7366/PoP: Murder in the Streets

PoP: Murder in the Streets
Date of Scene:	14 August 2021
Location:	Bronx
Synopsis:	A map pings trouble, John answers the call and finds a lot more than he bargained for - fortunately help shows itself in some unfamiliar faces. It's a win in his book, until someone tries to separate him from Meggan when he knows she needs him most. Chas winds up with unexpected house guests.
Cast of Characters:	Cassandra Cain, Radha Tackeray, Lydia Dietrich, Michael Hannigan, John Constantine, Meggan Puceanu, M'gann M'orzz, Ruth Kincaid

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Cassandra Cain has posed:
Cassandra Cain is asleep.

Of course, she couldn't be doing it normally. She's hanging upside-down from a line clipped ot her belt, feet pulled up to her butt, and is taking a nap. She's also four stories off of the ground, allowing herself to have a little bit of privacy.

It's just, she didn't rent a room here and hasn't bothered to meet people so really...it's convenient. If you're a lunatic. Or a bat. Honestly the terms are comparable at times.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Radha Thackeray did NOT end up spending eighty dollars to receive spiritual guidance from some combination of the Devil, John Constantine, a skeleton woman in an old fashioned outfit, or some kind of silver fox daddy with messed-up hands. This relative positive cash flow has led her to treat herself in her meandering style:

D-grade AirBNB!

It is a creaky little subsidiary part of an old and run-down house in the Bronx, made valuable for this purpose mostly by the near presence of a subway stop. Even so, there was a bed, and it was clean; there was a shower, and it worked.

Radha sits on a tiny little balcony overlooking a tiny little New York City back garden. A backpack rests against her leg. On her knee is a takeout container of eggplant parmesean. She eats it daintily with a fork. It is not a bad evening.

YET

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
There's a little store in the Bronx that sells stationary and other journaling supplies that Lydia likes to visit every now and again to pick up some new fancy journals, or some ink for her fountain pens. It's a bit of a drive from here to Brooklyn so she eschewed taking The Toaster today with simply just flying.

She's dressed for flying today. Usually she wears dresses and skirts during the summer, but today she's got on comfortable looking jeans and a light purple blouse. Sunglasses are on more to block the wind out of her eyes than anything else. Her messenger bag filled with goodies that she had purchased is slung over her back as she soars above the rooftops.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Well. Mike has been given the general assurance that the demon portion of the ghost/demon problems he's been having recently are taken care of. Isn't that nice? The ghost portion is a bit easier to handle, which kind of led to the ghost going to a demon in the first place, but-

Ok rambling. Either way. Things have calmed down. He's finished the second leg of the tour and right now his only job is to relax until leg 3 kicks off. Just kick back. Relax. Take a walk and don't even think about a thing. And now the ponytailed, Goodwill attired musician finds himself in the Bronx after he snaps out of his daze. Wasn't he heading towards the Wick?

But that's just a few steps away from the condo building. How in the f-

God dammit Mike. Not again.

John Constantine has posed:
    Only moments ago, John's cell phone rang, pelting out the tune to Taxi Driver. Bollocks. Chas *never* calls to ask if he should bring pizza on the way over or something like that. A brief conversation surrounding the 'maps' getting a ping on some weird in the Bronx and the House of Mystery is dumping the Laughing Magician into an alley near the aforementioned ping.

    "One night, Meggan, just *one night*," he mutters to... whatever form Meggan's decided to take beside him. His feet hit the ground, not exactly running, but at a steady pace to the end of the alley.

    At the mouth of it, he stops in his tracks. "The bloody hell is *that*?" Right there, in front of Copperpot Diner, there's all sorts of wrong for anyone sighted enough to see it. The curtain, that thin veil between here and there, between this and astral, is getting thinner; tortured spirits of the angry dead trying to shove their way through.

    "Meggan..." That's his *this could get bad* tone, that.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Taxi driving isn't very fun. It's not Meggan's forte either; taxis are expensive and broke environmental activists really ought to use public transit or go on foot more often. Which, to be fair, is how life was before falling in with the right crowd, the wrong people, and someone who thinks the idea of having a driver at his beck and call is normal.

The form in question beside John is one unlikely to raise too many questions, hair in a long braid or Adidas tennis shoes being not very conspicuous. She doesn't have problems keeping pace with him. "The diner? Crap food on the whole, but fiver for a coffee and pie is worth it?" Her Lake District accent is English smudged by highland heather and Welsh trees. Her gaze flits higher, though, and she squints like she stares into the sun. "Suppose that's the headache I was talking about earlier." Said headache hasn't entirely slowed her down, the second look less wince-inducing than the first. "Your work then. What's it to be, candles with clover beeswax or sage smudging?"

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
It's just another day in the Bronx and Megan Morse, mild mannered university student who is definitely not from another planet, is walking down the street carrying a Media Studies textbook and a spiral bound notebook. The freckled girl with long red hair is dressed pretty casually as university students do, jeans and a simple blue T-shirt. The outfit nothing meant to stand out, because she is definitely from Earth. At least in this form.

She was just on her way to the Copperpot Diner to do some reading and notetaking over a big mug of coffee, when there is a strange unfamiliar psychic disturbance from the viscinity of her destination up ahead.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
Cassandra turns in her sleep, the ongoing events below not really impinging on her awareness yet. She does slowly begin to awaken, yawning and stretching silently as she dangles from above.

She opens eyes, looks about, and takes in the place. Panicky people, panicky people, more crazy.

Her eyes drift closed again. Nothing to worry about.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
All is well. All is good. Radha has not yet cultivated her mystical senses beyond a vague feeling of 'vibes' sometimes.

Polishing off most of her dinner, she packs it up. The sun seems to be setting, and she can see some buildings from the balcony - ah, just a street or so over, she thinks. Standing up, she fishes out her phone, turning the camera on and raising it upwards.

Orienting it into landscape format, she stands on the balls of her feet to --

Radha frowns. It seems tense. And...

She zooms in and immediately punches the camera button. "Is that Spider-Man?" she murmurs to herself, except, she tells herself, no, not really. For one thing, that suit's mostly black.

She tilts the camera downwards. "Oh, it's that man with the goth bar," Radha narrates to herself. "And his... daughter?"

Radha has nothing better to do. Down goes the phone! Up comes the bag! She turns on her heel to walk out of her crash pad and walk up the block to the diner. (partway there she shades her eyes to look towards the roof again -- yes, she thinks, that really is Spider-Lass or something up there. is it rude to say hello? i wonder, Radha muses further.)

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
One of the things about getting into magic is that you start to get a sense for when things are going awry. Such as now. As she soars overhead on emerald wings she gets the general feeling of /wrongness/ down on the street below. Sure she could just ignore it and be on her way, but she has a feeling that something troublesome will come up and her instincts to help override her better judgement and cause her to wheel back around and land to where she's sensing these things.

