7617/Harbingers United

Harbingers United
Date of Scene:	31 August 2021
Location:	=A Rooftop, Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	John Constantine is back from the Underworld, and after saving the girl who lives with his best mate from what probably would have been a horrible fate, he does what he does best -- well, maybe not best. He gets completely drunk and sings The Sex Pistols on top of the tallest building in Hell's Kitchen, until a friend appears.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Nettie Crowe

---

John Constantine has posed:
    Some people don't know it, it's not something John does often, not much really at all... but little bastard *can* fly. That is to say he can levitate and well, after the right incantation... and far...

    There's one bottle empty already, in that short amount of time, discarded on the rooftop of the Orion, tallest building in Hell's Kitchen, sixteen stories that. Might not be so bad if he was just sitting up there, even if he was just sitting on the edge. But he's not. The crazy fool is walking around the roof's edge, *right on the edge*, one foot sort of dangling out in the air with each step. He has another bottle, half empty already, in one hand, a lit silk between his lips and he's pelting out Johnny Rotten's version of My Way.

~And now, the end is near,
And so I face the final curtain.
You cunt, I' not a queer,
I'll state my case of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full... etc and so on.~

    So not good.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    When Nettie received the text, on her ancient bit of technology called a 'flip phone', she had reason to worry. When Chas hadn't texted her back, she cast about herself and closed the Candle, Booke and Belle, the aforementioned Belle electing it was more important to find what happened to the lad she was at least a little fond of. She doesn't arrive first. There is a flapping of wings, and a crow with ruby eyes lands nearby John. He /almost/ tells the fucker to jump, but Hell's already full ladies and gentlemen. Instead Corvax gives a yawn of a caw, and then hops off the edge so that he doesn't get kicked by 'accident'.

    So when she arrives, the old girl is riding side-saddle, wearing a corsetted top and blue jeans and black sneakers and a black cloak made of sweatshirt material over all of it, open. Her head is tilted to the side as she looks upon John Constantine, belting out his best Johnny Rotten impression.

    "Mm. Never liked that cover."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Bollocks," John mutters when he spots that damned bird. He knows what's next. He lifts that bottle and chugs it like it's kool-aid. The action causes him to tilt a little too far in the wrong direction and only a slightly wild swing of the arm attached to his free hand keeps him from toppling over the edge. ...it all makes him gigglensort a little.

    That's not good.

    "No one asked ya to listen, now did they, Nets?" he snarks in return and goes right back to signing his song and walking around the roof. "Go away, Nettie."

    ...he doesn't even claim to be fine. It's always so very bad when he doesn't even claim to be fine.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "You know I'd always listen to you. 'Cept when you tell me 'Go 'way Nettie'. Never was good at that one." the Witch replies, and she breathes out, raising her eyebrows. She would banter, but as he wals, she shifts her weight, the old besom creaking a little as it follows him. His own movable safety rail. "Did you even save me any?" she asks, leaning forward a moment, eyebrows gently drawn up as she looks John up and down, as if she were trying to see through him, through his bones and bullshit, and she hovers a little closer to him, casual, not quite waiting for an invitation to drop off the broomstick and onto the rooftop.

John Constantine has posed:
    Oh Nettie, you really don't want to see in there, not this time.

    "Some what?" he asks as he waves the bottle around and tips it up again. He's actually *drunk*, as in pissed... not just as in 'John's been at the bar all day'. He's drunk, hammered, trashed, tossed... drunk.

    There is the tell tale signs of things going wrong though. The torn shirt, still stained, the ripped pants maybe underworld glass still stuck in the material, hell... in his knees?

    "Sorry, luv, drinkin' alone tonight." He plucks the Silk from his lips and flips it off the side of the building only to pull out another and attempt to finagle all of that, the bottle AND walking around the roof still. It's harrowing to say the least, a few times he staggers, stumbles, catches his balance, gigglesnorts and continues on.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Chas called." she states quietly, reaching out a hand to gently steady John, keeping its weight to the shoulder over the roof.

