3314/After the Dance

After the Dance
Date of Scene:	10 September 2020
Location:	A Side Street, Lower East Side, NYC
Synopsis:	Peggy stands up John to have a bar fight with HYDRA. But he ends up catching up with her after. Thrill seeking, demons, and phone numbers all come into discussion. In short, the Brits Brit at each other.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Peggy Carter

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John Constantine has posed:
It's not like John has much of a social life. Oh sure, drinks nightly, pub games. The debauchery of the struggling middle class. But it's largely empty, largely lonely, and largely just.... very Constantine.

Lots of flash. Not a lot of substance.

Still, it burns a bit when 8:30 rolls around, and he glances at his watch for the sixth time in an hour. Two empty beers and a plastic tray of fries speak to how long he's been waiting for his non-existent companion. When the cricket match on the telly ends, John gets to his feet and puts out his cigarette. The waitress comes by while he's countig money off a fold of bills. Beer, beer, fries, then a flickering up and down at the waitress and a wink of appreciation for her ... courtesy.

After all she doesn't look bad in that shirt, and she didn't raise a stink about his smoking.

"Have a good night, John," she bids him. "Sorry your date didn't show."

"Not a date luv," John says around a cigarette. He shrugs into his overcoat, arms moving around to get it settled on his shoulders. "But it's her loss, eh? Cheers."

It's not a terrible night for a walk, and the lanky Brit takes his jangling, loose-jointed stride for a stroll. Meandering. A barking dog deflects him westwards; a panhandler with a neat card trick loses against John's dextrous fingers and the magician takes him for a hundred bucks on a shell game.

More meandering blocks over, across the bridge, moving through two boroughs while he travels.

On the corner of Wilson and 144th, John discovers his crinkled packet of Silk Cuts is empty. It's lazily tossed in the general direction of a wastebin. Looking left, the subway access could take him back to his temporary digs; to his right, a vendor down the street sells cigarettes and newspapers.

The need for a temporary tobacco fix wins out and over he goes. Money's exchanged and John steps aside to light one up. Wind tugs and fights the zippo cupped in his hands. The magician frowns and moves two more paces aside so he's well in the lee of a bar's doorway and finally gets it to light.

A sign on the wall. 'Dollar well drinks', it proclaims.

Where the liquor is, John follows, and in he goes.

Someoen beats him to a seat at the bar. John heads to the corner booth nearer the dance floor. He sits facing the door instead of the service corridor. A cheeseburger takes longer than expected to deliver.

A long confluence of events, all individually utterly without interest or significance, that conclude with John just finishing his meal and preparing to leave when he looks up and spots four undercover SHIELD agents explode into violence.

One of them he recognizes, and she *definitely* fills out her dress in some pleasantly entertaining ways. Spinning kicks and all.

So it's a rack of well drinks and a show, and Constantine stays sitting quietly-- almost invisibly-- in the booth until the other agents are gone, until the cleanup's under way, and the debacle seems nearly done.

And when Peggy finally has a moment to breathe, he deliberately lights his cigarette with a dancing tongue of flame, making no effort to conceal it or how it highlights his lean, craggy features-- or the pointed eye contact he makes with her.

Peggy Carter has posed:
While Peggy did geniunely want to meet the almost-friend from the old country tonight, possible HYDRA contact took precedent. It was a quick enough mission that she didn't even remember to text him a fast 'Sorry, work came up.' or some other lame excuse. She was busy getting fitted into a dress that supposedly let her breathe and still concealed two weapons, a communication device, and a back up knife. She only needed one of them, but she was thankful for it by the end of the night. She's waved off two medics already, slightly brushing a split of blood from her lip, but other than some bruises that will come with the morning, it seems she made it out of her tussle in one piece. Most of the victims are loaded up and gone. So are the prisoners. She's just about to catch a ride back with the others when she catches sight of him.

*Oh hell.*

"Ah... head back. I'm just going to take one more sweep..." She calls to two of the other agents and gives them that *look*, the one that says arguing isn't worth it. Then she's walking a bit slower in his direction, an apologetic line to her bloodied lips. She sighs, nodding for him to keep moving. "...I... owe you an apology." She mutters earnestly.

