet before realizing he wasn't done smoking, and the crumpled pack and lighter emerge. John pauses on the sidewalk to cup flame to hand and light up, looking skyward as the late evening haze blots out all but a few stars overherad.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy's smile lessens without disappearing entirely. Now she looks just plain unamused beneath the half-mask of her cowl. Her eyes fall to the cigarette once it's ashed and there's a disapproving little sound as she stands in place, making John brush past her as he leaves. Her silhouette lingers, brightly colored against the mishmash of partially destroyed goods and she gives the wreckage of her coffee a long sigh through her nose. Stooping, she picks up the emptied paper cup and its white lid and walks around to throw it away into the garbage can tucked behind the counter. The garbage can is, against all odds, still upright.

When she emerges, after the shopkeeper's left gawking at the card and its proposed fee upon it, Patsy's no longer in her suit. Willed away, the sturdy affair, and she's back in her sweater-dress and leggings combination. There's a gentle patpat on the shopkeeper's shoulder as she leans in and requests with a hint of steel, "Seriously, don't do this again."

Executing a quick turn, she then walks in John's direction and past him, her chin lifted a touch contemptuously. "I was asking for your name, but since you were raised in a barn, I'm calling you 'Twiddly Fingers'."

John Constantine has posed:
John looks up from stoking his cigarette with a surprised expression for Patsy when she confronts him again. "Blimey you're persistent," he congratulates her. "Twiddly fingers, eh?" John gives Patsy another up-and-down, leaning pointedly sideways to examine her figure. "I like it. Apt, too; mayhaps it's not just wishful thinking on your part."

John starts walking again, briskly but not rushing. "The name's Constantine. I'm going to the pub. You want to pick my brain, you're buying," he tells her. "I want a cold ale and a hot meal. Bastard in that overpriced trinket shop's probably going to short me my fee anyway," he mutters dourly. "I'm not the bleedin' March of Dimes."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"No, you're not the March of Dimes, and you could get yourself a bottle of whatever and a microwave dinner at the nearest gas station," Patsy notes coolly as she continues walking on. John's got legs more than long enough to keep up and she's almost annoyed enough to walk faster simply to spite him. There's a welt on the back of her knee, however, where the acid-spit spattered, and she's determined not to let it show. As such, no power walking.

She continues speaking nonethless, still attempting to be polite. "Also, I'm going to guess that's your last name, so I'm Walker if that's how things are going to be. Nice to meet you, Mister Constantine. If I don't want to pick your brain, are you buying?"

John gets an arch of a finely-manicured red brow as Patsy glances over at him, her shopping bag still swinging off her shoulder. Where it went when the suit showed up is anybody's guess.

John Constantine has posed:
"No; if you're going to call me Fingers, I'm gonna call you Legs," Constantine informs Patsy. "Walker sounds like a bloke. Wasn't there a show on the telly about someone like that? Kicked a lot, I think." It's not far to his destination; John gestures at a placard hanging over the sidewalk. He pauses at the entrance and gives Patsy a measuring look. "You start trying to get me to talk shop, it's on you," he warns her. "Suppose I could buy you a pint though; you did pitch in a wee bit. And you're better looking than recent company," he congratulates her.

John shoulders open the door to the bar. It's definitely more 'bar' than 'pub' but there's apparently a brief food menu to go with it. He shrugs out of his overcoat and tosses it into a booth, then slides in after it. "Pint of Guiness love," John tells the waitress, and lights up a fresh cigarette once she's on her way.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy can't help but slide her eyes away and up diagonally, not quite a roll of them at his observation. "Yes, there was a show, and no, I'm not related. It'd be cool if I was though."

They arrive at the outside of the bar/pub/watering hole and the red-head comes to a slow halt. John's logic has her outright scoffing and trying not to smile crookedly; it works. Mostly. "A wee bit. Aw, that's cute. Wee bit." If she's appreciative of the compliment, she merely wrinkles her nose again at it, determined not to budge an inch until it's admitted that she was more than a 'wee bit' of help.

Still, she decides on a whim to join the magus in the bar and sets her bag down in the booth seat before sliding into it. The waitress is give a polite smile and the request for a pint of Blue Moon LightSky. After the waitress walks off, she affixes those cornflower-blues on John.