When she lands and gets closer to the phenomenon her spirit sense goes haywire. She doesn't quite sense the thinness of the astral plane, but she /does/ sense the spirits growing in number and wanting to come out. "Oh, this isn't good," She says to herself. The dead should stay dead. Spirits should stay in the afterlife. She shudders.

Then she notices a familiar figure: Constantine. The last time they met he didn't really make a favorable impression on her, and it comes to no surprise that the man is here in the heart of all this trouble. And he had the audacity to lecture her about creating a golem! Despite the fact that the man is just getting out of a taxi she can't help but blame him for this disturbance. "What have you done, Mr. Constantine?" she accuses.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
With the general realization of what he did. Mike glances around. Any visible to the eye portals? Doors in the middle of the street? Mystical boom boxes? Nope?

Ok fine. Mike had just stepped out of the condo building in Midtown to go to a pub ALSO in Midtown to only end up in the Bronx. It can happen without there being a reason for the sudden wandering, right? Maybe he just always wanted to go to the Bronx. Again. At night. While Sober.

Getting a hint of movement at near an alley, Mike's head turns. The pale eyes settle upon a certain blonde who is in turn eyeing the diner. Curious, the musician glances over to where he's looking but sees nothing, so looks back towards John. He glances back and notices Meggan as well. Coincidences...Not likely

"Oh, for f-" He looks to John, "What n-"

He doesn't get to finish the statement as Lydia speaks out her suspicion.

Yep. Something's about to happen.

Dammit.

John Constantine has posed:
    The spells there, on his lips, close the bloody thing, hand extended... John gets about five words in and the damn just breaks. In the time it takes him to bellow, "Clear the streets!" while stepping from the alley to the sidewalk, chaos is already erupting.

    Finding themselves free from the war torn astral plane of the Bronx, where the only dead remaining of are the crazed murderous variety, they immediately begin searching for new 'homes'. In this case, any bloke or bird walking up or down the street with not enough will to keep'm out. That amounts to a lot of targets.

    At first, not a lot of people are overly willing to listen to a crazy man in a trench coat, but when a pretty brunette walking along minding her own with a handsome bloke dressed for a casual night out turns and rips her date's throat out with her teeth, well... those in their immediate vicinity decide maybe clearing out would be a good idea. Another one, a man turns to wrap choking hands around his wife's throat. Another, a child, ten maybe, attacks his mother with teeth, hands, feet, vicious, he finds the gun she carries in her purse. Screaming, so much screaming.


    For a split, John's just - his jaw drops as he watches person after person after person - until they become impossible to count - possessed by chaotic spirits flying this and that, bouncing off those too difficult to manage, until they find an 'easy in'.

    "Do what you can to not let anyone leave this block!" he tells Meggan as he's bolting for the middle of the street, stopping traffic; and eyeballing to see if he's in the *center* of said block. First order of business, contain it. Can't have people possessed by the murder spirits loose in the city. Second order... how the hell does he close that damned *hole* to stop the flow of the spirits coming out? It's a trickle now, but something must have spread word; open door, come on through.

    "Get OUT of here!" he snaps at Lydia, no time... there's no time to deal with that. Standing there, in the middle of the street, horns blaring at him, people swearing out their open windows, John starts chanting. The language is Latin, fluid and perfect; the words of the spell not so much important to those that speak it as is the intent - it's a spell of containment on one end, protection on the other; keep what's here in and what's there out - protect the in from the out.

    The entire block is sealed in a mystical dome once he's finished, but it'll take a moment. Anything not completely mundane will not be able to leave. From the other side, anything that is completely mundane will have no desire to enter, they turn down the blocks before on either side as if this one doesn't exist.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
It's a pretty big ask to request one woman stop all the mayhem going on out of nowhere. Much less deal with multiple chomping victims deciding their nearest and friendliest associates deserve to be nomnoms, all without the benefit of a space starfish crusader or a cosmic cetacean overlord involved. Meggan side-eyes John for all of two seconds, and murmurs, "Since you asked so nicely."

The hour of subtlety went out the door the moment a son turned on his adult mother in hopes of tasting her kidneys and someone stared *out* those eyes who didn't quite reflect. The green-eyed Englishwoman looks around rapidly for anyone who might show signs of using armed weapons to quell their appetite, and locks onto a redhead. "Megan!" Yes, she's shouting her own name. But Team Meg, or the M'ggs, have worked in the past and may work again. A shout gets out in time for someone to knock her sideways, though her lateral movement's far too smooth to be anything other than hovering an inch above the ground. The older fellow rushing by to get a bite of that Hispanic barista never looks back, and therein lies the flaw, for the frenzied waves give her time to scruff him and haul him back to a street sign.

"I'm sorry, truly," means more coming from a Brit with a somewhat regretful upper lip, surely. She hangs him by the shirt where a good amount of flailing won't do any harm, and clenches her fists. Pushing back against the misery of so many chaotic, enraged spirits is a hard task, and she's wading uphill. Any psychic can see through into her thoughts like glass, and they might be a tad concerned. Or not.

She'd admire green wings if she could, but spirits are visible all around - - another thing psychics might glean from her if they need to. And one angry one trying to merge with a toddler goes a step too far. Long claws etched in a ghostly fire make pointed additions to her fingers, and she reaches out to catch the murder hobo. Shouldn't work. But she belongs to both worlds of spirit and matter, and burning hands touch ectoplasm. Whatever they're made of. "No." Another backslash might send spirit essence flying, but sort of the point to have them converge. Calm dissipates like a bomb, and she hurls herself into the moment. "Come on, luvs, let's take them all down!"

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    "Disturbance in the Bronx," crackles the radio in Ruth's suit, "Police and EMS signaled."
    "Dispatch, this is Aerial." A red line shoots across the sky and comes to a stop in midair. "I've got eyes on it. Sharing my feed." No need to narrate the bloodbath unfolding. She descends to ground level and starts firing elastic tethers from her suit to wrap and attach to the wounded, metal cables to restrain the people attacking them, and lift as many victims as she can tag into zero-g, floating them along beside herself and up off ground level. "Multiple critically wounded." She's already got her backpack open to access the medical supplies and start triage. "Who's receiving?"
    "Calvary and St. Helena are ready."

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
"Oh no." Megan's jaw drops and the books she was carrying hit the pavement as she sees all hell break loose in front of her from that first White Martian Hickey to the sudden bouts of spousal abuse and matricide. She's just weighing what she might possibly be able to do in this situation when she hears her name and there is Meggan!

"Meggan!" She calls back before the sinking feeling sets in, it's another 'oh no' moment as she remembers how transparent her friend's mind is. She stops and focuses, a Martian mind is an amazing thing when allowed to truly go work. Part of her mind seperates itself projecting into Meggan's mind not just as a telepathic link, though it's that too, but a M'gann shows up in her mindscape as well. The mental M'gann wears armor and wields a sword, projecting a shield around Meggan's mind and actively defending against incoming hostile astral phenomena.