John Constantine has posed:
John's head rocks sidways so he can give Peggy an appreciative once-over as she walks up to his booth. "Mmm, I should say so," John agrees. His expression is more mischevious than irate. The cigarette's transferred from his lips to his hand, wrist resting on the old, liquor-stained tabletop. The cherry-red tip makes a little arc as his hand makes a 'and go on' gesture, wrist rolling.

"That dress is a decent start, though. If you've a good story about the split lip, I might even consider calling it close to squaresies."

John slides one of the glasses of whisky over. There's nothing much to recommend it except that it's cheap and potent, and invites Peggy to take the other seat in the booth. "Or'd I stumble into something too classified? Should know-- rubbish at keeping secrets," he informs her. "But I don't even have a social media account, so I can't do much harm with what little I know anyway."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"...I can't believe you're still *here*." Peggy mutters, suddenly wondering if he had some sort of forget-me aura, because generally the place would be cleared. But she's not complaining. And now, unlikely to be on duty again, she happily scoops up the glass of whiskey he's slid to her and takes a good drain from it. It'll take some of the sting out of the bruises and, frankly, she deserves it after that night. She's probably not blushing at his comments about the dress, maybe still flushed from the fight, but her cheeks are definitely a few levels warmer than normal.

"Needed something to blend in. Don't get use to it." She nods down to the dress. Another sip of whiskey is taken before she lets it nurse between her fingers. He slid it over, he's not getting it back. "...run in with an old enemy's grandson. Apparently, he picked up the family business, and it involved some human trafficking out the back. Could have been messier. Could have gone smoother."

John Constantine has posed:
"Ah-- here is not /there/," John corrects with an uplifted fingertip from the counter. His index finger ticks hither and yon. "We were supposed to meet at the pub over on Horizon, remember?" Brows lift promptingly. "At half of seven." John rolls his hand towards him to look at his watch. "Coming up on ten now. I figured you'd shagged ass home and called it a night. Biscuits, bowl of ice cream, some Lifetime drama on the telly. I just stopped in here on a lark. Glad I did." That same look of impish amusement works across his sallow features and he flags down the waitress for more drinks.

"So. I'm a *bit* hard of hearing," John says. A pinkie wiggles in his ear, flicks something non existent away from the table. "But it sounds like you said 'old enemy's... grandson'."

His eyes move up and down, assessing Peggy, then narrow as he gives her a hawkish, sidelong look. "Gel your age doesn't strike me as the sort to get rows with a bloke old enough for grandkids. Jilted ex lover or something?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
As he asks about the conundrum in the commentary Peggy gave him, her smile falls into the far more bemused category. And he's not wrong. She might be a very healthy 40, more likely somewhere in her thirties and very much rallying in the prime of her life (if that fight showed anything.) She chuckles huskily to herself, voice on the edge of a rasp from the fight earlier. And he doesn't even have cigarettes left to steal that she can tell.

"You... clearly didn't do your research, my dear Mr. Constantine. Did you? It's not a hard stroll around the internet to figure exactly who I am. Though, I suppose I'm thankful the news papers haven't caught wind of the matter. Having the media out of my life has been a nice relief compared to the old days." Peggy watches him a bit closer as she dangles those bits of information. Not explaining further, not yet. She's enjoying the game from the look in her dark gaze. And it's been a long enough night, she deserves enjoyment.

"And no. I spoke earnest. Though, I suppose the records the US government made us sign at the time technically pardoned the man's war criminal record. He never made it to my forgiveness list."

John Constantine has posed:
"My internet's on the blink," John sallies back. "I like to read books anyway. Downside is I tried checking out Hustler from the library but I got a sour look from the librarian."

"Doesn't take a genius to tell there's a story you'd like to tell there. So--" John's fingers flex and he slouches back into the seat behind him. His knee is visible jostling above the table's surface as he hooks an ankle to cross his legs. "Assume I'm a bit of an indifferent student of world history and you've some shocking tell-all that's just ripe for a documentary on the BBC. I'm all ears love." Hands spread in invitation. His pack of cigarettes is dug out and offered to Peggy along with a lighter-- regrettably, Marlboro's today rather than Lucky Strikes.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The cigarettes get a bit of a tempted side eye. Peggy shakes her head, mainly to herself, and slips slender fingertips forward to pluck one out of the pack. She chuckles huskily, "Well, I suppose the first hint I could give is that you're the first person since WWII who has made cigarettes look good enough that I want to smoke them again. I suppose at my age, what's the harm?" Still, probably a lot. But she slips that filter between her lips and leans over so he can light it for her. That probably gives him a *very* nice view of cleavage because she's not accustomed to operating in a dress like this, not nowadays at least.

