6900/Weekly Weirdness: Black and White

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Weekly Weirdness: Black and White
Date of Scene: 23 July 2021
Location: The Laughing Magician
Synopsis: If the first night The Laughing Magician is opened for business is any indication, Hell's Kitchen is about to get a whole lot hotter.
Cast of Characters: John Constantine, Jovian Anderson, Elvis Odell, Phoebe Beacon, Meggan Puceanu, M'gann M'orzz




John Constantine has posed:
    The Laughing Magician has been opened for business for a sum total of three hours. Three whole hours and her proprietor is more drinks in than would put anyone else six times three sheets to the wind. But this is John Constantine, his liver's been pickled for years and his tolerance for the drink is more legendary than his reputation for dirty deeds and debauchery.

    The place isn't very crowded, it's not as if he advertised it or had any intentions of it being a normally hopping place. However, tonight's lack of crowd *might* have to do with the fact that the song 'I Want to be Sedated' by the Ramones seems to be the only song that old jukebox in the corner is willing to play at the moment.

    ...and all those damned wards that he worked so hard on? Well, they're not up and running to snuff. A visit from a little golden-haired fae has absolutely NOTHING to do with that.

    Really though, John can't be arsed enough to care. Let'm come. It's nothing less than he deserves, right? YES, he's in one of THOSE moods. The smoke from his constant chain of Silk Cuts clings to his little corner of the bar, where that stool that people shouldn't sit in rests, like a like a shroud of gray, obscuring him slightly from view.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson is drinking beer. He initially met a contact here trying to learn about the occult, but the contact gave up in disgust when they realized how LITTLE Jovian actually knows, but he found that the nature of the place just...fits his ennui so he is sitting and looks about the room, noting the general ennui and tension. He doesnt immediately speak but watches with curiosity.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    She spends a few moments at the door, peering left and right into seemingly thin air. Then slowly she slips inside, pausing again to survey the joint before moving towards the bar. There she saddles up, setting that ancient black breifcase atop the bar and digging out a pack of cowboy killers from her jacket pocket and lighting up. There is of course not even the ghost of an effort to remove those shades of hers, nevermind the darkness. She simply lifts a finger to flag the bartender, "Hendricks with a few chunks of cucumber in there, and I'm no cheap date so three fingers or don't bother alright?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Wherever she should wander, Phoebe still shone. Not in any physical way -- she was still just normal, expelled highschooler, her hair braided in waves about her head, wearing a gray light hoodie with the worn GOTHAM ROGUES over it, hood up and over her head. She didn't have any bling or any sign of her ability outwardly, not that you could see, no.

    But there was a Presence about her. An Aura. A Light. For all those who would follow the paths that wind through the mystic arts, who were able to sense such things, she was a bright light.

    "Okay. So, apparently there are people who know about demonology and stuff here, so I'm just going to try and not be my incredibly nervous self and embarrass everyone in front of the wizards." she mumbles.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The cause for elaborately constructed and beautifully aligned wards not being there for the introductory night at the bar falls squarely on a certain fae. That blonde has apologized in full, but that won't repair the painstakingly constructed protections against a dozen different entities. Something needs to be done to correct that.

Meggan goes shopping. Certain parts of New York cater to English whims. What she can't find there, a hyperloop trip to Starling City via Gotham might achieve given the well-stocked stores catering to expats. Two boxes and one remote uni class later, she crosses the threshold with her offering in tow. A bit of paper sticks out from the bag, the weight of a wooden box adding some heft. Thick braids spindled behind her carry a pair of feathers stuck in them at a jaunty angle, and far from cultural appropriation, it might be sign of favour from a passing corvid.

Said bird's actually outside watching her with interest and black-eyed amusement. "Caw twice for trouble" is a ridiculous set of instructions, but there they are. The black-swept bird chuckles. She glides in Phoebe's wake, a minute or two behind. To the sensitive, the lighthouse effect overlaps in the Venn diagram, a twinkling of life seething in doubled glow. Even dialing it consciously back won't help, it's not all her this time though! To the bartender, the spoils: the box in a bag set down in passing without comment.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
Tagging along with Phoebe is another young woman, a bit taller, pale skin, long red hair, freckles. She is dressed in a red and white horizontally striped short sleeved shirt and a belted denim skirt, a small gap between the two leaving her navel revealed. To anyone who was watching sitcoms in the 80's she might seem oddly familiar, one of those faces you just can't quite place.

"Demonology? Wizards? Is this a costume party?" She asks Phoebe hesitating for a moment before entering, "Should I change?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John's attention, shrouded in smoke and booze as it is, cannot help but to be drawn to Phoebe. Her brightness is probably why Death walking through the door, literally, is missed by the Petty Dabbler. "Bloody hell," he mutters under is breath. "They're multiplying."

    That revelation deserves another drink... right after he downs the one in his hand with one smooth and, very well practiced, bend of an elbow. He slams the empty down on the bar top with force that's just this side of causing it to shatter. "Can y'turn it down, luv?..." Really, he had more to say on that matter, something about how Phoebe was interrupting his darkness or maybe about how everything was better in the dark? Yeah, probably that latter, he could have at least have made that sound lewd and not just morose. But then... the bird.

    "Bullocks!" The man just cannot catch a break, can he.

    It seems not... it's the smell of roses that first draws his attention, followed by the ever so slight flaring of the casually tossed up wards he did bother with before opening. It's not nearly enough time to do anything about it though.

    The air shimmers in the bar, takes on that unreal, ethereal quality that always seems to accompany events such as what's to follow. At first, well, it seems as if nothing's changed when the 'air clears' so to speak, other than the fact that color has drained from everything. Black and white, it's all black and white and shades of gray.

    He rolls his eyes heavenward, looking in the wrong direction there John, "You have *got* to be kidding me?!"