Meanwhile Megan's eyes lock on to the man choking his wife. With a series of odd hand motions she seems to grip and throw the air as her telekinetic powers grab the main and lift him off the ground, prying him away from his poor wife, and toss him into a nearby wall.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
An eye cracks open as Cassandra takes note of someone looking at her. Camera or no, there's always that sense that someone's looking. She shrugs, her secret identity not much of one sometimes, and decides that that's the end of what she was hoping was a nap.

Then a wave of 'go away' hits her complately mundane self. She blinks, glancing at Radha a moment. Then at the people below. Then at the people who she's not supposed to see...who are trying to kill each other.

HOW DO YOU IGNORE THAT???

The sheer impossibility of it makes her shake her head, fight the magic as hard as she can, and ...unclip her belt from the line.

Spider-Lass falls like a bag of sand toward the earth, right in front of Radha's eyes, to catch on -something- and somehow survive the fall.

And then is moving like lighting into the possessed humans. One falls down. Another. It's not even clear what's happening, but there's a magic to it.

You know. Metaphorically speaking. And two more fall over, unconscious..

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Radha rounds a corner from her happy little AirBNB just in time to see a woman rip a man's throat out with her teeth. Her expression turns from vaguely Instagrammable present to a state best described as 'aghast' in about two seconds.

She raises a hand to her mouth as if to scream and muffle it. Except that what *SHE* does is bite into the edge of a somewhat ragged fingernail, which is enough, after a little worrying, to draw a bit of blood.

Backpack slid down to one strap, and she reaches into it. Out comes a ten-inch tall doll-- no, ACTION figure, it must be an action figure because it's a boy and the arms look like they're spring loaded. Radha smears blood on the thing's forehead. It seems to tremble for a moment.

Radha raises the toy to her face and stares it dead in its grinning, courageous face.

"CIRCLE AROUND. When you SEE a GUN -- TAKE the GUN. If you HAVE a gun, PUT IT IN THE SEWER."

After this she gently places the action figure on the ground. It begins to run in a widdershins pattern, torso tilted slightly backwards, face inclined upwards. Looking. Searching. Gamble a stamp.

Radha pops a finger into her mouth and then stares ahead at the fiery claws erupting from the hands of what is obviously not that man's daughter. Radha looks over her shoulder and says to herself, "Well, FUCK."

Back ahead - she puts a hand over her heart with relief as she sees, first, the mysterious woman fall from a great height, and then second, snap into action. Support your local mutants, she resolves, but she also shouts to Cassandra, "Look out!!" Why? Because of the guy getting a chef's knife out of his bag!

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
Lydia stands there, mouth agape as suddenly people go wild. She snaps out of it, and reaches out a hand, sending a tentacle of glowing green ectoplasm out to a wife who's chewing on her husband's nose, and yanks her off of him. She holds her in the air as she flails about trying to get free, and turns to somebody who knows more about this than she does. "If I exorcise them, what's to keep them from just coming back out of the hole?"

Still, she has to try. She starts singing an ancient Jewish hymn and pulls out a sheet of paper and one of her pens, and quickly jots out a shem, charging it with her faith. She brings the woman in close and just slaps her on the forehead with the paper, driving the spirit out of her body and back into the astral plane where it belongs. She sets the woman down, who immediately starts crying, remembering what she had done while possessed.

"You'll be okay," she assures her and rushes towards the crack in reality. There's just too many that are coming out to deal with one on one, and somebody has to stop this. Not thinking of anything good solution she's going to try something crazy. Giving a quick prayer in Hebrew she flings out both hands, sending as much ectoplasm as she can to plug the hole. "Please let this work," she mutters to herself. "Please let this work."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
While not common, the lack of general greetings to those you have met before can be generally forgiven when the situation calls for it. Watching a bunch of people suddenly act possessed in the streets is likely sufficient enough reason. What in th-

Mike turns to look towards John, "Th- Are they pos-"

Thought occurring to him, Mike darts down the alley towards a dumpster. Eyeing the bits of trash that didn't quite make it into the dumpster, his steps adjust leading him over to a broken up pallet. Grabbing a bit of wood, he holds it in both hands, looking to it.

Okay. Just like the last time-

He takes a deep breath. Nodding towards the board as he lowers his voice to a soft rhythmic murmur.

As he murmurs, there's a soft light seeping from his fingertips, soaking into the board, giving it a soft glow before it absorbs into the wood. Eyes open, glancing down to the other side of the alley. Alrighty. Time to see how this works out.

John Constantine has posed:
    Disturbance is a nice way of putting it. Ruth'll find that, from time to time, one of those she's pulling to safety causes the barrier to pull back, momentarily - until the spirit possessing the person POPS out to go find another mark.

    How many made it out? How many people on the streets, in restaurants, visiting the cemetery... are there enough bodies to go around?

    The enraged spirits hit John's barrier from all angles, even above, and wail like mourning mothers over a child's body. The spell he's thrown up, quick and dirty and not really his style, holds - but it crackles and pops against the onslaught of spirits bouncing off to make another sweep to find an easy mark.

    "Meggan! I can't exorcise this many at one time!" he calls out. Bit of a pickle, innit?

    A young man walking with his grandmother, turns... pocket knife in hand, small but still a big enough threat.

    Over there, a father turns on his teenage son with a brutal backhand.

    Not a few steps away, a mother holds her child up as if she's about to bash his head into the sidewalk.

    It's the stuff of nightmares, truly, even for John.

    Almost shell-shocked, he runs from fallen to fallen. Exorcisms are so far inside his wheelhouse that they're an ingrained part of him; these are not spirits with thought or reason - they don't have a lot of fight. It takes merely a laying of a cross branded palm to a forehead and a few muttered Latin words to banish angry souls from the fallen. That is if he gets to them in time. As soon as a body is unconscious, the spirit infecting it is trying to leave it to find another. What he can't banish, he burns, with Hellfire to send them screaming into oblivion.

    "Don't let it open again!" John bellows. Please don't let it open again. He's not even sure who closed it, but he can *sense* it closing.

    Radha's little wind up doll goes about its business - gun sewer, gun sewer, crawling in and out of dropped purses and bags, sneaking into pockets and holsters by clambering up pant legs.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The impressive armoured redhead bears familiarity to some photo shoot or magazine article that invariably Meggan saw in the past. Her spark of thrilled recognition that her friend resembles this at all projects a warmth amidst the bloody mess of murder spirits contained within a barrier. "Thank you!" Thanking M'gann for her quick thinking or the murder spirit impaled up to the knuckles on her manafire-limned claws might be incongruous with igniting one of the spirits.