Once the cherry is going, she leans back and exhales slowly out her nose, letting the ashen tobacco smoke drift between them. "I don't really care for dramatics. In short, my name is Margaret Carter. I started as an SOE agent right at the top of the second world war. Soon after, transferred to the SSR, was one of the main agents on the project that made Captain America. Served as his handler for a while. Finished out the war with the SSR, came over here. Founded SHIELD with Howard Stark... someone attempted to murder me in the sixties and SHIELD took some... Dramatic experimentation to undo the damage. It's also undone most aging damage. Most..." she takes another drag of her cigarette. "In the 80s, they ended up sticking me in a cryotube because the genetic damage was simply irrepariable at the time. About four months ago, that tube cracked, out they pulled me, and with some experimentation with something called CRISPr...and other things I cannot presume to even understand the tip of the iceburg of science wise, I'm... Functional again."

John Constantine has posed:
It's a pleasant view, and one John examines with an appreciative out-jutting of his lower lip. But he's gentlemanly enough to offer Peggy the aid of the lighter, holding the flame aloft for her. It's an old wartime Zippo, the sort of thing that will run bright and forever with enough white gas in it. The scent of old-school combustion alone is a hint of nostalgia for the SHIELD agent.

Brows rise with interest at the 'sixties' comment, and he nods along encouragingly at Peggy's exposition.

"I got most of that. Except for the 'Esser' and the crisper drawer thing. But you were in the War, eh?" For Londoners, there is only 'The War'-- anyone who survived the Blitz passes on that language to children, grandchildren, and beyond. "Look good for an older gel, though," he compliments her. "Most women your age would be in nanny panties and a rest home. Bingo night the high point of the week. I take it that SHIELD did some of their ..." His cigarette-wielding hand traces a vague circle at Peggy. "Science mumbo-jumbo on you, successfully. Didn't think the government would go in for a little cosmetic surgery. Or is that just a thank-you to Nana Carter? Good genetics and all that?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
The zippo gets a deeper breath through her nose than even the cigarette. "Nice lighter..." Peggy mutters to the trench lighter, nostalgia lining her expression blatently for a few heartbeats. It smelled like home and the start of her entire career. She sits back, though, huffing his lighter all night was certainly not a lady like thing to be doing.

"The SSR. Strategic Science Reserve. It was an allies-driven cooperational unit dedicated to... Well, some things are still classified. Captain America is still here. I'd say we were...successful, over all." But there's layers of emotion behind her voice and eyes as she says that. Things about the whole thing are complicated.

She drags in off the cigarette again, watching his handsome, if troublemaking, eyes across the table. Just seeing how he's taking this all in. Seemingly, in stride. "Now you're just flattering me. And yes...I was in the war. Got out before the Blitz, though. Bletchley, then France. Spent a lot of time helping a unit called the Howling Commandos track down Nazi and HYDRA scientists." Her expression darkens a bit, motioning with her cigarette to the back door. "That was the grand son of one of them and why this is all particularly... enraging. And *yes*. SHIELD's interventions that saved my life after that assassination had other...lucky affects."

John Constantine has posed:
"'twas a gift from a friend of mine. Former friend," John amends. "Mate named Nick Necro, from Liverpool." He offers it over to Peggy. "He's kicked off quite a while back now. One of those things, y'know. Think it was his grandad's. I think it's almost as old as you," John says with a sly, playfully mocking tone. "Had it quite a while now." The dents add character to an otherwise unremarkable lighter, one that's still somehow heavy with the weight of history.

"So you were part of that whole... crack commando thing. I'm recollecting a bit of it now," John informs Peggy. "Not much of a student of recent history, y'know. I know about some of HYDRA's affairs. Well, the..." he shrugs, looks away. "Some of the more occult side of things. Less the science side. Don't much care about that element of it. HYDRA, y'know... they were up to some narsty things though." John's forearms fold, elbows on the table, and he leans towards Peggy. "March of the undead on Versailles. The sack of Antitum. Heard they hoarded pages from the Darkholde and even carried the Lance of Longinus."