    From the back room, a scream rings out.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson recognizes the aura even if he doesnt recognize the girl and with the comment on demonology he is about to ask questions himself, but when he instantly becomes sober, he finishes his vodka on principal and then when the color drains in the room, he immediately begins emminating gloom around himself to conceal his presence and in the darkness costume up. "Rainbow Bright scenario...."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe rubs the back of her neck. "N-no, M'gann, I'm actually here seeking magical advice because I can't find what I need in--" she pauses, and looks down the bar to John.

    And she gets both a relieved and worried face at once. "Ah. Actually. I can't, that's incidentally why I'm--" Phoebe begins, but she's cut off by the sudden curse of the not-magical type, the color changing about the space, and the sudden scream!

    And immediately, because she's too pure for the world -- she goes to the sound of the scream to help!

Elvis Odell has posed:
    Everyone's favorite reaper is still waiting on her drink when things start getting a might bit funky. Slowly she rises, reaching back to pop the snap and tug free a revolver of some consequence. She lets the smoke wagon hang in her hand for a moment, before sweeping her jacket back just enough to expose the badge on her hip. Then well she's away, heading towards the back room without a moment more of hesitation nor any apparent rush. "Ma'am, step back for me please. "spoken after Phoebe, just as casually as you ask to pass the salt.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
'Megan Morse' nods her head to Phoebe, "Okay, I just wanted to make sure." The young woman looks like she'd be more at home in a suburban high school or liberal arts college than a dive bar. In fact, she has 'cheerleader' written all over her. But seems nice enough, not an ounce of 'Mean Girls' here, as she looks around the bar with that curious stare of a fish out of water.

"Wait, are you have problems with demons?" M'gann suddenly asks Phoebe looking a little wide eyed. She has seen enough of Earth's pop culture media to know demons are dangerous and not to be trifled with.

When things suddenly go from your typical Earth color patterns to gray scale gradients, M'gann freezes. She's never encountered anything like this before. "Phoebe, is this supposed to happen here?" Maybe it's a wizard thing, it's probably a wizard thing. But then there is a scream and her attention snaps in that direction. "What was that?!" She asks like a horror movie protagonist, as if it wasn't obvious.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Dropping off her gift frees up both of Meggan's hands, and then the artless consideration of the Laughing Magician's current array of patrons from that head point of the floor. Her reflection in the mirror casts a sparkle of gold before the warm sunshine hue fades away into silver right as a perilous shriek splits the beginnings of a conversation.

A quick check proves her arms white as snow, her existence in so many shades of gray. "This isn't just me, innit?" The question rings out with a classically muddled English accent, though by English, it's somewhere in the British Isles heaped with Celtic overtones. Her gaze lifts, tracing an immediate look to John and then Megan and Phoebe. The latter two she knows to some extent, giving them a swift nod of greeting. "You can't be running back there without -- Oh, /bother/."

Without so much as a beat, she sashays with a leggy pace covering far more floor than she has any right to. It doesn't even fall to reason not to close toward that door to the back room, circumnavigating what seems the most likely direction they might all pile at. Impulse? Thy name is Meggan Puceanu. She glances askance at Elvis, clearly some kind of adult, and that is that.

John Constantine has posed:
    It's only a small breath of time after the color drains, that people change. The style of their clothing at the very least, hairstyles... Each person sucked into this little magic show will find themselves fitting perfectly into an old '40s film noir.

    The only one that hasn't changed much is John himself. But that's only because his attire basically fit his intended role already. The role of the haggard, bitter, worn out detective. The shoes pinch a little bit though and John looks down at his feet. He runs a hand back through is blonde spikes to find them slicked back.

    With a sigh that's more put-upon than anything else, he stands from the bar stool to head after Phoebe. "Hey, you! Glow worm! Wait!" he calls out. He shoots a narrow eyed glare at the 'used to be' bird. "You know if this turns out to be the Maltese Falcon, y'might be buggered, luv," he points out.

    The back room looks nothing like it does in the 'real world'. Back there, it's a mystical 'board room' complete with big oak table, chairs, maps of the city. Here? It's a place where gambling likely happens in the form of poker games with high stakes. Sprawled on the floor, clad in a white form fitting, split to the knee dress is a young woman. Her red hair tumbles over her face, the scarf around her neck is pulled taunt. Dead. The woman is dead. A single read rose is clutched in her right hand. No one else is in the room and there is no other obvious exit.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson is a hero. He has chosen to be a hero, and flawed as a hero he may be he is on the side of the angels. The universe, however, really doesnt see it that way and that magic is no exception. Stepping out of the shadows, he is dressed as a Pulp Villain, wide broad brimmed black fedora with a skull shaped ominous black gas mask and a faint sound of a rebreather with a bandalier of small grenaded shape bolos acrossed his chest and a long flowing black cloak that moves like the very wings of night. His voice, ominous and mechanical says, "What...the hell just happened?" He steps out of the darkness that still hovers around him in the background like a creeping maddening thing, making anyone who stares into it likely uncomfortable as the Abyss that stares back.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I don't know, Megan!" Phoebe squeaks out, but she's halted as Elvis pulls a gun. The stranger calls her glow-worm, and Meggan -- the Lady of the Light House -- that makes her skid to a stop, drawing one hand out before she's changed.

    Gone are the artful braids, the sweatshirt, her track pants and sneakers. NOw she's an artful dame. She has a pair of white gloves over her hands. A short-sleeved dress with white polkadots is on, her socks changed out for stockings and her sneakers now heeled shoes. Her braids have turned into victory curls, her hood replaced with a very nice pillbox hat.

    "... what in the Emily Dickenson just happened?" she asks, turning to her fellow Outsider.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    For the first time since she -died-, she coughs. It's almost enough to double her over, coming to a stop with one hand pressed against the wall. She coughs and hacks, until slowly the fit passes. She rises unsteadily a moment as that fine hand tailored suit dissolves into something out of the back rack of local woolworth's. She straightens slowly, puzzling at the battered Model 27 in her hand before realizing whatever ghost of a mystical disguise she's had has been wiped away.