John calling out in that madhouse turns her briefly away from chasing ephemeral revenants. A puzzled look marks her green eyes. Too many, too few. "Got it!" First, to get through.

"Look out!" Radha is spotted, and she flings fire overhanded at a target behind her. The hands of flame can throw handfuls of that iridescent stuff, though for finesse, it lacks points. John excels at forms, but does it really matter when she flings a volley overhanded at a revenant spirit going through a wall and aiming for sweet, meaty flesh?

Being struck by spectral hands or teeth isn't pleasant, and certainly several initial malicious attacks perforate her t-shirt and her capris. They'll be short shorts at this rate. M'gann might get the overtones of rage and vicious, mindless hate beating on the shield as murder hate machines try to sink in. "Sorry! I'm trying not to be in your way." Wait. Armoured woman! Inspiration is snatched where she finds it, in her mind's eye, thanks to very human redhead. <<Hold on, might be a tad bumpy as...>>

Flame runs down from her wrists or shoulders, as though her skin gets offended by the attacks. "Going t' get awful bright here. I can give it a minute, two maybe." Her aspect and appearance already start shifting, beginning with the pearl-white wings unfolding in all their slightly blinding presence. Feathers, those are really long feathers. It hurts, and she drops to one knee, forcing herself to assume a harder, higher form.

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    The spirits go for Ruth and she recoils, but there's too many and they're surrounding her. Being completely nonmystical, her only innate defense against possession is her faith in god. That and a year of experience with what it's like to be subject to repeated attempted exorcisms to try to drive the 'devil' of 'being a mutant' out of her. Oh, or that time when she was thrown out into the rain and left to drown-- you know what no. She doesn't count as weak-willed. She grits her teeth. In her mind it's now raining holy water and heavenly light streams down in godrays. "I am not possessed," she asserts, "This is the truth. I earned that truth. I do not surrender it." But there's definite strain on her face as she struggles to keep focus and collect wounded and judge where the breaking point is between grabbing more victims or taking those in most urgent need sooner. With shaking voice she reports, "Dispatch, I'm evacuating the first batch to Calvary. Prepare..." she rattles off the injuries she's got with her, and vanishes in a diagonal upwards red blurred line.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
Megan really shouldn't be doing anything too conspicuous. Megan is not a superhero. In the heat of the moment her Telekinesis saved that woman but the immediate danger doesn't abate, a seemingly endless amount of immediate danger. This is not a job for Megan Morse, college student, this is a job for Miss Martian!

Megan ducks towards an alley and seems to vanish down it, while in reality actually vanishing complete from sight while transforms her appearance into her superhero identity and repositions herself before reappearing again.

M'gann floats up into the air. <<I'm used to bumpy-- oh.. Oh!>> Used to bumpy is one thing, what Meggan is doing, well she hasn't seen that before, that's definitely new. Still she does not abandon the link.

Turning her attention to the scene below. She focuses her mind and her breath while making a triangle with her hands in front of her as she begins trying to project as much 'calming peace' as her Martian Telepathy can put out. It is a longshot, but the problem is so widespread it is perhaps the best shot she has at defusing this.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
The shadowy fighter steps aside from a chef's knife that comes towards her, the blade grazing her side. No, it missed! It simply came too close to tell. She simply lifts her left hand and places it in the chest of the knife-wielder and suddenly he's landing back a few feet, unmoving.

Lifting her head, anyone could see her face; she wears no mask, and is simply what appears to be a fit asian chick who...is mid-backflip, landing amidst four people who are about to do each other in. She looks at some of the other heroes while she's up...too busy to talk it seems. Two of the targets fall over from her passing over their heads, somehow having driven knees into them in passing. The other two are pulled together, heads being thumped. The four are out cold as fast as it took her to land among them.

Then the girl is running, a dead sprint, to skid to a stop underneath a falling baby. She rolls with it, legs kicking out to send her to a vehicle nearby. Baby deposited there, she finds herself facing spiiiiirits. With claws, with frightening forms.

She raises an eyebrow, then tries to see if she can bust the first one's nose.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Is he - exorcising them? He says he is, Radha thinks with dumb surprise. He doesn't look like a priest. There are other arts being drawn forwards. Radha has a backpack, but she seems to be willing to use it aggressively, reaching her bloodied hand into it as she hunches forwards.

Meggan hurls fire. Fire! Radha's eyes get wider yet. She whirls round - and yelps when she sees the entity, the BEING that had been rearing behind her. The alleys are, themselves, promising something like crowding. Radha takes momentary shelter behind a free newspaper container, feeling panic sneak up the back of her throat.

There are too many of them. Too many. Chaos! A smaller object, some kind of plush toy, is brought out with a bead of blood on it. Radha informs the little stuffed bear, "Watch behind me. If anything approaches me, say warning." At which point, shrugging, she sort of -- stuffs the little thing into the back of her dress, its beary paws hooking onto the back of the dress.

Early warning, if nothing else.

Having done THIS much, she moves from this really bad piece of cover to the doorframe of an adjacent business. This is more of a scuttling, anxious dash, and she presses into this 'best I can manage' cover afterwards, peeking round the corner as Cassandra erupts into gorgeous violence and strange energies rise.

I should be panicking more than I am, shouldn't I? Radha thinks to herself. Did I forget to freak out?

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Magic wooden banhammer prepped, Mike strides out of the alley, glancing about to take in the scenery aggain. A lot could have changed in the time it took for him to grab something to imbued and to do the actual imbuing.

It doesn't take much to determine who are possessed and who aren't. One that decides to jump at him when he comes out of the alley gets first whack, giving an audible thwack against the person's side. As the person stumbles and rights themself, a confused look is given. But the attack stops.

Cool! The banishment worked!

Not letting a good thing go to waste. Mike continues in to the fray, smacking sense into other people.

John Constantine has posed:
    Sprinting from one to the next to the next, following the path mostly laid out by Cassandra, John dispatches spirits. It seems the end will never come. He's out of breath, trying not to devolve into a fit of coughing and hacking. Even with the curse of Astaroth's Bad Breath at bay, for the moment, the man's battered lungs are not cut out for ... well, prolonged sprinting.

    When Meggan shifts to all her Seraphim glory, he has to stop and shield his eyes from it. It burns a little, that light against his demon tainted self.

    The same way it burns the skin of those possessed by evil spirits. For as long as Meggan can hold it, the possessed are easy pickings to be put down for the evil to be driven from them. Hands to head, screaming, driven to their knees, but unable to escape the flesh, or unwilling.

    Those not residing in a host aren't faring well either, they're bouncing like pinballs off John's dome in their attempt to flee, causing the barrier to pop and crackle like a bug zapper.