John focuses on Peggy and drags on his cigarette, heavily. "Ever run into anything like that?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
There is the slightest narrowing of her eyes, a twitch of recognition that he'd miss if he's not looking closely, as he talks about the March of the Undead and the Darkholde. Some of these things are absolutely things she knows, even if it's more than a bit classified still. "...I may have heard of a thing or two like that, yes. The Thule Society, along with certain upper elements of HYDRA, were... quite interested in the mystical. Anything for power. I'm surprised a shamus like *you* would know. But then you just keep being full of surprises."

She breathes deep of her cigarette, a woman who has learned to savor them, the few she gets. Other than long being out of the habit of hiding her cherry, she smokes like a soldier, or someone who rationed cigarettes for far too long. "So...I've given my brief. Care to share yours? Mister fights magic demons at a pub and now knows more than a bit of classified things about my old enemy?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Mmm. Pass," John says. Swimmer's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. He's a strange build. Not quite lean enough to be a runner, not enough muscle for a swimmer. Broad shoulders, skinny chest, waist like a pipe cleaner. Scars and tattoos cover up pale forearm skin worthy of an accountant.

"I mean, granted-- full faith and credit for knowing of the Thule society," John assures Peggy. "But I get the sense you're a gel who's more interested in science. You know." Smoke issues from his nose in twin plumes, crawls up the middle distance between them to evaporate into the air. "Things you can see. Count." Eyes flicker with amusement. "Touch."

"I'm afraid that unless you've an adventurous attitude and an open mind," John says, with feigned regret, "you're going to find me a wholly-- unininterestingly-- closed book." A new shot of whiskey's hoisted in toast and he throws it back with a gulp and a hiss of protest at the burning aftertaste.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Peggy just gives him *a look*. It's dry, deadpan, horribly British, and perhaps a bit miffed. She sets down the tumbler of whiskey she was just about to start drinking again and sits a bit straigher. "John. I get that you're playing rather hard to get, probably much deserved after I stood you up tonight. That being said, I'm a 100 year old woman who just told you she helped cook up Captain America. Adventurous attitude and an open mind are two of my top traits." She's really trying to figure out if he's being deliberately a tease or is truly that private. Her dark eyes narrow a touch at him.

Then the moment of emotion is passed. She settles neatly back into the booth and scoops up her whiskey, drowning any lingering bits of being aghast in the burn of the stuff. She's nearly done her cigarette, but savoring it all the way down to the burn of the filter, so she dares one more drag. "... Truly. I know how to keep my mouth shut and I've... brushed against your world, if never been in neck deep. There's a lot of life left for that to change."

John Constantine has posed:
Peggy's look is met with a poker face that is almost *offensively* incomprehensible. He holds Peggy's gaze for a few good beats. Not to pick a fight; perhaps just to make the point that he knows he's needling Peggy in a soft spot, however gently.

"If you've done *your* digging, then you know who *I* am," he says, putting gentle stress on the words. "I figured that's why you stood me up. Someone in SHIELD with connections to MI5 told you to steer clear."

John's a chainsmoking chimney and is reaching for a new smoke. The packet remains between them in Peggy's reach.. "I came up in Liverpool. Made and lost a few friends. Saw some things, things that you don't exactly see in 'official reports'." John's eyes meet Peggy's, and they flash once. Something new, some expression that's hard to pin down. Not just a man who's seen horror or pain, but a man who's perhaps gone insane at least once and come back from being over that edge.

Someone who's seen what goes bump in the dark. "Is that why you wanted a date then, luv? Jaded with the world of the preternatural, wanted to see what the supernatural can offer?"

He cups his palms to his hands, flame dancing. It paints shadows around and under his craggy brows and shades his blue eyes an unnatural shade of red. The cigarette's stoked to life and John puts his palms flat on the table.

It's only then that he reaches over and picks up the lighter that's been atop the pack of cigarettes the entire time.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"...I did my digging, but it's different hearing it out of your mouth than a dry file. And SHIELD doesn't trust me with the really classified things, ironically. Not since getting me out of that damned tube. They also don't have near the strings on me they used to. So, if I wish to meet up with someone from back home, I shall." She takes one last sip of her whiskey, looking down into the glass for a moment, "And they certainly didn't tell me your... lacking taste in whiskey."