    The hard boiled detective, so hard boiled she's been rendered down into a pearly white skeleton in a cheap suit no less. Her cigarette is unchanged at least, and absently she takes a pull without any real hint as to where all that smoke is actually going. "This report is going to take forever to write."She does at least double check for cuffs and her knife, but is decidedly more puzzled by the "IRS" badge on her hip than anything. A hard Boiled G-man detective, to be specific it seems!

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
Where once stood M'gann is now a Woman of Mystery! Clad in a long slinky dress that reaches almost to the floor ending just above a hair of stiletto heels. On her head is a wide brimmed black hat pulled slightly forward to obscure her face. Mystery M'gann wobbles on her heels, she has never worn these strange contraptions before and is not entirely certain walking would be safe at the moment.

The air of mystery is shattered a bit when she actually starts talking though. "I don't know Phoebe! You're the magical one!"

Somehow, Mystery M'gann manages to stabilize herself and even walk in the heels. In truth it is a subtle feat of telekinesis. "Meggan!" She waves in Meggan's direction, "Do you know what's happening?" Someone must know what's happening. "And what's this thing?" She holds up the opera length cigarette holder that has appeared in her hand.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe reaches over and grabs the ciggarette from M'gann. "Bad for you." she states, sternly.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The lady of the Cape Carmine lighthouse is, indeed, stained by that. Carmine being /red/. Even if they can't see the red, not right away, anyhow. Give her three steps and suddenly she has an absolutely *glorious* hat with a turning circle on par with an ocean liner, slanted devilishly over her face. Heavy-weight waves a la Rita Hayworth at her peak dust her shoulders and spill further, given a slightly irritated shake to get them out of her face.

"Who is to know, non? Perhaps someone could not resist the temptation?" Glitter shrouds her dark eyes, dangerously bright. It would seem the brighter they are, the more spectacular the headgear. Pillbox hat appreciation in Phoebe's direction will have to wait, though, since Meggan needs several seconds not to end up sprawled next to the fallen starlet with her rose thanks to those heels were none were before. M'gann is so much better suited to stilettos than someone who habitually floats and avoids the earth. "Cherie! How good you are here, we would be in such a trice without you. Mademoiselle Phoebe, oh! She will lose her looks with a cigarette."

Approving, thus, of no cigarette holder. She turns to the fallen figure.

"Of course, I'd have chosen Mortlach," she drawls, that dusky vibrato trilling through her mezzosoprano. Her accent's sidestepped into a touch of French, and inexplicably given her a rope necklace to twirl around her fingers as she stares at the body before sinking carefully to one knee. The slit in that dress goes up to /there/, and her Cuban stockings aren't meant for abuse. Humming under her breath, she dares to extend her fingers without quite touching the rose, a frown bowing cupidean lips. If magic lies there, she might feel it.

John Constantine has posed:
    John Constantine is no stranger to a dead body. He's definitely not normally squeamish about such things, but... it's with definite trepidation that he approaches this one. He squats down beside the sprawled, still woman and gently brushes her hair from her face.

    One person here would recognize that slight flare of his nostrils, the small intake of breath, the ever ever so slight widening of those blue eyes of his, it's the Constantine equivalent of a 'gasp of surprise'. It's over almost before it starts, but it was *there*. He's startled, maybe even... scared? Everything else, the changes in appearance, the draining of color, even the skeletal G-man and the noir super villain, it all... well, he seems to take it in stride, no big deal, this is another day that ends in 'y', but that girl's face, the vibrant red of her hair? It's done something to him.

    It's that one person in the room that probably understood that fleeting loss of control that he addresses directly. "It's Abigail Winslow. She dated Chas back when we were lads, before Renee. She got... caught in the crossfire..." Does he really need say more on the matter? Surely she, and perhaps others present, can likely read into that statement.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson immediately searches the environment for clues of significants, turning off the gloom as he feels the seeping madness from it. It might not faze John but anyone else...why take the chance? His Role might be Villain but his skill set is law enforcement agent and he sweeps the room for any indications as to who or what might be responsible for this. He does listen though and asks as he methodically sweeps the room with his eyes, "Is there anyone who would hold you responsible? Who was with you when she was in said crossfire?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... I think we've stumbled upon a mystery beyond that of Eleusinian." Phoebe states quietly, adjusting her pillbox hat a moment before turning to look at M'gann, taking a deep breath. The lady was far too gone for Phoebe to even attempt to restore her, but she does take a step forward, quietly, folding her hands in front of her as she looks around the room.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann did sit through some Earth high school lit courses but she was primarily put in school to learn to socialize with humans and didn't retain as much as might be really useful right now with some of the literary refferences flying around. Her first instinct is to scan the minds of those around her, but that would be against 'The Rules' she reminds herself.

"Isn't this one of those situations where we should say nobody leaves until we find who the killer is? Almost every television series seems to have an episode like this." It is the closest thing she has to any sort of answer or contribution, random TV and movie trivia.

Then she stops, "Hello, Megan!" she says slapping her forehead in sudden realization, "Do we even know how she died?" Perhaps the most obvious question having only just occured to her.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    Slowly Elvis stalks into the room, reholstering that smoke wagon with a low humm. She circles wide, peering eyelessly at the walls before coming around to the victim. She stretches a bony hand out to point after M'gann for a moment, before wordlessly taking a knee beside the body. "Mr Constantine, please take a step back. I'll need an opportunity to examine the body, you understand yes?" Not that she waits, of course. Feds never wait, rather she begins a cursory examination for any obvious trauma.