    The Laughing Magician struggles to his feet, straining against the bright light that... holds a his heart and a sliver of his blackened soul and he stops sprinting. His focus shifts to the ones outside flesh, the ones trying to flee. Particularly the ones 'up' where there's less chance anyone get caught up in the bursts of Hellfire he starts slinging their direction.

    Where once there didn't seem to be an end in sight, now it's there. It's not over yet, but with Lydia still holding the door shut, so to speak, and no more coming, the rag-tag group aiming to put an end to it are making progress.

    It's sad, however, to see that little toddler over there screaming and blistered. ... or that *dog* howling in agony? Better a little sunburned than killing mum though, huh?

    John's a little tougher than the average human, a LOT more stubborn than near all of them, but at his core? He's just a man that slings some magic the right way from time to time. ...and he's starting to wear a little thin. His chest is burning, his head hurts, he needs a bloody drink and a smoke... and he's pissed. He's had enough, this is *ridiculous*, whatever this is.

    He stops lobbing Hellfire and stands perfectly still. He hasn't lived as long as he has with what he does by not being able to assess a situation in an instant. It only takes him that instant to find his targets in the chaos, the ones with enough will, enough energy, enough *fight* that he knows what he's planning next likely won't kill them. ... like won't - any means to the right and and this all needs to end now. Arms raised, palms up, he begins to chant.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The definitely-not-daughter who accompanied John kneels against the ground and steadies herself from toppling onto her face with her hand. "Forty-four. Forty-three. Forty-two." Her eyes are shut tight. Another twenty or thirty centimeters added to her height adds to her hunched body. Hateful spirits aren't eager to descend on Meggan and there isn't much she can to do stop them from swarming somewhere else.
shields her face with her raised arm and ghost-fire plays over her in a pearly glow. It winks out.

"Thirty-six. Thirty-five. Thirty-four." Noise from rescuees being zipped up overhead through the barrier or the slap of shoes on the ground causes her to turn to the sound, eyes still squeezed shut. <<Bad me. Focus! Sorry, this is going to be stupid bright.>> Another spark forms and goes out. Again, she concentrates on the snap.

he rustles and flutters the fresh weight on her back, distributing them wider so as not to fall forward. "Thirteen, twelve." Vertebrae crunch and her shoulders twitch to get the fluid back-and-forth motion right. Wings push down as she leaps up, much too high for a normal standing jump.

Seraph: the burning one. Extracting that inextinguishable inner light hurts. "Three. Two. *Constantine!*" It blazes in her hands and spreads away from her wings in weird, running lines the way light plays off sea cave walls. Power locked up inside goes racing out from the full-fledged seraph. Seals break on her.

Mana and soulfire bleed together as she throws it away from her in a wave, pushed along the cruciform arms to cut off the spirits who might want to cross the radiance.
sends out waves to help anyone who can tap the mana, a magical fountain pouring it out for the taking.

The fire's specifically translucent and white, maybe so as not to scare humans reduced to gibbering already by the specters. Be thou not afraid is a thing for a reason!

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    Leaving the magical quarantine dome was easy enough. Coming back... Ruth's red line of flight stops and jerks back from the surface of the effect, leaving her abruptly confused and alarmed as she floats upside-down staring 'up' into the city streets. "Back on the scene." She tries to draw up another launch vector to get herself down, and hesitates instead of taking it. She tries again, and finds her aim sliding off to the sides before she can take it. She... doesn't want to go back in, she finds. Cursing her apparent cowardice, instead she zips jagged angles around the block seeking people escaping on their own to offer assistance to.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
<<You can do it! Go Meggan go!>> M'gann has entered full cheerleader mode as Meggan becomes a Seraphim being of divine light. From the sheer pep one might surmise she may well have been a cheerleader in high school. Except she's green. Do they have high schools and cheerleaders on Mars?

M'gann continues to try and force the toxic astral entities from the minds of the possessed with the power of positivity, pushing out as much calm, peace, and happiness as she can. There really are a lot though. <<I wish J'onn was here.>> She thinks to herself, the stray thoughts flowing across the linked minds. <<He would know what to do.>> Still she does her best to fill Meggan with positivity too and protect her mind from the psychic assaults, they can do this! She just knows it!

Cassandra Cain has posed:
Cassandra's right fist goes through a ghost, and she goes rigid. She bites her lip, blood tasting of copper in her mouth, and her eyes go hazy. She's shaking, she's unable to move prop..erlllly...

When suddenly a blaze of light frees her, and the ghost releases her, and she drops to one knee a moment. Just a moment. Breathe. She breathes, and it's all she needs.

Still close, she's near to Constantine as she lifts her eyes to see the Angel. She can't ignore such a thing, how could anyone?

Then she sees what's going on, just a little bit clearer. And with a breath, she steps toward John, extending a hand to place it upon his shoulder. She allows him to take what he needs, the closest thing to magic she'll ever really perform.

Her energy is clean, and given freely. Not a word spoken, though she's fairly certain that some of these heroes have spoken to -her-.

Sucks to not speak English.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Caught in the howling chaos, Radha reaches behind herself and wriggles her hand on the door. It opens and she steps past, one foot over the threshold, prepared perhaps to duck for safety.

Am I going to get slaughtered by these things? These people? Radha thinks, with a certain brittle, hyper-litten clarity. A child is screaming. A dog? Her eyes go over the form of a rising angel.

She curls the fingers on her bleeding hand.

There's another of those little tugs.

A subtle impulse. The stuffed bear on her dress's neckline turns around, as if to look towards--

She throws her hand with the bleeding finger forwards then. SOMETHING. It has the feeling like someone's shouting orders at her but she can neither hear orders nor understand where they come from.

A moment later there is an enormous bright light. She winces, raising her other hand to shield her face as she cries out, "Shit!" which is honestly probably a reasonable assessment of the overall situation.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Encouraged by the early success of the spell, Mike continues amongst the crowd. The burning skin makes it all the more easy to discern who needs a whap. Due to the numbers, he does get a few opportunites to discern how hard he needs to hit. Light touches don't seem to do it. But there's no need to go breaking anything with the force of the hit either. Not really an ideal situation, it did at least present an opportunity to practice.

As the light gets brighter, Mike's eyes squint, making it harder to see the potential targets. But he's finding them more focusing on the source of the light than him now.

Taking a step back, Mike takes a deep breath as he feels himself a little depleted at the moment. Tired eyes look to the piece of wood where there's another flicker of light before it dies away. A lot more energy than he planned it seems. Why does it still feel like he's burning energy?

John Constantine has posed:
    Standing there, arms raised, chanting in a barely audible whisper, John's spell weaves a connection between himself and the others, even as he's washed over by all of Meggan's glory. It's more than enough, a little leeched from each - more than enough.

    He'll do his best to not take too much from any one source and he won't, as long as he doesn't have to - but the truth of the matter is that John Constantine is not a man unwilling to sacrifice the one for the many.