"Sooooooooooooo...since we're not talking shop, what brought you to New York?"

John Constantine has posed:
John exhales smoke out the side of his mouth while Patsy settles in and questions him. His own eyes tended towards grey when they met; with warmth and food some color seems to be returning to them, finding a more sky-blue tone. The visible alertness in them offsets his pale, sallow skin, and with his jacket off tattoos and old scars are visible on his hands and forearms. Anyone who might have mistaken him for an office worker would likely be rethinking that first assessment.

"Shop. That's one strike already love," John informs Patsy. There's a little knowing mirth though, as if he hadn't missed the crooked smile she'd been struggling to suppress. "Why else does anyone come to New York? Sure not here to make it big on Broadway," he points out. "Either you're here 'cause you made it big or you come here to make it big. I'd have stayed in London given my druthers."

His chin uplifts at Patsy. "How about you then? Aspirations of celebrity or are you just so bored with life you decided to tussle with a demon?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
Again, the red-head thins her lips and lofts a dubious brow. John's assessment of her coversational choice doesn't seem to agree with her, but the waitress is arriving with their drinks, so she does't get a chance for rebuttal this time. The woman gets a sweet grin from Patsy and an order for one of their club sandwiches, please, no tomatoes.

Once the waitress has John's order as well and has departed, the Hellcat glances back across the table at the magus. "I guess aspirations of being a celebrity is the best way to put it. I write and I've been published, so I guess you could say I made it. Picking fights with demons? That's a side hobby," she replies with a testing sip at her drink. Mmm, yes, good beer.

"By your get-up and your doodads, I'm going to guess you pick fights regularly." Not with demons specifically, apparently.

John Constantine has posed:
John lounges indolently against the seatback, one hand curled around the stein of ale and his free arm resting on the seat behind him. The drink's cold, unfortunately, but sometimes a cold drink is just the thing after a good fight. The waitress takes their order, eyes John. "No smoking in here, honey," she tells him.

"Oh right, of course," John says, and snuffs the cigarette out-- or at least he appears to before she leaves, and resumes smoking immediately after.

"I don't pick fights. I'm a detective. Private investigator, you Yanks'd call it. I just specialize in an area where precious few can be bothered to do serious investigation. Easier to write off a troll as a cannibal on the loose than for what it is." He slurps his drink. "Keep an open mind, don't shy away from tough questions, and it's amazing what you can suss out."

"For instance, you've got a bit of a nosy persuasion about you," John remarks. "An' a bit of magic of your own I'd say. Little whiff of the--" he brushes his thumb near his nostril. "Fire and brimstone. Once you smelt it, you can't ignore it. Makes me wonder just why you were in that shop to begin with."

His smile is fixed in place-- but there's an edge to his question, as if his suspicion is trained on Patsy now.

Patsy Walker has posed:
If Patsy doesn't approve of the cigarette re-appearing like some off-hand legerdemain, it doesn't show overmuch. John denying that he picks fights? Her light-blue eyes immediately track to the more obvious scars and to the way that his nose hasn't survived being hit more than once; she's silently observed how there's a crooked aspect to it.

The booth's seating makes one of those creaks as she moves, proof of how well-sat the cushioning is over the long years, and settling herself again means half of both forearms rested on the table now. The pint glass might be sweating, but it doesn't seem to bother her palms.

"Wow." Patsy blinks at the mage across the way. "It's been forever since someone's tried to peg me as a bad guy by that one. Still, I'm impressed. I thought somebody like you might go nose-blind on it, it's not easy to track. Still, if you're a PI, you're a smart cookie, right? Go on and tell me I've made any dumb-ass deals with demons lately." She tilts her head minutely, eyes still on his face. "Because I bet you can't. Because I haven't."

A sip of her drink and she adds, "I was in the shop because the demon in the grandfather clock snagged my attention. I tend to pay close attention to my gut instincts."