    "You said she got caught in the crossfire, figuratively or literally Mr Constantine? Also when exactly was the last time you saw her alive?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Not so far off the mark, ma cherie. Mind the toes, this is one of those things..." A lump in her throat is not quite present, but Meggan's voice catches in responding to Phoebe about Demeter and Persephone. Her dark eyes dim, lashes lowered, and she retracts her hand from the fallen rose for the moment. "Do you have a handkerchief, monsieur? Madame?" Elvis or Jovian can supply the requested square of material, perhaps. If no one has that, then she will make do, pulling the fallen flower away using the heel of her shoe so she explicitly does not touch it.

"I did not see her when I came in," she solemnly offers to the others in order to establish a timeline. But mademoiselle should not be here, she should not even be in this city. John?" The gentlest tone to her voice is a silvery quaver, a chord plucked in a full, mesmerizing octave that belongs on a polished stage or crooning sweet nothings over a sealed envelope, a safety deposit box, a satin pillow. "Liverpool, was it? London?" French seeps in around the well-rounded vowels, names defined by an English accent adopted by a non-native. Or the other way around.

She steadies herself and lifts the rose, one way or another, wrapped up partway. "A signature. Fresh, you see? It has a most particular scent, not at all like a good bourbon rose. A pity. The spice under here, I know the garden it comes from. A bad garden, mm?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Only everyone," John murmurs in reply to Jovian. "It was me fault, why wouldn't they?" John pushes himself to his feet. The crease in his brow, the distance in his tired eyes. He's back there for a moment in the memory of the night she died. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with the effort and shakes his head to clear it. "Twelve years ago," he's not even sure it's him speaking the words, doesn't feel like him, sound like him, the voice is too far away. "London."

    He looks up, addressing... well, something, and maybe by proxy, M'gann, when he calls out, "If the goal here is t'solve this thing, I've already dunnit, it was me, okay?! We win, it was me!"

    Nothing changes... so much nothing changes that the not-changing is almost an audible laughter aimed at the Laughing Magician.

    ... "AAAAAHHHHH, someone's shot her!" The scream from outside, down the street, in an alley - because that's the definite 'direction' of it, shouldn't reach ears inside this room at all, but it does... because that's just the nature of magic, innit? It all makes sense, it all works, even when it shouldn't, couldn't possibly.

    The cause of death is evident to anyone that takes the time to look, Abigail's been strangled, the life choked out of her by that scarf. ...or perhaps not by that scarf? A scarf wouldn't, after all, leave hand print bruising around the young woman's throat.

    John's jaw tenses, his teeth grind audibly, it's a safe bet that the man's dentist bought his flashy sports car keeping Constantine's pearly whites in the tip top they are, what with the smokes and the booze and that *grinding*.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson can, in fact, produce a construct handkerchief and gives it to Meggan. It is a Handkerchief of Evil and causes mayhaps slight madness, but it is smaller case madness as the liquid darkness will still do the job. Jovian considers carefully and considers, "If the point of the exercize is revenge, then I dont know that this is a case of trying to cause you to admit something....but I do think 'who dun it' might not be the aim here...." he looks around, "Noir is shades of grey. It means that the point is likely obvious after the fact but occluded. But the rose and her hair are indeed the most signature elements of the case."

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann just gives a quiet "Oh." When John identifies himself as the killer and apparently it happened twelve years ago. "Was that a gunshot?!" The young woman is alarmed, she doesn't have a lot of experience with magic despite what Clark's 3rd Law would have you believe, and the entire situation is highly confusing. But for the moment, she does what she can and dashes, yes somehow dashes in those stilettos, blatantly thumbing her nose at physics, towards the sound of the gunshot. Maybe this time someone can still be saved!

Elvis Odell has posed:
    A hankerchief is produced from her jacket, careful to shake a pair of nickels free before wordlessly handing it back towards Meggan. Nickels are of course set aside for later use, before her attention returns to the fallen woman. Delicately touching her brow, to roll her head to the side and lay the hand print more plainly visible. From there her gaze wanders, moving aside to delicately lift the woman's hand "I cannot tell the size of the hand from the bruising, but she was grabbed from the front so she saw the killer."

    Slowly bending down to carefully examine the hand for any sign of a struggle. "It takes conviction to strangle somebody to death, it's not a particularly fast method. So look around for scratch marks on the floor, she may have had an opportunity to put of a fight before she was snuffed out."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Many things may Meggan Puceanu be, but a forensics investigator is most certainly not among them. Thus anyone giving some kind of direction for where even to begin beyond the metaphysical comes as something of a relief, earning the smallest smile of gratitude in Elvis' direction. She takes the handkerchiefs offered with two words of "Merci" -- French, thanks -- though the one stained with outright darkness absolutely causes her to drop it before it ever touches her. The reflexive movement is so fast it beggars conscious reaction. When it *tries* to brush her fingers, she's back a foot by reflexive leap. The nice white one will be committed to the rose, where she can hold it and stare at the bloom. "Do you get anything else off this? I wonder if they handed it to her first and then attacked her."

Then M'gann runs off for the gunshot and she opens her mouth in alarm, though not quite to cry out. "You, monsieur, follow her! Don't let her go unescorted into danger!" she cries out, like you do, when the Lady in Red with a cross-purpose. John's own volatile combination of grief and guilt leaves her vibrating, filling the room, like incense cast in a basilica. In some ways she cannot be separated from it, though floats above it, rather than drowning.

"This bloom bears a demonic mark. The succubus queen, oui? But it is not like that kind to do their own work, dirtying their own hands. Was there another?" This question is aimed for the exorcist more than not. "Is this her, mon coeur, or is it just something made to look as she did?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John doesn't move to follow, doesn't run into the danger of gunshots and screams. That, in of itself, is a problem. Constantine is obviously shaken enough by what's transpired here that he's... well, he's not Constantine.

