7738/Gotham Fireman's Ball

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Gotham Fireman's Ball
Date of Scene: 16 October 2021
Location: Fireman's Hall, Gotham City
Synopsis: -Nothing bad could ever happen at a Gotham Gala.

Interrupting the Fireman's Gala in which orphans were supposed to recognize their passed parents, many of Gotham's Heroes are forced to contend with creatures constructed of former Gotham Gate editor-and-owner, Mickey Rogers. In the fighting, Phoebe Beacon(-Constantine-Chandler) is injured, and her powers are failing to heal. After being stabilized by Tim Drake for her initial injury, and John Constantine for all other maladies and protections physicial, spiritual and magical, under the supervision of one Dr. Jonathan Sims (AKA ThothDad). Cassie Sandsmarkelectrocutes a giant undead scorpion. The Beef Canape doesn't make it.

(WARNING: Extreme undead transformation, curse words, injury, BUGS AND SCORPIONS)

Cast of Characters: Phoebe Beacon, John Constantine, Jonathan Sims, Lonnie Machin, Laura Kinney, Asariel, Cassie Sandsmark, Tim Drake




Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The Gotham Fireman's Gala was taking place this year in the huge, Gothic-inspired Fireman's Hall, which should its sweeping tower be rigged with a bigger bell may have been mistaken for a church. Its wide steps to its grand doors are lined with red carpet this evening, and the Elite and Famous who wish to support the Gotham Fire Department -- and the slew of orphans created when the Gotham Fire Department loses its brothers -- are out in force. After all, there's absolutely nothing controversial about supporting a fire department; someone would have written a song about it otherwise.

Inside there are low tables set up for dining, a long bar staffed by bartenders in crisp white shirts and red bow-ties. The floral bouquets are all done up in fall colors, with little decorative Jack-o'-lanterns on sticks placed within. There is a small ensemble playing classical music, man sitting at the piano looking Bored As All Getout as he plays through endless rounds of background classical. There are people milling about -- most of the men have themed tuxedos or ties and hats and dominos. The women have themed masks that match their gowns, but no one seems overly concerned with the costumes in the main hall.

    No, but in the backstage area of the Fireman's Hall (which does host rock shows on the regular), there's a bit of pandamonium as a kid who is dressed up like a panda bear has bitten a kid wearing a Captain America costume, and the little girl in the Paw Patrol dress with pink fairy wings is crying because the bear is going to eat her.

    And back there, there is a discussion going on--

    "I don't see why we need to present anything. She was expelled last year for a violent offense."

    "Oh come on, Pam. Her house burned down by the same arsonist who killed Chuck Beacon? Those kids had it coming. Wouldn't kill them to show some empathy--" says a woman who is doing her best to be Galinda the Good Witch from Wicked, including the long snowflake staff and SUPER BLONDE CURLS in spite of the fact that she is a middle-aged woman of mixed Asian descent with a good appreciation for food. "Besides. There's a big announcement to make. A couple of them, actually--"

    Out in the front, people are milling about the Donation table, with things like 'a weekend at the Powers Lakehouse' and 'Use of So-and-so's private yaucht for three days' up for silent auction to raise funds for the orphans.

    Won't someone think of the children?

John Constantine has posed:
    John Constantine is here, it's what he does, particularly for family, he shows up. He hates these sorts of things with the fiery passion of a billion suns, they send the social anxiety he actually has and hides behind arrogance and swagger through the roof, but he's here anyway.

    What he could not do, however, is wear some sort of costume or anything else other than his usual attire. That old battered trenchcoat serves as some measure of armor against the anxiety of it all.

    If anyone asks, he's Columbo.

    If there's drink readily to be found, he has one. If there's not, he still has one... it's just tucked away in a flask in his pocket to be brought out from time to time. He has a Silk Cut cigarette tucked behind his ear that he keeps toying with, but he has yet to light up. That only *adds* to his anxiety. "Gah, this *sucks*," he mutters so very quietly under his breath.

    With the way things have gone of late, his senses are bouncing between wide open and not, when not 'wide open', he's still alert to every sound, every person that walks too close.

    Short of it, he's a bundle of ... nerves, a hair trigger waiting for trouble because that's his life... trouble.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Whatever the properly rich people are doing, someone told him 'costume ball' and so Jonathan Sims came in costume. It took (other people) digging in his closet and some work with paint on a shield and messing with his hair, but he's in costume. A chain shirt over a blue undershirt, brown trousers, a fake sword, a blue shield with crown and fleur-de-lis, a battered copper laurel wreath. He's even styled his hair into a bob of sorts.

    Joan of Arc. He's Joan of Arc. This is /entirely/ Phoebe's fault. But, then, it's her party.