John Constantine has posed:
"If you want me to say 'sorry', you'll be waiting a tick," John says with a dryly unapologetic tone. "Just 'cause 'tisn't burned black doesn't mean your soul isn't a tad singed, eh? Makes a bloke wary. I've been stabbed in the back one too many times by a fit lass who later turned out to be some demon-shagging bint." He shrugs non-committally. "It's nothing personal luv, I'm just not keen to rush into a repeat experience. Those sort of claw marks don't heal fast."

His food arrives; once again John pretends to ash his cigarette, and once again starts smoking the second the waitress turns away. Unlike Patsy's healthy repast, John's all greasy carbs and a cheeseburger. Frontloading calories. Skinny as he is, the food doesn't look like it'll stick to him. "You said you're a writer, eh?" Topic change. "What sort of books is it then?" He looks up at her between bites. "Fiction is it? I could peg you for a romance writer, all that Michelle Steele stuff on the bestseller list. Or d'you just do self-help books and the like?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy blinks at him. As food arrives, she mouths 'demon-shagging bint' and nods slowly. It's certainly a turn of phrase she's never heard before. The waitress is thanked with another polite smile yet again and she then plucks at the sandwich to reveal its innards. Whew -- no tomatoes.

"Yeah, well, I'm no demon-shagging bint, thanks, and my soul isn't that crispy," she firstly replies, frowning at the wilted lettuce. That's just sad. "And I don't write romance, no. My autobiography hit the Top Ten in its category and sales rocketed from there. I'd be no good at self-help books." There's a soft snort before she decides the sandwich is adequate. A glance up at John. "I'm not sure what I want to write next."

John Constantine has posed:
"Not much help for you there luv," John says around a mouthful of cheeseburger. "Don't know what people like to write. Or read. Most Yanks don't even touch a book unless it's been featured on a telly somewhere anyway," he observes.

"So what's so great about you then?" John sits back to let his food digest, throwing one arm over the back of the seat once more. Despite the wording it's more query than challenge. "Most people couldn't squeeze one good story out of their life with both hands and a grape press," he observes. John looks around the restaurant with a studied nonchalance but he clearly isn't missing much; exits, paths, diners, distances. He's an astute fellow no matter how abrasive he is. "So what is it? Shag someone famous once, wrote a tell-all about it? First woman to sail around the world in an overturned umbrella?" The hand holding his cigarette rests on the table, rotates once in invitation. "I'm guessing it doesn't much mention why you felt such a burning need to get in and tussle with something crawled up from the Pit."

Patsy Walker has posed:
How wry, her low chuckling, as she closes her eyes and shakes her head. Patsy has to finish chewing her bite of club sandwich and does so before she replies, cleaning off fingers and mouth first before wetting her mouth with a mouthful of the Blue Moon. The sandwich bread itself is a little dry, but the condiments save it from sucking the life out of her palate.

"You ask a lot of questions for a guy who doesn't want to talk shop, Twiddly," the Hellcat notes with a faint smirk. "There's not a lot of people with red hair who write autobiographies, so since you're a PI, I'll set you on a Google search. You'll find out who I am and why I managed to make the Top Ten. I even gave you a last name." Her brows lift as do the corners of her lips. "You got off easy at this point."

Still, there's a harder, almost resentful sigh. She pops her lips once and glances out across the bar as well. Her own scan isn't as cautious, but more curious -- also a deflection while she collects thoughts and picks words. "You're magical; or if you're not magical, you get it. Normally, I don't tell people because they don't believe me. Muggles, right?" She lifts a hand up off her forearms now folded and rested on the table in a form of a shrug. "I...managed to end up trapped in a place run by a guy whose name starts with M and ends with O and he's not cuddles and sunshine. I got out with some help, but...it kind of left a mark, hence the...crispiness." Her lips press thin as she looks at John levelly.

John Constantine has posed:
"Mephisto, Master of Malice, Lord of the Dark Underworld." John doesn't just say the words; he knows them. And his indifference to invoking Mephisto's aspect reads in the blaise manner with which he drinks his beer, slurping noisily.

"You wouldn't be the first person he's tricked or outright kidnapped. Nasty bloke," John acknowledges. "Never quite got a bead on 'im. Pegged him for a Hell Lord for his modus operandi, but you never know. Hard to know what he is. It is. Goes to a fair amount of lengths to keep people guessing."