    The words to the spell are Latin, it's the theme for the evening it seems. Something about lending strength, blah blah, but he's barely speaking them out loud.

    It isn't until he gets to the rest of it that things take a little turn to the loud side from him. That's when he start demanding that things leave and be gone, that's when his typical spell is modified to include something akin to the door not hitting them in the asses when it closes behind them. This *is* his wheelhouse, but so many takes more fuel than the boat has to give alone.

    For a moment, standing there bathed in Meggan's soulfire, drawing on the energy of the others, the hand of a warrior on his shoulder, his own hands out stretched to the heavens, booming voice making commands of the angry dead, well, he looks a little like the God he sometimes forgets he isn't.

    Spirits pop from bodies, both from his efforts and those of the Martian's, people scream in agony at the forced separation, but they'll live - free of the murderous intent of the dead.

    A cacophony of angry wails rises, deafening as those murderous souls are forced back into the astral, back to the wasteland left there by the recent destruction of two Gods of Death.

    It takes everything, everything he's taking in and everything he has in him to perform an exorcism on this scale, to banish so may souls at once. This is some massive shite right here, way bigger than any one little mortal mage could manage on his own.

    When it's over, when they're all gone, the silence left in the wake of their wailing cries is eerie; people on the streets aren't screaming, aren't panicking, they're caught in the calm of a Martian mind. It's all good, let's chill and Neflix, y'all.

    It only makes John's, "Bloody fuckin' *hell*,' as he drops to one knee all the louder despite its soft volume.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
When is it all done? Time has an awful way of slowing down when you're stuck to a downed wire off a transmission tower, instead of fork in the socket. Meggan would probably take the transformer over this. Seconds melt by slower than old grandmas jaywalking outside the intersection.

M'gann cheering her on helps a bit. Martian cheerleaders deserve praise for their work. So do tireless animators and soul singers wielding ban-hammers. The rescuing force overhead or around the dome braving danger to help others get more credit. She isn't much seeing their work except in fuzzy vague patches. Peace flows through her and accounts for how long she holds on, but eventually something gives out.

<<They surviving?>> A weak question rises, not even spoken, since Meggan's voice plain isn't working. She'd probably chant 'holy-holy-holy.' When she drops, she gets much less bright. The mana-laced pool around her lasts a bit longer, but she splashes into it and sags down onto herself. Someone is going straight to bed, do not collect a last story or snack. <<Don't need J'onn, you're aces.>> A groggy sentiment slewing sideways as the ground looks so very comfy. A curb is a perfect pillow.

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    It's... over? No, Ruth shakes her head, not over, just done escalating. People are burned, unconscious, still bleeding... She swallows her hesitation at the edge of the dome, and turns on her loudspeaker. "This is Aerial. I'm sending out some strings that will make you float. Please attach them to anyone who's hurt so I can airlift them out. If you're hurt, please tie one to yourself." Both arms thrust forwards and dozens of lines spool out down the streets the magic dome still keeps her away from.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
When Meggan drops, M'gann swoops down to arrest her fall, first with Telekinesis and then lifting her out of the mana-laced pool. <<They are fine. You were amazing Meggan!>> The enthusiastic armored warrior M'gann within Meggan's mind assures her. Is that armor Beatrix from Final Fantasy IX? It might be. <<We did it!>> The green skinned alien girl beams a bright smile down at her, <<Aw, thanks Meggan! You're aces, too!>> She clearly isn't sure what that actually means, but it seems to be good!

With the possessing entities forced out and the people seeming to recover from their, the powerful psychic projection becomes more of an optimistic suggestion as she still projects a sense of peace and postive emotions into the area, but The Rules still must be observed and it no longer rises above the level of a polite suggestion. The freckled green skinned redhead is left there holding her semi-concious friend, unsure of where to take her. <<Where is home?>> She tries for a last question of the fading Meggan, not wanting to sift her mind for the information.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
A moment of wordlessness passes, and Cassandra does as well. She looks up at M'gann a moment, but the feeling she gives off is one of...silence. No thoughts, or only vagueness. She looks at Michael as if gauging, then looks to Radha.

Then...she looks up. She reaches a hand, taking a line. An admission of weakness, as she's given a route out. But before she does her hand tightens on John's shoulder.

There's a message in that, and a thanks. Given her lack of words it might be all that she has to offer. But that, is something that M'gann could read clearly.

She can't look at Meggan, but something tells her that she'll meet that one again. Orphan, signing off.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Power flows... rises... There is a miracle, but wasn't the miracle the horror, in the first place? What makes it a miracle instead of a horror?

Radha feels herself reel, a moment of weakness that makes her slouch against the doorjamb for a moment. It fades, like a moment of digestive upset, or perhaps the passing of terror.

Radha raises her head again...

Lines spool down to them. Radha steps forwards, hesitantly. She looks to Megan, and when lines fall towards her, she stares at one like it's completely out of context. After this, she guides one to where someone, hopefully not dead, is slumped against the front of the business she was about to dive into.

She also snaps her fingers at the muscular toy, calling to it, "RETURN to ME," which, obligingly enough, it does, doing a double somersault and a leap upwards to be caught in midair.

Radha holds it in the crook of her arm.

"I want you to know that I had nothing to do with any of this and I was just trying to help out," Radha tells Megan, who seems to be the most conscious other person and, possibly, a witness. She looks to Cassandra then, and asks her, in honest ignorance, "Are you alright?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Banishment stick back to being nothing more than a stick and people becoming nothing more than people, Mike sighs. The hand lowers, wood piece clattering to the ground as he loses his grip. No more fighting necessary, the rockstar leans against a nearby car, miraculously not triggering an alarm in the process.

"Oh God." Mike's at a loss for other words, lips parting to try and add to the previous statement but failing. He shakes his head, stuck in his thoughts instead.

Did Mike burn this much energy the last time he cast that? His right arm lifts, exposing the scar on his forearm while he brushes a hand against his eye. The general ache forming hinting to the need for rest. A thought to where he is, what he can't do right now, and the time of night makes him groan a bit. Hopefully he'll be able to make it home or somewhere safe before passing out.

John Constantine has posed:
    John reaches up to cover Cassandra's hand with his own, for just a moment, but he doesn't look up.

    A yellow taxi-cab comes barreling into the area, as close as it can get with all the stopped traffic. Those on the opposite side of the dome must really be wondering what all the hold up is. That cab nor its occupant, is stopped by the spell. Even if Chas wasn't touched by the Knowledge and the protection spell cast on him by John so long ago, he'd get through. John's not the only one with mystical tattoos.

    "John!" He runs in, headlong, and drops to his knees in front of his best mate. He shoves a hand under the Laughing Magician's chin to bring those faded blues up. "You good? The map bloody well burst into flames, the whole thing. ARE YOU GOOD, MATE?"