    "I don't bloody well know, MEGGAN!"

    Oh, but that's a lie? No, not a lie. It's certainly something he should know. There isn't much John DOESN'T know when it comes to this stuff. The succubus Queen? She's well within his wheelhouse, probably has a bunk space there in fact. He's just ... not himself. He's rattled in a way that Meggan hasn't seen in a long time, if *ever*.

    No marks on the floor, no broken or bloodied fingernails. No signs of a struggle whatsoever. It's almost as if she either... didn't fight it or maybe didn't die here?

    Down the street, in that alley, there's no sign of anyone that could have let out that scream after the gunshot. There's just a young woman laying sprawled on the pavement. The single gunshot to her chest must have went straight through her pure, selfless heart. The single red rose in her right hand is telling, and the blood staining her clothing from the wound is... visibly red as well.

    But wait, wasn't she in the room with the others when the shots rang out? It's the way of magic innit? Nothing makes sense, but at the same time it all does, because it's supposed to.

    The body in the alleyway is... Phoebe.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson finally gets the nature of the fire outside and is shocked to see that Phoebe was attacked. By trying (again) to be a Hero he's working agianst the magic. Villains dont react, they ACT, though Jovian isn't sure what he's supposed to do. Barring an understanding of such, he reaches for his bolos, but again, HERE he is a villain, and as such what comes out of the construct is a Machine Gun of Evil, and he opens fire into the darkness, Darkness attacking Darkness...if there is an invisible foe out there in the ally, its in for a surprise.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
Now it is M'gann's turn to scream when she looks upon the sight of her teammate, the one who she was supposed to be looking out for and protecting, on the ground and seemingly dead. The Martian's scream is a terrifying thing as the shock causes her to momentarily lose the careful control she normally keeps over her psychic powers. Telepathy projects those emotions outward such that others in the area can clearly feel them too and telekinesis lashes out rattling the windows of the buildings around her. It's a small miracle perhaps that she manages to maintain her human appearance in spite of it all. That's really the important one in the end.

"Phoebe! PHOEBE!" She rushes to her friend's side. Kneeling down, even as the long film noire dress tears, she cradles Phoebe's seemingly lifeless form. "WHAT. IS. GOING. ON?!" The distraught teenager shouts to no one in particular, maybe the Heavens, maybe Constantine.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    "I'm confident your friend is alright."Comes Elvis after a moment. Lifting a skeletal hand to bring a cigarette to her teeth. "If they have the power to do all of this, and they wanted us dead we likely already would be."Slowly she trails behind, producing that hand cannon never the less. "I believe this is not even primarily for our benefit, unless you have some magical bearing?"

    She does slowly scan the alleyway, before reaching down to take a look see at that rose. The last one supposedly had some sort of demonic mark, if she recalled correctly. "Trust me, I have this knack for knowing when people are -really- dead."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The splendours of the French language are the finest of wines, quaffed on an exquisitely crisp night with the stars strung overhead, a beautiful woman at the table, and a copiously overstuffed bank account. Take a favourite experience then convert it to the acoustic form, and that is quite literally the experience of the Hayworthian fae raising her voice in answer to Constantine protesting his knowledge, his existence. "Nom de dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperie de connard d'enculé de ta mère."

Her perfectly drawn cupid lips press together in a mute expression of displeasure. Meggan turns away from the man in his trenchcoat felled by the body sprawled near his feet, sent on her way by a gentle gesture anyway. That immaculate black hat measures a twenty degree shift, a swoop first to the direction of the gunshot and back to a wall that enfolds them.

"The back room. It has no entrance, no exit, oui?" Let them hear the intuitive grasp and put it inside their own understanding, for M'gann's cries run with the same rising tide out of John that will engulf them all. Words she spoke about drowning return to haunt her, accompanied by a knell. In the moment, her only reaction is submersion into the pain, following the riptide. To the Martian, her mind is utterly open in a way no human should be: there are no walls there, only the clarity blossoming in shattered insight. Their target isn't in a street, but in the room. "I feel nothing *out* there, and nothing has come through. I would see it." Tears run down her face, but her voice is strangely even in the midst of it, riveted by a soft, unbearably deep compassion for their agonies beyond.

"You are the knight in grey," she points to Jovian, "Madame officer, the white mandarin. Ma belle Megan, a white cardinal mourning the good sister. The culrprit is not out." Salt licks over her lips. Her poise holds to the role accredited her, head tilted until shadows conceal her face but for that gorgeously evocative mouth shaping and crediting every word. She turns a full circuit, opening her palm. "It must be within."

A brief pause for Elvis' words to sink in and dovetail her own grasp. "This is not right. We are seeing bad pantomime. This is something preying and reinforcing lies. How sick I am of them, mais oui?" She shakes her head, the fire in the blood and salt on her skin enough. "You, monsieur, get salt. Mademoiselle Megan, please bring her in. We need to seal this."

John Constantine has posed:
    The sounds of M'gann's screams are enough to keep John rooted in place. Which... is so not him, still not him. When is John Constantine EVER stuck in place, frozen, not taking action against the evil that threatens to engulf him entirely on a daily basis? Never, the answer is never. At least not outwardly. He stands there, he says nothing in the face of Meggan's swears. He doesn't even flinch. There's no snark, no fight, no... nothing.

    The Laughing Magician, the Mighty John Constantine, it seems, has been felled by a world of black, white and just a touch of red more quickly than he would ever be felled by an actual *demon*. ...from an outside source.

    As far as Elvis' reassurances, well, Phoebe certainly looks very well dead? At least here.