"Also wouldn't be the first girl to make a fool's pact. I don't recommend dealing with demonkin but once in a while you don't have much choice. Still-- leaves a mark that's not hard to see, if you know how to look for it. Little whiff in the air. What'd you sell out for? Good looks? Breaking the bestseller list? Don't tell me it was something as bland as for a bloke."

Patsy Walker has posed:
Patsy swallows carefully, her eyes bruised now. There's a smile which never fully comes to life before she looks down at her sandwich.

"...you seem to think that I agreed to go to that place," she replies very quietly. "I went to save a friend. She got out and that's the important part. She came back for me later." Some of the wilted lettuce is pulled slowly out from between the sandwich and deposited off to one side. Studiously, she continues avoiding eye contact.

"If there's anything to take away from it, it was that I'm stronger for it and I can use what I learned to help out people here who can't help themselves when they're in trouble with bullshit like that demon," she says, her tone still ironed out.

John Constantine has posed:
"No one agrees to serve Mephisto," John says philosophically. "They don't agree to go to Hell either, for that matter. Or end up with their souls in little serviettes for later consumption." He drags fries through a sea of ketchup and noshes on it. "Still happens though. Y'know. Like how prison is full of unjustly prosecuted innocents. Been in and out of the kip once or twice, never /once/ met someone who was guilty of whatfore they were arrested."

John slurps his beer and sags back in the chair, patting his stomach. "Woof. I was famished. Nothing gets the blood pressure up like a scrap, eh? Even makes cold beer palatable, though you wouldn't catch me drinking a proper lager chilled. Loses all the flavor, y'know."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Warm beer reminds me of boring parties at college," murmurs Patsy, finally looking up as she deposits another limp slip of greenery off to one side on her red plastic-wicker sandwich platter. "It depends on the beer, if you're really going to argue that warm beer's actually good. It's like cold coffee." A little crinkle of her pert nose and she seems to drag herself up out of her briefly morose state.

"Anyways...now you know why I pick fights with demons -- and you talked shop, so it looks like you're paying for everything anyways." A finger-gun in John's direction as she gathers up a small collection of steak fries and dips them in the cuplet of ranch dressing tucked off to one side in the red basket.

John Constantine has posed:
"Oh is that what you think's gonna happen then?" John asserts with a bob of his brows. He leans sideways and lifts his chin at motion behind Patsy.

It's then that the waitress comes up, this time with the manager in tow. "Sir-- you cannot smoke in here. New York city orndance," the manager says. The waitress stands behind him, scowling, arms folded. "I'm afraid if you don't leave I'm going to call the police and report you for trespassing."

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving," John says. He's already on his feet and shrugged into his jacket-- still smoking-- and he glares daggers at the manager when it clearly occurs to the fellow to try and snatch the cigarette away.

"Been real, Legs," John tells Patsy. "I'll pick that book up. Been looking for something to help me snooze at night." He peels a fiver off a folded wad of bills, tosses it on the table, and heads towards the door, brushing past the waitress before he can be stopped.

The manager shakes his head, and exchanges a look with the waitress. "Well he's gone at least," the manager says, and handspreads at the waitress.

"Who's gonna pay the tab?"

Both look expectantly at Patsy.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Normally, Patsy would fire back with certainty, but the mage's wording has her giving him a suspicions squint. His directional motion of his chin has her glancing over her shoulder to see staff on approach. Granted, she doesn't exactly spare John any sympathy in turn as the manager and waitress both give John the hairy eyeball for ignoring bar protocol.

Instead, she twirls another steak fry in the cuplet of ranch dressing on-pointe and watches him, deciding whether or not to smirk at him would be unnecessarily unkind. There goes John, scarpering away before management can get any more uppity with him -- though he does a good job himself as he departs -- and then Patsy realizes she's been left with the bill.

"...goddamnit," she mutters to herself before she acknowledges the staff. More brightly, to them: "I've got it covered, don't worry." There's little option otherwise that would allow her to finish her club sandwich as it stands. A sigh and Patsy does just this, sipping at her beer and wondering at how bizarre life is now and then.