    It's a /lot/ of people, though, an assault on the fledgling psychic's senses, so he hunches his shoulders a little as he peers at John Constantine, with whom he came even if they mismatch horribly. "What, you don't like hanging 'round all the posh sorts? And here I thought you had class." He's joking to cover his own anxiety, see.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "And I'm telling you, after this I'll take you to the real costume party-" Tim's plus one says, as they enter arm-in-arm. He's the Cardinal Richelieu, the symbol of the corrupt symbiosis of the Religious establishment and the aristocratic classes. With his pinned-up red hair and height, the effect is striking. "There'll be music and wild costumes and people swinging from the chandeliers, not this bougie stuffed-shirt nonsense, where the money they spend on 'charity' is eclipsed by the cost of the catering." He is apparently making a point of being as obnoxious as possible.
    "Oh hey, there's Councilman McDaniels, with a woman WHO ISN'T HIS WIFE. Sex work is real work of course, but I can't help but wonder if this is the $2500 an hour escort he paid for with taxpayer money or the $4000 an hour escort he paid for with taxpayer money? MAYBE we should ASK HIM."
    He looks around, and then leans in to whisper something to Tim before he elbows him in the side.

Laura Kinney has posed:
Another day another fancy Gotham party. The difference is this time X-23 is inside instead of lurking on the rooftop.

She is however in a disguise. Well a disguise for her anyway. Given she's dressed up in a fancy party frock. An elegant black dress, picked to allow easy movement, and matching accessories.

And of course she's got a derringer or two tucked away. Because it's Gotham and you can never be too careful. Especially when your fancy new outfit was charged to the Outsiders account. Perhaps next time Tim won't say 'buy yourself a new outfit' without qualifying the outfits purpose..

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    John would find that the place is magically alive. Whether because of the protective force of the fact that the brotherhood of the Firemen, whose job it is literally to preserve and protect. Maybe that will help ease some of that anxiety. Probably not. But Galinda the Good Witch sweeps out from behind backstage, all glitter and tulle. And she zeros in on Columbo. "HEllllOOOOOO!" she greets the blonde investigator in the trenchcoat. "Oh look at you! One of my favorites when I was a kid!" she greets him. Whether or not she recognizes him may be entirely up for debate, since she's switched out her normal glasses for RIDICULOUSLLY SPARKLY over-large Cat's Eye Glasses.

    Joan of Arc gets some looks from the people who are lame and only wearing masks with their tuxes, talking about the loudness of 'the rabble' as they eyeball his costume, although one young woman bobs right up to him, wearing a green sash over a steel-gray dress, and has a small sword tucked into her dress.

    "Oh, thank goodness!" she whispers "You look wonderful!" she greets the stranger with a bright grin.

    Behind Tim and Lonnie, a shadow looms, briefly, in a hooded cloak of fake velvet lined with cheap gold broccade.

    "Lonnie. This is the last time I get to honor my adoptive dad as an 'orphan' before I age out of the program. I would be on my knees begging but I'm wearing a white dress under here." comes Phoebe's voice "So I'm asking -- as a friend who gets one last chance, please don't?" she asks, face hidden in a bit of shadow before "--oops, there's Diane. Backstage I go." she whispers, and she passes behind Laura as she walks "HiLauraByeLauraThankYouforComing!"

Asariel has posed:
Lasariel has arrived, but it seems like the grand plan to arrive with her date got a little held up. Or well, something came up. So the white haired woman is waiting to go inside for the moment as she futzes a little nervously with the cloak she is wearing to hide her costume for the moment. She gives a smile and warm greetings to those that pass, but doesn't wander away from where she was planted. She told her bodyguard she wouldn't wander too far by herself.

John Constantine has posed:
    "You're way too tall to be dressed like a little girl," John points out in Jon's direction. He'd had his laughing moment before they arrived, such that it was, such that John ever outright *laughs*, but he's still mildly amused. "Next time do Wonder Woman, it'll give you an excuse to wear the fake boobs you've always wanted."

    John takes a step BACK from the approaching sparkles and good cheer. OMFG, No... back... be gone with thee in the name of...

    "I think Dorothy and Toto went that way," he drolls with a gesture toward 'that way'.

    No, no... anxiety is a its peak and he can't be blamed for the fact. Not with the... lots of months he's recently had. One more step back from all that sparkle and shine puts him one step behind, but to the side of Jon. Do your JOB social buffer!

    While he does his; watching.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon eyes Galinda for a moment before focusing on the young woman in the green sash. He smiles at her. "One would think that with all the money they have, the sorts who populate these events would go all-out. Wear the finest, most elaborate costumes their administrative assistants could commission designers to pay for. Like the Met Gala, you know? Alas, the latter days of the empire of the Anglosphere are far less interesting than France or Rome. At least they went out in style." Is he... /very loudly/ judging the rich people tittering at him? Within earshot?