    There are no shadows to be ripped to bits by flying bullets, no screams from the darkness that any target has been hit. There's only silence left behind. ...and maybe the sound of their own beating hearts.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
At the end, a struggle none present including the board on which the struggle took place was basically over. A cosmic bank account was over drawn, an anomoly on the blight of creation was righted and the blue eyes underneath the mask had turned dark dark brown to the point of red. By embracing the role cast for him, he gave an unseen parasite from a world of darkness, a psychic ghosts living in Racial memory in the realm of the darkest gods cackled with glee in a future seemingly inevitable and simply biding in his time...

Was undone.

There are old rules, rules of the ancient times where names have power. And Jovian is Named, not intentionally but the Knight in Grey turns, dull red eyes briefly flashing Blue as Some...THING in a shadow of a shadow of a shadow of a slim potential future reaches forth back in time from its perspective to the moment to Pivot and Blue becomes dark pulsing Grey, not white, not black but Grey and while the Hound of Tindalos in that future cannot manifest in a past that does not exist, a friendship that cant be until it Can Be, the memory of its form is just as easy a construct as a machine gun....turning with Wrath into the room, tentacles come from from Jovian, canine maws whisper in the shadows, not to directly attack but Flushing Out The Thing, A Pack of One to enfocus and enhance the actions of the cardinel and mandarin to take their part on the board.

The Queen in Blue had spoken.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    Casually Elvis reaches back to slip that smoke wagon back into it's holster. Fixing her eyeless gaze on Meggan for the moment and apparently taking time to consider, before mutely moving to follow. She does at least take the time to shake another cowboy killer loose, chaining it up before carrying the butt inside to stuff it in an ashtray. "I have to admit, I'm a rather poor sport. Especially when it comes to playing around with death in general. Unfortunately I am not appropriated equipped to take full stock of the incident unfolding here."

    Reaching over the bar to liberate a whiskey glass and a bottle to match, before settling next to that original stool she started upon. Pouring an easy two fingers, and reclining to knock it back. Thankfully for all present, the liquid vanishes to goodness knows where rather than leaking out onto the floor.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann lingers there holding her friend, the overly calm words not seeming to help, if anything they just make her tense up more. Finally she nods weakly at what Meggan says and lifts her friend up in her arms, as if she weighed nothing at all, to bring her inside.

There is something smoldering in the back of her eyes though as she walks in side. Really it can be felt as she is still unconciously projecting, darker normally dormant emotions threatening to bubble to the surface. "This is your fault." She says very pointedly to Constantine after entering, a flash of anger. "Now fix it!" The command is unintentionally laced with a modicum of psychic force behind it.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
M'gann might as well have walked up to Meggan and slapped the blonde across the face. It has the same impact minus the physical bruising. Her flinching expression resonates with open pain at the sharp impressions from the telepath, setting the empath onto her toes until the pair of thin spires holding her up don't even touch the ground. "Stop." Because it does hurt, and the complete mental transparency radiating from her is a reactive wail keening over psychic bandwidth with nothing to blur the transmission. "Please stop. It will not help her and it is only causing pain. This is not you."

Is it? She has to hold faith in that smiling memory, the laughter, and the two Outsiders who came in brimming with happiness in their pursuit of it. Reflected memories shift from colour to monochrome and back again. "It cannot be fixed alone. Certainement, we need to cooperate before more happens." Clipped words and clipped speed mark her forced to move in a head-turning glide because that wiggle-dress is a product of its time and the seams will rip before failing the Carmine Lady of the Lighthouse. She's bound to show some leg in acquiring salt, presuming they have any in the backroom or near enough at hand without it. "Something is wrong. It is not what it seems. I cannot /see/ what, but we use the circle around everyone to cut off the source." Fingers make a snipping motion. The other choice, that the source is in the circle, isn't too clear. "In magic, a circle is protective. You close it and this makes an excellent barrier. Pure, clean, good."

She licks her lips and then gestures them to come together. Smaller the space, easier the circle. Phoebe and M'gann end up at the middle, if the latter brings the former. The others can set where they will, though dragging John over gently with an arm wrapped around him will happen if he refuses to go on his own.

Then she starts pouring if no one else wants to.

John Constantine has posed:
    That unintentional psychic push might have actually gotten John moving, really, that is if his mind wasn't such a toxic hellscape that's generally resistant to such invasions. In fact, it MIGHT blow back to smack poor M'gann upside the head in the form of a backlash of darkness and corruption, an inky black stain that lingers in her own mind after she tries to contact John's. Martian or not, Constantine's mind likely isn't somewhere anyone wants to tread, even unintentionally? Or maybe especially unintentionally since the unintentional part means... unaware, unguarded against any return fire - however unintentional on John's part.

    His tongue darts out to try and wet is lips, it's a futile gesture, his entire mouth has gone dry.

    Everyone is moving around him... and he's just *stuck*. His eyes do track poor M'gann and her heavy - if not in the physical sense - load. Stuck. Why can't he move?

    ...is he getting *paler*? Oh, why he is! Shades of black are fading to gray, shades of gray to white, almost as if he's beginning to vanish before their eyes.

    ...but he is dragged along, like a puppet on a string really.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
The Sign of The Compass is the Manifestation that the Truth Comes in One Great Whole. The Circle has no corners and in that the hounds bay and gnash and are repelled but the tentacles remain. It is literally the ONE thing that would stop the insanely powerful construct empowered by an elder being to aid the actions; a corner hound cannot manifest where there is no corner...

Jovian, at this point, is on his own and knows abosolutely JACK or Shipwreck about magic and so he has absolutely no understanding of how to pour anything into anything but the INTENT is there at the least and he moves to Meggan's proximity and...tries to send good vibes? It isn't his Role and it isn't his nature, but the gloom of gray shadows moves around the circle anyway....it is not magic...just a circle of gloom but in a realm of shadows and noir symbology who knows?

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann blinks at Meggan, at seeing her in pain and looks down, instantly feeling guilty. It almost like a personality swap as the darker elements are pushed back into their box and she reins in her psychic abilities once more. "I.. I didn't... Phoebe is... I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It's almost like she is apologizing to Meggan and Phoebe both as her eyes remain glued to the floor now.