The flame of his palms makes her blink. It's an impressive trick. Probably not even a trick, but actual power. Still, it's mezmerizing in its own way. Strange and beautiful. She smiles a bit more curiously, "...Nice trick without the lighter. I bet you're hands are even trench proof."

She sighs and leans back then, stabbing out her cigarette. Her dark eyes are torn between his face and those hands which made flame dance. "And... as intriguing the supernatural is, in truth, your accent is very nice to hear and sometimes it's simply nice to have a friend from home. If a troublesome one prone to ego and flirtation."

John Constantine has posed:
"Shockingly, freelance consulting as an occultists doesn't exactly feed a preference for proper MacAllan. Wild Turkey, on the other hand, is cheap and plentiful. Stiff upper lip and all that," John reminds Peggy. "Beggers and choosers, as they say."

"Besides, if all you really want to hear is a familiar accent, there are plenty of pubs around." John leans over the table against, arms folding over one another and shoulders hunching. The eye contact he makes is amused and purposeful, lacking any semblance of shyness or social conditioning. "You really want to pop in, hear a bloke named 'Nigel' tell you about Yorkshire taking the Lions in cricket?"

"Were you to ask me, /I'd/ say you're not just looking for home-- stuck working for a bunch of Yanks though you might be. You're a woman who appreciates a little excitement in her life. Something that's interesting and a bit of a puzzle, beyond just--" his chin uplifts. "Scrapping in bars in high heels and a skirt. Though you do pull the look off well," he appends.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"...I needed to be... Distracting." Peggy looks down to her red dress with that keyhole cleavage, a slightly wry smirk following the words. "Don't get used to it." But she's not disagreeing with his other suggestions. She takes a deeper, thoughtful sip of her whiskey, watching him as she enjoys the burn. Considering just how much to give him. She then sets down her glass and leans forward, hands neatly folding.

"So... you have profiled the profiler. And you are not wrong. I am a woman who is used to a bit more of a challenge than some basic people trafficking offers. Though... I'm glad we handled the issue. It needed handled. It still isn't..." She searches for the word. How to describe a life of coming up against the impossible. "...I've seen a lot of this world. A lot of things that shouldn't be. A lot has tried to kill me and nothing's succeeded yet. A regular life just seems quiet in compare."

She then tosses him a bit of a wink, "...and the accent *does* help."

John Constantine has posed:
"Don't get used to the look, or don't get used to the company?" John sallies back. He lifts his shot glass to take a sip, a grin hiding momentarily behind amber liquor and a weather-scarred hand, then downs the remainder. When the glass lands, the smile's disappeared save for some crow's nests near the corner of his eyes.

"Mm, I suppose that's fair. I wouldn't advise you to get too accustomed to being my pleasant disposition. As it stands I'm pleasantly surprised to find out you've a decent reason for the standup, and you did come dressed for the occassion." Fingers flicker at Peggy's attire.

Elbows settle on the table and he mirrors her posture almost perfectly, and therefore teases her with his mimicry. "Truth is, I'm generally regarded as an uncharitable lunatic or a proper bastard. Usually both. So much as I'm enjoying the view, and the company, I think you'll find kicking around in the mud I'm used to is going to leave you with a much less chummy disposition, your unique sense of style not withstanding."

A grin crosses his face. "The accent /does/ help, doesn't it?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
That gets a deeper, slightly more husky laugh from her, echoing that rueful smile. "The accent *absolutely* helps." If Peggy is unaware of who she's dealing with, she certainly doesn't look worried about it. She's simply smiling, amused and tempted all at the same moment.

Then she lazily reaches down for another one of his cigarettes, pulling it free from the pack with manicured red fingernails. No permission asked. She's getting accustomed to the ways of dealing with John Constantine which is very little permission and probably a lot of forgiveness. "And I have read your file. Thin, yes...but enough. I know you're a nightmare to work with. Probably a lunatic, but not as much as they say you are. You've seen a lot of other sides of things than most and are still standing. Much as myself. So, I'm willing to put a bit more weight into the being useful to know category, and a little less weight in the lunatic one. Besides..."

Her dark eyes flash up in his direction, beneath heavy, dark lashes, the look on her face absolutely a challenge. "Wouldn't it be nice to have some competent back up to call in on occaison? Even if I'm just... thrill seeking, as it were."