    It seems congratulations will be in order, once you sober a bit." she states, and gently tries to guide John off the edge -- literally and figuratively. "C'mon, my boy. Let's have a chat. Been a good long while since I've bummed a cig off you." she states, and it's clear that it's not exactly a request.

John Constantine has posed:
    "For what?" John barks out a laugh completely void of anything resembling humor. "For what, draggin' another child to hell?" Once he's off the ledge, he jerks away from Nettie. "Just leave me *alone*, Nettie." Somewhere between pleading and angry, that.

    "You want another fuckin' shirt? You can have it and just go..."

    He polishes off that second bottle in a span of time that would have most men on the ground and down for the count. His tolerance is high, it truly is. The empty gets a growl of frustration. Damnit, shoulda brought another!

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Always knew you were the sort of gent to give a person the shirt off your back." Nettie states, with the utmost calm and cool to her voice. Corvax gives a laugh up above them, but with a wave of her hand, he's dismissed back to the shop, and she looks to John's back.

    "I was going to say for other events in your life, but if you would like to talk about what happened, you always have my ear, John." Nettie states, and she steps off the edge and onto the roof proper of the building, watching John to see if he would follow., the Sweatshirt-material cloak giving a bit of a flap behind her.

    "Besides. I hate your button-ups. Too tight in the chest."

John Constantine has posed:
    "What's to talk about, Nettie?" John shoots back. At least he's not walking around that precarious ledge anymore, that's a start. He's standing there near it, on the roof. He doesn't follow further way from the edge though, not yet.

    "What would you know about it? Any of it? My fuckin' life... it's all BULLSHITE, NETTIE!" There it is, that anger he tries to hold on so tightly to in the face of other feelings that are just harder to handle.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Aye, boyo, it is." Nettie agrees, and on the rooftop she sits down, back-lit by the city below them, and removes from a pocket of her cloak a flask. She gives it a wiggle at John, and raises her eyebrows.

    "The whole thing has done nothin' but batty-fang you until you're tits up. An' every time you get knocked by it, you manage, somehow, ta get back up. Sometimes, though, it's awrigh' ta take a little breath before something punches you in the chest again."

John Constantine has posed:
    John eyeballs that flask like a dog might a favored biscuit. It's a wonder he's not drooling. "For what? Why the *fuck* do I get back up," he fires back, faded denim blues still fixated on that flask. "Nothing I do makes a fuckin' difference anyway." He always resorts to 'fucking' over 'bloody' when things are really bad.

    "None of it *matters*, people still die... and lots of them... because of me." He turns around like he might be thinking about climbing up on that ledge again. He's definitely still walking one in his mind, a very narrow one.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "And because you've got more balls than brains, how many yet live because of your actions? Or will become?" she asks, and she wiggles that flask again. Whatever liquid is hidden inside its silver skin whispers; it's nearly full.

    "... people will always die, John. That's the part that doesn't get into a young buck or hen's head when they first take up on this path. I was at least fortunate for a time."

    Until she made a mistake. Her back itches, and she gives an unlady-like wriggle against the granite block she's parked herself against to scratch it.

    "They used to glorify it, you know. But again, complete and utter bullshite."

John Constantine has posed:
    "What if I couldn't have done it, Nettie? Pulled that girl out." He's being a little vague there, innit he? Maybe Nettie saw it, maybe she didn't. John turns back around again and his eyes don't immediately go to that flask, they're on the ground, on his shoes that are still covered in muck and mire from some nasty Underworld bog, clear up to the tops of his legs that stuff stains and clings to his pants. He hasn't even showered since he's been back.

    ...at least there's not still a gaping hole in his chest?

    "I'm just done with it, Nettie," he murmurs as he looks up and out over the city. "All it, the bullshit, life... losin' the ones that mean the most because I drag'm along with me. I'm leavin' in the mornin'. I'll send the paperwork back, leave Chas the bar. Can't end it, that'd just be a war in Hell that Earth might not survive and it's bad enough down there, can tell you that after three days in it."