Still, once the salt is fetched and the circle made she brings Phoebe into the center when bidden. "I'm sorry." She says again like a broken record. Guilt is a helluva thing.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    Death comes along for the ride with the salt circle, and well that seems all well and good. Until John begins fading, and well she acts. Out from under that coat comes her handcuffs, and not just any handcuffs mind. Oh no these are the silver plated hinged affairs she was killed carrying, was burried with and rose anew with. So she grabs for John's wrist, and immediately attempts to throw one of those meaty hooks around his wrist. "Excuse me Mr.Constantine, but I'm going to need you to remain with us for the time being. So if you please?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
It hurts, but there is still no depth to the sorrow and the compassion swirling through the rather emotionally whiplashed blonde. Holding together what she can is going to sincerely come under assault when John's colour bleaches, and that bone-white skin contrasts the burning fire crawling over her eyes. "You don't need to. She's your friend," Meggan whispers, the French accent rolling into English vowels. "You have a good heart. It hurts to see you suffering, both of you, and I cannot fix it. Together, maybe we can get through?"

There is always hope. Staggering step by step through the wastelands, but always that, held tight as it possibly can. The circle of salt is going, wherever John happens to be, along with the rest of them. Even if that means flexing the greater portion of her tangled heritage, the changeling scion propelling tumbling crystals along into a neat circle sprung with nearly mathematical precision by simply pleading silently with the elements. Asking crystals to form a tidy row is close enough to what they already want to do, even if geologically they prefer cubes in this case.

Nothing might happen. Something might happen. In the event it's nothing, her backup is a bit of a doozy. But before anyone starts throwing raw magical energies around, or just energy period, give Death's enforcer her chance to be the best skeleton this side of the Nile Valley skeleton people.

John Constantine has posed:
    Guilt really is a helluva thing, init?

    ...and not in any way responsible for the mess they're all in now? Not one bit.

    But guilt alone isn't the meat of it. No, the meat is something to be picked off the bones by a little salt and some silver plated cuffs.

    Inside the circle? Nothing changes. Outside though, where the real world is cut off from *John*, those changes can now be seen. Funny how magic works, it's been mentioned, things make sense when they don't because they just should. While it wasn't John that started the mess, it was his magic that perpetuated it, unwittingly.

    John isn't on his bar stool anymore, he's on the floor. The Succubus Queen would never dirty her hands, but she is not above sending a minion to do her dirty work. Dreams of passionate relations? They're not something that happen with John, he would see right through that sort of seduction. But send him into a proper magical sleep and distract him with a dream concocted by his own battered psyche?

    The 'woman' straddling his chest, holding on to that red tie, her mouth inches from his, is sucking the man dry and he's none the wiser.

    The smoke from the Silk Cut burning in the ashtray on the bar drifts lazy in a RED trail to the ceiling and into the noses of every single person inside that circle of salt, each one unconscious.

     ... six weeks in hell, a woman's voice whispering his worst fears in his ear before he escaped and a return to a stolen lighter and... some stolen smokes. Coincidence? Likely not.

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson does not understand any of this. He doesnt understand succubi or salt circles or symbology, but he does understand that the world out there is 'real' and the world in here is a 'dream' and so trying to manifest it in both he does something he hasnt before. From behind, the still (slightly) supercharged vessel of Darkness manifests (or tries to manifest) a construct of...HIMSELF in the waking world with a gun that very politely tries to shoot the succubus in the back of the head.

Elvis Odell has posed:
    The world resolves and, well the succubus catches Elvis's attention for obvious reasons. She comes to a rest, stock still until that revolver just lamely slips through her fingers and hits the floor with an audible -thunk-. Slowly she rolls her shoulders out of that coat, lifting one hand to tug her tie loose as she produces a slip of silver and pearl from her waistline. "That doesn't belong to you, Ma'am. Do you have any idea what the penalty for unlawful animation is in the state of New york?"

    That blade snaps open, swinging and dancing amongst those bony fingers with a distinctive snicky-snack until it's locked open. "I'll give you a hint."And with that she's off in a rush of speed, a bolt of grey and stark white as she hurtles across the open space towards that Succubi at downright superhuman velocity. Aiming to drive her right off Constantine and into the bar behind.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann looks up slightly and smiles weakly at Meggan's words of encouragement. She can feel the emotional whiplash in the other woman though through her own empathic senses and feels terribly guilty about it.

She was about to say something when she notices the outside of the circle. "What? How is any of this even possible." She asks aloud before answering her own question. "Magic." The way she says the word she doesn't seem to be a fan at all, at least not of what she has seen today.

And then there is that demon. M'gann sets Phoebe down gently on the floor within the circle, as her gaze fixes on the demon and her fists clench and unclench, unsure of what to do. There's no telling what could happen with magic and so she hesitates and for the moment remains where she is.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Succubus. That isn't yours." In the end, the ground swell from the fae shifts so decidedly askew that her moral balance ceases to matter at all. All the joy bundled into a tight knot somewhere in her breast leaks outward, tendrils going to inchoate fury tinged by vengeance. Far more blossoms hot and bright into the other, gratitude for the combined front against the thing -- M'gann at least should be able to pluck the definition of a mid-ranked demon from a greater demon's infernal choir from her mind. There's familiarity there, flashing away all other thoughts with the force of a detonating bomb.

Atomic structures reshaped compulsively to imagination take literally a second to form, long enough for Elvis to get the headstart. One second but she's already clearing the salt circle for Constantine, to interpose herself between demon servitor and the exorcist.

If only it were that simple.