    It takes a second, but faded blues clear and actually look at Chas, a bobble headed little nod is offered and a murmured, "I'm good, I'm good, get Meggan." A shaky wave in her general direction follows.

    ...and Chas will, get Meggan that is, once he's reached down to haul John to his feet by the back collar of his trench coat. "Stay!" he jabs a finger into John's chest and heads off to get the little fae. "...and drop the protection," he reminds over his shoulder. "Medical needs in!" Once he reaches his destination, he'll stand his full height and demand, "Give her to me, she's going home with *John*, where she belongs" Testy much? It's been a long long day and it's not like he knows M'gann. "Anyone that needs help, a place to just siddown, a drink, make your way to the Laughing Magician in Hell's Kitchen if you can. I can take four in the cab! Now, we're moving now, before the cops show!" He knows John probably owes the lot of them a debt.

     Chas stands there, impatience, irritation, even a hint of anger on his face, waiting for Meggan to be turned over to him. He won't wait long and not all his bitchiness is really aimed at the Martian. It's everything, the all of it, the 'shit just won't stop' of it and it's concern for Meggan and John and the need to get them gone NOW.

    A thought drops the dome, a murmured word opens the portal to his home and John waits in front of it for Chas to bring him his Light.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
<<Best.>> Zzz. Meggan is not a helpful participant going anywhere, given that she is fast and fully asleep with FFIX-heroine Miss Martian in about two seconds. 'Home' constitutes muddled images. Green hills and a clear lake. Lighthouse in Gotham. Scruffy exorcist. The groggy little spark of gratitude isn't even formed as a word, just a sensation, set to flow before she drops away into the bone-tired land of exhaustion. Batteries are at zero, and M'gann is as safe a place as any. Even if she weren't, system shutdown gives no alternative. Helpful failsafe there: pass out in combat.

Fae design is not *great* design. Could've learned a bit from Martians. Borrowing the fires of an angel doesn't come cheap and she is not coming around any time soon.

Apologies for being a burden will come in a flurry of text messages after. Probably right along with a barrage of who-did-what questions to properly appreciate all the heroic actions. Spider-Lass will be a mystery that must be resolved! Tomorrow. Maybe the day after tomorrow.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
Cassandra points to her own open mouth, then shakes her head. Just so Radha can get the idea. She isn't talking not because she won't, but because she can't. But she seems...fine? Floating actually, as she lifts off of the ground.

Mass and Inertia become suggestions, and the law of gravity a myth. She finds herself taken away, and honestly...kind of fun. She grins up at Ruth, then gives a thumbs-up. Because this, is, neat.

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    As soon as the dome goes down, Ruth goes in, dragging along everyone who took a line as if they were a string of floats or a bunch of party balloons. There's no impacts from bumping into anything, so it's perfectly safe despite how reckless and confusing it might look. Running low on tethers to fire, she's settling for an actual spool of medical tape to wrap around people's wrists and stick to an already existing line, or to each other, or whatever makeshift attachment is needed, until she's basically cleared the streets. "We're going to St. Helena. I'll be back shortly." Up, left, and away!

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
When Meggan falls asleep in M'gann's arms the part of her mind that had been staying within Meggan's thoughts to protect her from the psychic assaults. When she is suddenly confronted by a man she might have seen once during monochrome night at some bar, her first instict is to hug her friend tighter and rise up into the air out of reach protectively. Clearly not sure how much she trusts this person and not terribly inclined to let go of her friend when she is in the state she is in.

"I don't know who you are, but I suggest you back off." Her voice is even but stern as she regards Chas. Though for the normally effervescent Martian girl that's as close to upset as most people will ever see.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Radha touches the dangling line and finds herself almost, not quite, floating. She lets go a moment later, looking upwards in consternation.

And yet, she thinks, it's friendly. Right? Like...

Wait.

Radha looks up again, but no -- No, she tells herself. You're deranged from stress. That can't be Spider-Man.

When Cassandra indicates her lack of speech, Radha blanches. "Oh, I'm - I'm sorry, ah. Good luck!"

The arrival of a taxi with a man shouting about burning maps is honestly a surprising moment of comfort here, and Radha moves to get into the back seat, ooching over in case someone needs to be stuffed in and putting her bag on her knee while popping her still bleeding finger in her mouth.

Departing ahead of the police seems like a wonderful plan to her.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Considering how tired Mike is, dream travel was probably a bad idea. So, with the mention of a ride that will get him much closer to home than here, the musician is on board with that idea. While there's some bit of disagreement between the Cabbie and the girl who looks like J'onn, Mike trods on closer.

"Hey." He greets the pair, tiredly as he gets closer. Glancing to M'gann he even manages a small smile before nodding to Chaz, "He's a friend of hers. And him." He offers up, nodding towards the sleeping Meggan, and then towards Constantine "He's just very concerned about his friends. So if you could just work with them. That'd be great."

John Constantine has posed:
    John's nerves are never peak, it only takes a moment to snap them like a taut string and send him over the edge. He's tired, he already nearly died once today and now something's holding up taking his girl home so they can damned well *sleep*.

    What little bit of strength he has left flashes Hellfire through those faded blues, it amplifies his voice to the near booming level it was earlier. He still stands in front of that open portal, the view of a parlor in an old Gothic style home there for all and sundry to see. "Give. Him. My. Love. Now. ...so I can bloody well take her home and put her to BED!"

    "You *heard* the man, let him take the woman he loves *home*," Chas spits back. There's not much in this world that Chas Chandler will back off from when it comes to protecting John... and Meggan truth be told and that latter is no longer just because she's... John's and he's hers.

    Sirens wail dangerously close now, and John shuts the portal with a word. He already has hands in the air, non threatening, ready to drop to knees and then face down when they arrive, likely within less than minutes to order him to do so. He's used to these things going the way they will if those cops get here before he gets Meggan. He'll be cuffed in the back seat of a cruiser because, well, look at the man. He just *looks* guilty.

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    A quick hop skip and a bounce to drop off her passengers on the rooftop helipad where the EMTs wait, and Ruth arrives back on the streets. This time running a quick lap around the area that was domed off with a roll of crime scene tape before floating in with a weary look on her face. At closer range the numerous cameras and sensors in her costume are more apparent. She's recorded everything she's been here for. With a sigh Aerial approaches the remaining group, notably at the brewing conflict of Chas, M'gann, and John. "Alright. Not sure what you did, but good work. I'll talk to the cops. Who wants to explain what's happened for the record?"

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann doesn't seem preturbed by sirens and the approaching authorities, that's a normal thing after stopping something like this. The authorities show up and do their thing. The soundwaves of the booming voice ruffle her hair but the Martian girl remains unflappable, if anything the hostility and shows of force make her cling to her friend tighter and trust those spitting words at her even less. She hasn't flown away just yet even though that's what every instinct is telling her, that Gotham lighthouse, but she isn't coming down either.