    Was it only three days? More? Felt like more, time doesn't pass the same down there.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "... which girl, John?" Nettie asks gently, and she moves aside, and pats the gravel next to her.

    "Well, at least you're not totally cups-deep." she reflects quietly, "because if you were I would suspect that you'd be singing more than the Pistols. Might have to break out the Cure." she surmises.

    And she'd just play The Crow soundtrack to annoy him.

    "Where will you be goin'? Back to London? Liverpool?" she questions. "Lhasa? Maybe disappear into the dark heart of Africa for a while, or become some sort of bullshit Asthetic?"

John Constantine has posed:
    He is soooo fucking tired. It's a wonder he's still on his feet at all. Even the gravel of the roof is inviting; perhaps even enough to curl up and go to sleep on. But John stays standing for the moment. He's not ready to strip down to nothing and let anyone actually touch him. Armor's still there, for now.

    "Hear the Outback's pretty Hellish, kinna fitting, innit?" He's still staring out over the lights and the horizon, not looking at Nettie, not daring to. "I don't deserve to keep gettin' back up when everyone around me stays down, Nets."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "... I could say..." Nettie begins as she opens the flask, and takes a sip of whatever liquid is inside, pursing her lips a moment before she holds the flask in her hands, "that it's some sort of glorious purpose. That you're meant for great and wonderous things... but we both know that's a lie others tell themselves. We know what makes you get up after everyone else stays down." The old woman frowns, which looks natural on her young face. She really hadn't aged a day since they both looked the same age.

    "I've been to the Outback. Horribly Hellish. Waited a half hour for my onion and the beer was warm."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Aye, we do, I'm a fuckin' coward that can't face what's there waitin'," John replies. He finally turns those faded blues to Nettie. "Her name's Phoebe, she's been staying in the apartment above the bar with Chas. Don't know what she is yet, outside of something special. She almost died, almost got lost down there, because of *me*."

    He looks like he could just fall asleep on his feet. Exhausted might not even be enough of a word this time. "Beer's nothin' but piss water anyway."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Ah, so you had a leash 'round her neck and dragged her into following you to the underworld. Or were you some sort of Dark Orpheus and launched Ramones at her until she swept up behind you?" Nettie asks with an interested expression.

    And she breathes out. "Johnathan St. Eloise McGee Constantine, sit your arse down. I'm getting tired just lookin' at you and all I've done today is mix tea blends and console someone with a love potion she got of the damn Internet that Red Bull does /not/ have the required ingredient."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "And I agree, most beer is pisswater. Especially American beer. Corn syrup in everything. Blech."

John Constantine has posed:
    "You know that's not... Nettie you know it works different with me, with the Constantine bloodline. People get caught up in and they *die*. Even Chas'd be dead by now if..." If John hadn't drunkenly cast a protection spell on the man in a bar one night.

    He does finally settle onto the roof with Nettie, but at arm's length. Still wearing that armor, but it's paper thin. Up close, it's so much easier to see the haunted shadows of days in Hell in those faded blues.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "And it's not every day that someone finds a friend so willing to duck in between the shades. Or someone skilled enough to pull them back." Nettie points out, and as he settles down, she offers out the flask.

    "An' would it be any different if you hadn't discovered your knack for it?" she asks, looking over to him. "Presidents and Emperors and cult leaders line up men and women to die for them without ever knowing them from Adam or Eve. You have the shoulders of fuckin' Atlas, boy, you scar every time you consider a fail when lesser men would consider it a /unfortunate misstep/. Not even mistake." she states, and she pats herself. Peh. Always in her other jacket.

John Constantine has posed:
    John takes the flask, but sniffs the contents first. He won't be drinking any weird arse tea this evening. He finds his Silks and hands them over along with the lighter that once meant so much and now seems... unimportant still. It's rare he lets that out of his hands, typically he does the lighting if someone needs it.