One thing ought to ensure a little more rage out of the succubus. Pearl white feathers unspool from Meggan's shoulders and her slender fair hands ignite with the nearest source of energy she can tap, straight up from a leyline if that's convenient or thin air into a holy sheen. If the handcuffs or the gunshot fail to do the trick, the seraphic fae pooling pure fire between her hands is going to have a few hot words with the eager little succubus. Forget the halo and no worries about being a wheel of eyes, igniting her in celestial wrath will be quite enough. Otherwise, standing protectively over the magus while looking kind of neat will do!

For the real scaries? Hello, White Martian.

John Constantine has posed:
    The succubus isn't so enthralled in her 'work' as to not notice movement in the room when Jovian's construct manifests. If there's one thing that John Constantine learned very early on, guns are of little use when dealing with demons. They're FAST.

    The movement catches her eye and she releases her hold on her prey.

    *THUNK* John's head hits the ground. But... once the contact is broken, the leeching of his soul stopped mid success... well, that tainted, black, battered thing is inhaled right back into his body. Really, gross, who would *want* to suck that thing? He groans and pushes himself up onto one hand, palm flat on the ground. "Blood." -the rest of his typical swear doesn't make it from his lips. Even in his drained state, he takes in the situation in an *instant*.

    Succubus scrambling away from him. Bullet embedding itself into the bar behind where that succubus once was, the reaper's blade - yes he knows what that is - about to miss its mark because the bloody thing MOVED. Meggan in all her winged glory...

    With a muttered incantation in Latin, a gesture with one hand... knife meets demon in the middle.

    *THUNK* He falls back, head hitting the floor again... "y hell..."

Jovian Anderson has posed:
Jovian Anderson awakens in his own body the instant the magic stops and he feels...WRONG in a way that he never did in John's constructs. He might be hardened against the natural madness exposure to the Elder Gods often can bring but he is not IMMUNE and he has had not one but two playing around inside his body even if his mind was temporarily shielded by the spell. Even Jovian can feel the WRONGNESS that courses through him and almost retches. As it is, his eyes are blue again but for the first time he REALLY understands that too much use of his power carries an absolutely unacceptable price as he has the memory of his dead dopple's laughter even if it is currently actually heard.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
Those images from Meggan's mind, understanding seems to dawn upon M'gann as to what this thing is and it is definitely /not/ covered by 'The Rules'. Her eyes begin to glow, molecules within the air agitated behind the lenses of her eyes and then focuses through those same lenses as they emit beams of bright red laser-like heat vision at the Succubus. This creature endagered her friends, her very important friends, something she's only gained since coming to Earth, and it needs to be stopped. There are no words, only laser eyes!

Elvis Odell has posed:
    The duo hit the bar hard enough for it to nearly crack, before Elvis wheels partially back in a scramble to lay down a left hook. It's a singular blow that sounds like somebody just knocked one out of the park, but Succubi are tougher than that right? It's why Elvis lays down another, and another and another and another. Hammering blows delivered like industrial machinery, every blow connecting seemingly harder and harder until she's been good and dazed.

    Elvis does think to lean back as Martian -DEATH RAYS- scald flesh, and well she's all too happy to follow that attack up. A swish of the blade to cut the Succubi's cheek, followed by a bony hand clawing it's way through that cheek until she's got a good grip on the demon by the back of her jaw. "Look at me, look me dead in the eye. I'll see you at sentencing sweetheart, make sure there ain't enough of you left to fill a bottle cap."And with that? Down goes that blade into the demon's heart, and well it's like somebody flips a switch. The body erupts into cold flame, which refuses to even soot the air as she burns her way to the hereafter.

    Elvis just wavers to her feet, waving that butterfly knife back and fourth with a snickety snack until she slips it away. "Fuck that feels good."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Tapping into a celestial side isn't the exhausting part. Having someone you love tortured in front of you would be enough to make the average person lose it, and it's been a long and trying path to the opening of this damned bar. M'gann's raw grief over Phoebe falling is a raw wound still. The disappearance of John, despite a skeletal saviour, puts the topping on the cake. When the knife shifts just so from a spell, Meggan is ready to pounce around Elvis' blows.

Enochian would be sweet on the lips if she had it. Instead red vicious lasers will do, taking revenge for a hopefully fallen but not lost healer who did nothing to deserve her fate. Stupid succubi. Meggan's willingness to live and let live is gone, her fatigue debts mounting, but this much she can do. Incandescent intent holding the vibrating fae-seraph spools into fire used to web in the wounded demon from sidestepping or rolling away from the bar. Another handful ashes the Silk Cuts once the succubus is eaten by death's own flames, sent tumbling into the abyss or whatever awaits beyond that.

That's right. No smoking!

John Constantine has posed:
    It doesn't matter how many times it happens, and it does happen more to John than it rightly should any one person, getting one's soul partially ripped from one's body and then put back in again? It *hurts*. It hurts on a level transcends way beyond physical pain. So, for a long few moments, he just lays there reminding himself that breathing is a necessary thing if he wants to keep markers on that blackened, filthy soul of his from being called in this night.

    The coughing starts when he finally manages to roll himself over and push up onto his hands and knees. It's not his best look, by far. He spits a glob of disgusting mucous, a little bloody, on the ground after he's managed to bring it under control.

    "Dunnit, though, luv?" he rasps out, aimed at Elvis. He gets more upright, on his knees but his ass resting on the back of his thighs.

    "Meggan..." with the name is projected all the things he needs from her right this second, mainly... he just needs Meggan, soft, kind, human... Meggan. Of course the images he projects from that gutter mind of his don't last when he falls flat on his bloody face, out cold.

    ... pretty much the same as poor Phoebe. The girl's returned to her body, but she has yet to wake. Her breaths are even, her heartbeat strong... she'll come around, it'll just take a little more time and... she'll be left with the knowledge that sometimes, the hurt that happens to the inner self, well, it carries over.

    It's a miracle Constantine is still breathing given that, innit?