    Yes. Yes, he is.

    Aside, to John, "Maybe I will, next year. I could grow my hair out for it." If he's self-conscious about the thought he's tamping it down somewhere deep inside.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
Ritzy fundraisers are not Cassie's native environment, but she's... definitely gotten used to them! Superhero perks! With her plate payed for by the Themysciran Arts Center (there was even a nice personalized note from Diana), the young Ms. Sandsmark's appearance is quasi-official. But try telling her that. Mostly, the young woman just seems excited to be there, enjoying a night of fancy dress-up. One assumes her mentor probably funded her designer gown as well, which is full-on masquerade attire, like something out of a Venetian ball, in black and gold, with a full-volumed flowing skirt and intricately embroidered strapless bodice. With her own blonde hair done up in ringlets and piled on her head, she's really going for that historic look, and has even got the little 'mask on a stick' thing to go with it (there is presumably a proper for such a thing, but she doesn't know it!), glittering gold and adorned with dark black feathers.

Truthfully it's a little much... but that's the point!

Making her strutting way in with her head held high, she's clearly having too much fun with the whole thing, although once she's inside, she is confronted with the fact that... well, what does one DO at a fancy party, exactly? Presumably, one hob-nobs, but she doesn't exactly know the crowd. Also, with all the costumes and masks, it's a bit of a chore tracking down the friends she knew would supposedly be here. So she's standing there, peering around, when she overhears just enough of something to trigger her sidekick instincts (but not enough to get the context!).

Thus, somewhat suddenly, she's in front of Constantine, mildly confrontational (although hardly intimidating at a glance): "Wait what'd you say about Diana?!"

Laura Kinney has posed:
Laura doesn't reply to acknowledge the whispered greeting, but she does give a little nod of her head.

And then it's back to blending into the crowd. She's not really here to mingle or socialise. Just appear like she is. Because where certain members of the Outsiders go trouble follows. And if she's not there to watch out for them....

Tim Drake has posed:
    "You vastly overestimate how good the food is at these sorts of things," is Tim's deadpan reply, very much unmoved by what has no doubt been a fairly consistent string of complaints from Lonnie that began when they were first getting ready. What they're wearing is probably as close to a couples costume as either of them would ever willingly allow, which is to say, they're enemies.

    Sort of a funny in-joke there.

    Tim is dressed as a musketeer. Is that a real sword? Who's letting people with real swords through? Though both of their costumes are more Met Gala than Halloween, with modern elements interwoven with 17th century French stylings. No one wore pants that nicely fitted back in the 1600s.

5tHis head is already turning to look over his shoulder when Phoebe makes her approach. "Don't worry," he tells her. "Lonnie will be on his best behavior, I promise." How Tim is actually going to make that come to be, though, is probably another conversation entirely. But he does squeeze his arm pretty tightly around Lonnie's, where they're holding on to each other. He looks around at the crowd, noting some particularly... political people in attendance.

    Steering Lonnie away from them, Tim says, "If I'm ever so miserable that I think a masquerade ball mask counts as a costume, just kill me." Under his breath, of course. He's still managing to smile and play the wholesome Wayne heir--from a distance, at least.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Mmmmmmmmmmm-" Lonnie says, being the sort of person who compromises for No One - he does put his finger over his mouth and he says, "I'll take it under advisement, Phoebe. No matter what, I'm just a kid from Otisberg that grew up in an apartment the size of most of these' people's walk-in closet." He does seem to be more quiet from then on, simply hanging off of Tim's arm like a very tall decoration - though beneath his opera mask, he does make the most spectacular squinchy-faces when brought into close proximity with the Hoi Polloi. He leans in to mutter in Tim's ear again.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks as Cassie comes up to them, all blonde ringlets and fancy gown. Maybe she doesn't /look/ intimidating, but he /acts/ intimidated. "Ahh... I don't think he..." A pause. He clears his throat, glances to John, then focuses on the young woman trying to accost his friend. "He was teasing me, not disparaging Wonder Woman," he says. "Right, John?"

    And then, because introducing oneself is the thing for social buffers to do at parties, he says, "I'm Jonathan Sims, the Ar--" he clears his throat. "Doctor Jonathan Sims," he fixes that. "This is John Constantine. Unless you've met...?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "That she has boobs..." John blunts. "It's not like it's a thing the entire world isn't aware of the fact," he adds before he bites the inside of his cheek in an effort to reengage his brain to mouth filter on his own, without Chas here to murmur his name all 'stop it' toned.