Her red eyes go to Mike, the only one who seems non-threatening. "She's my friend, too." Which is pretty obvious for her to protecting her this fiercely, "And they sure aren't acting like anyone I would trust with one of my friends. I'm going to take her home and make sure she's safe."

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Michael moves to get in the car. Radha smiles at him, in an increasingly fragile way, and ducks her head to look outwards towards --

So who is that guy? Radha doesn't quite know. He discouraged her from looking into these things. He runs that extremely cool bar. He's doing all this for what Radha has inferred is his literal angel girlfriend.

Radha breathes out. "This is fucked up, isn't it, then," she says to Michael, even as she fishes something out of her bag.

There is a moment. Radha bites her finger again and anoints the 'something' - it looks like a little stuffed rabbit that had been cut open - with a smear of blood again, asking Chas as she does, "If you have a get out of jail free card or something for him, stuff it in here quickly."

She presents the rabbit. Hopefully Chas is used to this kind of bullshit. Regardless of payload (Radha contributes two clove cigarettes from somewhere inside of her bag) she informs the little toy, "Go to the blond man. Hide in his pocket. When you are alone, give him what is inside you."

Then she throws it out of the cab. It obeys.

John Constantine has posed:
    "John, you need to go, I got this..." Because of the two of them, Chas really does look the least sketchy. John's the one that has 'strung out junkie, crazed maniac, sketchy conman, theif' look down pat even when he's not strung out.

    "I'm not leaving without her," John shoots back. "She needs *me*." ...and he needs her, like fire needs air.

    "Get in the car," Chas tells Mike. To Ruth he says, "It was riot, they happen all the time, someone threw a bottle at someone else and shite went sideways."

    ...and just in time, like they heard it all, the cruises - four of them - two at each end of the block, pull to a screeching halt.

    "Tell her *you're* the reason this happened when she wakes up, bitch," John snarls. He doesn't even wait to be told to do so by the approaching officers, he just drops to his knees and puts his hands behind his back.

    Is he pissed? Hell yes he is. ...and about to spend at least a night in jail if something doesn't change.

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    Ruth scowls at Chas, "Yes, a riot of angry ghosts possessing and tearing people apart. You're not helping by--" She cuts off mid-sentence to flick over to intercept the cops on their way in. Shows her ID, starts making her report, delays them by answering what questions she can, and turning over her pictures and footage. Maybe she can get John out of this.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
God, it's like mediating a disagreement between band members. He's too tired for this and he can see where M'gann's going with this.

"I get your concern. But what you are seeing is them being tired. But protective. They want to get her home. Where she'd likely be more comfortable and recover quicker."

Hearing Chas's instruction and remembering the warning earlier. Mike gives an apologetic look to M'gann, moving to get into the back seat of the taxi. Sliding in, he glances over to see Rahda. "Oh hell-"

And then he hears John's comments to M'gann, "Oh for fu- DAMMIT JOHN!" The musician looks out to the bar owner, "If you guys would just be NICE for a few seconds maybe she'd LISTEN TO YOU."

Grumbling he closes the door, looking to Radha as she mentions things being fucked up. "Yes. Or as others call it- Friday in New York."

The groggy musician watches the work done with bringing the voodoo velveteen rabbit to life. How convenient all of these magic users showed up. Shaking his head, he buckles up, puts his head back, and closes his eyes.

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
John's remarks fall on deaf ears or at least seem to as red alien eyes stare at him, into him for a moment only for M'gann's expression to recoil like she just looked upon the most disgusting mess imaginable.

When John drops to his knees though before the arriving police officers, Miss Martian does actually descend down to stand atop one of the arriving police cruisers with the flashing lights. "I am Miss Martian!" She announces for the officers who even if they had not heard of her have likely heard of her Justice League 'uncle' "This man has a mind like wreteched tar and a personality that is even worse." '<frankly I can't understand what you see in him> She says under her breath to the sleeping woman in her arms. "But he did not cause any of this. A number of people became possessed and were out of control. He stopped them. Everyone here stopped them. No matter how he might look, please treat him with respect, even if he is unable to give it." She announces for the officers.

M'gann moves her feet atop the police car to turn in John's direction, "We'll go." Did she say we? "But I am coming, too." It would seem she doesn't intend to let the police have John after all.

John Constantine has posed:
    John is so far beyond the realm of it being possible for him to 'be nice' that the realm is a tiny dot, microscopic even. He's tired, he's hurting, the walls have been closing in on him for weeks. ...and now something is standing between him and the only woman he's ever loved when all he wants to do is take her home where she *belongs*, with him.

    She holds his heart, given freely, she holds a sliver of his soul so she'll never be without him and always know where he's at. ...and she's *Vowed*, Big V, Fae Vowed, to always be by his side, even if the day comes that the markers on his soul are called in. There's a bond between them that can't be broken, even now, with her unconscious. It's *there*, for anyone looking to feel.

    When it doesn't appear that John's going to be arrested after all, he pushes himself to his feet. "Give her to me." Insistent, that. "So I can *help* her."

    Chas takes a breath, lets it out slowy, another... and then, "It's what she'd want, all you're doing is denying your friend what she'd want."

Ruth Kincaid has posed:
    Aerial floats back over to the group, "Okay. Not to sound too ungrateful, but this is a crime scene now. I can give you all a lift to the hospital if you want, but whatever other arguments you're having about how best to help your friend need to be somewhere else. Nobody's being arrested, but try not to touch anything on the way out." She looks to John, "And thank you."

M'gann M'orzz has posed:
M'gann floats down from the top of the police car, not quite touching the ground. There are likely a million things going through her head to perhaps say, but she has seen enough to know there is truth in what John is saying. Her grip upon her friend finally loosens and she is offered to John as if she weighs nothing at all in M'gann's outstretched arms.

"Fine." It is the 'fine' of a teenager or early 20something who is not thrilled with the situation or how they got here but has convinced herself it is okay. "But I will be checking on her soon."

John Constantine has posed:
    "You're gonna want to stop by my bar," John mutters to Ruth.

    Meggan's tiny but doesn't weigh nothing. John's physical strength is... average mortal man and he's *exhausted*, but he takes her anyway, if it takes every last everything he has, he takes her anyway. He cradles her head to his chest, kisses her on the forehead and whispers, "You did good, love." Not luv, not some British catch-all but *love*.

    A murmured word and that portal opens right in front of him again. He steps through it, it snaps shut behind him instantly.

    "Don't ever try to separate them again," Chas warns M'gann. You'll only hurt her." There's no heat there, not anymore, his anger was fueled by very many of the same things that fueled John's. Just this morning, he watched his best mate nearly drown on demon ichor, blood and sputum while Phoebe fought to save him.

    He turns, not waiting for an answer or reaction and goes back to the cab to take the others to the bar.