John Constantine has posed:
John matches that look with a lift of his brow, his smirk somewhere between intrigued and amused at Peggy's bold self-assertion. One hand rises from where it's folded in the crook of his elbow, fingers in the air between them, and he *snaps* his fingers. A tongue of fire stands up again, like a flick-trick with a zippo-- expect the flame's light and heat has no visible source or fuel. It dances on his skin with no apparent ill effects and is held out where she can light off of it.

"Luv, I am /no one's/ backup," John assures Peggy. "I get called in when it's all gone to hell in a handbasket. I'm not a nightmare just for my own shits and gigs. I'm a nightmare because the only cure for a bad dream is to bring a worse one along."

There's a flicker in his eyes-- just for a moment. The light goes out and a thousand-yard stare looks right through Peggy. His smirk droops, then fades along with the fire as his fingers curl into his palm.

Finally John's eyes drop to the table and he sits back with palms resting atop the scarred wood, and when he looks up at her again that devil-may-care grin returns. "I suppose it couldn't hurt for you to know how to get hold of me in a pinch. But if you're inquiring for my number with any social interest in mind, you can just come out and say so. It's the twenty-first century after all, luv," he reminds her.

Peggy Carter has posed:
There might be a nightmare behind his eyes, but Peggy meets it. A woman who has stared into a dozen nightmares and not blinked. For the strange chill, the 1,000 yard stare he gives her, she gives a sturdy, ageless, firm one. The sort of stare that comes from a woman who plants her feet against a hurricane and has never been knocked over by the wind. She so rarely looks her age but, in this handful of heartbeats, there near a century behind her eyes. She keeps that eye contact as she leans over and breathes in deep, lighting her stolen cigarette.

His disagreement gets another touch of a laugh. "Oh, my dear John.... you aren't listening. Not close enough. So determined to scare the little woman away that you didn't hear my words. I was not implying you'd be *my* back up. I was offering that *I'd* be *yours*. Not an offer I make... a lot. But you would keep life interesting, if nothing else." Her smile is more amused than coy, but there's a touch of that behind it too. She settles her shoulders back in the booth, now that they are done staring.

"I'm currently rather involved with an old friend from the war, but social interest still counts as friendship, yes? And... should a friend have need of a friend... Never a poor choice to know how to get in touch."

John Constantine has posed:
"Alas, possibilities raised and dashed /just/ that quickly," John tells Peggy with a feigned ruefulness. "It's a sweet offer, though, and I might take you up on it. At least until you've had your fill of the darker side of the world, for a while," he informs her. "Doesn't usually take long. My last few sidekicks folded the first time they saw a demon made manifest. Ugly blighters. Horns, big teeth. Bad complexions." It's hard to tell if he's using dark humor or glib sarcasm as he gets to his feet.

A notepad and pen is produced; he scribbles seven digits on the notepad and tears it off, then hands it to Peggy. "My call service. No, I don't do texts, and I don't carry a cell phone anyway. Don't like being at people's beck and call."

John shrugs into his coat and indifferently flicks at the collar, failing to make it lay properly flat. "Serves for social calls, too. I mean-- can't help but notice your bloke isn't -here-," he says, surveying the room. "And yet-- here you are." The cigarettes and lighter are tucked into his coat, and he slouches in place with his hands in his trouser pockets almost immediately. "But, as they say--" he bobs a bit on his toes and inclines his head a few degrees in something that vaguely resembles a little bow. "Hope springs eternal, and all."

Peggy Carter has posed:
The digits are scooped up between red fingernails and she looks them over, memorizing the numbers before carefully slipping the paper down the top of her dress, to the left side. Peggy is smiling slightly sardonically after him, "I shall keep them close to my heart. Just in case I need a little demonically experienced back up." And with that, she settles back with her cigarette as well as the last few sips of her whiskey. It's the least treat she can give herself after quite a long night.

"It was good speaking, John. Get home safely. I won't abuse my new found knowledge, I promise. And you know where to call, if you need some back up who has seen a demon or two in her life and not flinched." Whether she means literally or metaphorically, it's not clear, but she handled that first fight fairly well. She turns back to watching what little is left of the crowd as he disappears, quietly lost in her own thoughts over a cigarette.