    "I didn't think I'd make it out," he offers in a barely there whisper. "... and I didn't care, Nettie. By the time it was over, I didn't care. I still don't. It's all ... empty again. ... God help me, I think it's better this way."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    It's not Scotch. It's also not tea. It smells of lime and pine and stings the nose like a dozen ants.

    It's Gin. But decent sipping Gin.

    Nettie accepts a Silk, and waits with the cigarette out for the light -- and is then handed the lighter. She looks at the lighter, and then she looks at John quietly, and she moves a little closer to him. Her expression is gentle, and she reaches over to drop that lighter back into his pocket.

    She takes the silk, and tucks it behind her ear.

    "My poor boyo," Nettie whispers, "you're so young to have carried all this so far."

    "How long were you in the dark?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "I dunno," and that's the truth of it. Time really does move different down there. "Felt like weeks, could have been hours." He seems like he might be just on the edge of saying more, of spilling it all, but in the end he just takes the lighter and pockets the thing.

    He'll certainly push himself to his feet, put distance between them if not stopped. He's raw and bleeding under that armor he's struggling to keep in place. Does't wanna leave those blood stains behind. "I should probably get back, bar to run and all it." So he's not leaving tomorrow? Or maybe he will? Maybe... he has no fucking clue what he's doing. About anything. That's the more likely answer.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "John-" she states as he rises. "/John/." she more firmly states a moment later, and she puts one hand on her head.

    "John, pease, my heart, sit a while longer. You don't have to talk. For Chrissakes... I just want you to know that if you do need to step away, if you need an ear, I am /here/ for you. You know I shall never lie to you; you are one of the mages I am most proud of, because I know right now you're hurting, and it hurts because your heart is being ripped from your chest. Because you do care -- you are not empty, Lad, you're runnin' on fuckin' fumes."

John Constantine has posed:
    It happens suddenly, as it always does, and quietly as it always does. When that first tear falls and the rest follow, Nettie might not even realize it with the way his back's turned toward her. She might not, but she *knows* him.

    The way John looks up instead of down to try to keep them from falling, the slight hitch - barely there - of his shoulders when it starts, the silence in their wake because he doesn't want his voice to crack when he speaks.

    He's walking another line now, staying or leaving.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Nettie stands. She's shorter than him by a good six inches, but she walks up behind him. There's no ulterior motive. Nothing about the way she reaches up to gently hold his shoulders, one in each hand. She doesn't turn him around, but there was a gentle squeeze of her thumbs.

    "C'mon, John. You can stay over my place tonight to sleep it off, and tell me what you need to get off your chest. I shall listen. You are not in the dark, boy. I am here for you."

John Constantine has posed:
    "I'm not riding that fuckin' broom," John mutters, shoulders tense under her touch. "I'll meet you there." ...and with that, he steps away and whispers the words to open a portal to home.

    ...it's somewhere around two hours later that he finally shows up at Nettie's, perhaps right when she thought that he wouldn't show at all. His clothes are changed, the grime of it's all gone, but the pain of it still hangs about him like a burial shroud. He doesn't say anything, not another word tonight, he just waits to be let in and then finds a spot - likely on the sofa or somesuch - to curl up and go to sleep.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Well, you're not drinking and-- oh bloody right, you can do that, can't you? Cheeky." she states with the utmost approval.

    Until she realizes *has has her flask still*. "... that's my favorite gin, too." she grumps, resummons her broom, and takes off.

    And when he arrives, she's still dressed, though she's changed to a T-shirt that definitely maybe was stolen from him (how many Sex Pistols T-shirts can one punk own?). Words don't have to be said. John is hooked up with a place on a soft red sofa, covered with a hand-knit afgan of blue and violet granny squares, safely tucked in with a fluffy pillow -- with a bucket and a couple of gatorades for the morning.

    Nettie herself curls up in an overstoved rubber duck yellow chair, and stands watch, her vigil interrupted with periodic dozing off -- but she promised. She would be there for him.

    And the Greywitch never breaks her promises.