    His own accent? It's straight up Liverpudlian white trash. He no more belongs here than a Demon does in Heaven.

    "Uh... sure, teasing him." With the fact that Wonder Woman ha *boobs*. What's disparaging about *that*?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Galinda gives a smile, "Oh/hooo!/ You're so *funny~!* and she states to John: "Everything is good to go. I talked to Pammie and it'll get done. Just wait until the waterworks!" she nudges John in the elbow, and he might recognize Phoebe's caseworker. "You Lucky guy!" she nudges at John again, and then at Jon "And you look great, Chas!" she states, and then she goes off to disappear and hobnob with the rest of the people.

    What was that about? The world may never know.

    The girl dressed as Gawain stays a little close to Jon. "It's pretty bad when no one else really wants to get in to the theme. You'd think with Gotham, Knights would be more popular, but no, the only ones they care about play football." she gives a smile. "Sandi Beaches. Yeah, I know, the name, it's dumb -- I'm Public Relations for the fire department." she gives a smile, and points "And that was one of the caseworkers who handles general CPS. She has one of the kids graduating out of the program tonight -- and you must be the representative from the Themysciran Arts! Hello! Pleasure to meet you -- Sandi Beaches, I know the name is weird-- Public Relations for the Gotham Fire Department"

    The temperature has dropped a couple degrees.

    Phoebe, in the blue, cheap fake-velvet cloak can be seen passing along the sides, hurrying backstage to get into place.

Asariel has posed:
Lasariel reaches into the the inside pocket of the cloak she's wearing and pulls out her phone, making sure that she's not missed any calls or texts. She sends one off to Giovanni to let him know how things are going. Lying to your bodyguard was always the best option. The angelic looking woman gives a smile to someone that asks her if she is alright and she nods, white locks bouncing as she does. Then she's back to waiting.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Was that Laura Tim just spotted? He's not sure, but it did look like her, except for how she was in fancy clothing. That's out of character enough for Tim to suspect it wasn't his Outsiders teammate after all, though he continues to scan the crowd. Unfortunately he can't really make his way over to anyone because most people are doing the reverse; with the last name Wayne attached to him, the upper crust of Gotham are like sharks who've scented blood in the water.

    Thankfully Tim can hold his own. And he has Lonnie whispering things into his ear that seem to continually make Tim struggle to fight back laughter as he smiles and nods at the various inane chatter that gets aimed his way.

Laura Kinney has posed:
There are a whole list of things X-23 is on the watch for. Changes in temperature, especially a decline in a big well lit ballroom filled with people, are on that list. Along with ninjas, cyborgs, demons or other any number of other themed criminal.

Still it could just be the air conditioning playing up.

So rather than immediately drawing a weapon she simply takes a cautious sniff. Her eyes flicking around the room looking for other telltale warning signs.

John Constantine has posed:
    Any drop in temperature is a sure sign, to any practiced mage, that more attention needs paid to things 'other than'. Maybe it's just the air conditioning kicking, but that's generally not John's experience. He takes one step closer to Jon and, again, opens his 'sight' in such a way that it overlays 'other' atop the mundane.

    "Jon, keep eyes peeled for a woman in a red coat," he murmurs ever so quietly. He's suddenly liking this less and less. He shouldn't have allowed it, it's too public, too much risk, too many people to watch at one time. What was he *thinking*. He should have closed the bar and made Chas come too, invited Lydia, Jubilee... fuck, all of them.

    Too late to abort now though, not with all the babbling, and what it referred to, from Galinda.


Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
Cassie LEANS forward, although perhaps adding the ridiculousness of the whole thing is that she's kept her masquerade mask held up (on the little stick!), carefully held in front of her face even as she encroaches on the personal space of the pair she's accosted. There's a sense of intense scrutiny through the eye-holes of the thing, of harsh judgment and perhaps a measure of impending wrath.

But after a moment, she straightens back up.

"Well, yeah, obviously," she concedes to John. "But some people kinda act like that's her SOLE DISTINGUISHING FEATURE, you know? And fake ones just to emphasize..." Though here her mask-covered gaze sweeps back to, uh. Jon? John and Jon? This is bound to get confusing shortly. "Waitwait you were talking about dressing up like her?" Clearly, she only got a tiny piece of this picture, and suddenly she laughs, as she's finally getting the whole thing. "Well then yeah then I guess you might need some to complete the outfit."

Whatever looming wrath seems averted, and she answers Jon's introductions with her own. "Cassie Sandsmark." Which, while she's not precisely famous, MIGHT sort out why exactly she's randomly accosting partygoers to defend Wonder Woman's honor. "Nice t'meecha."

Well, maybe it's a general introduction, extended toward one Sandi Beaches as well, as she joins them. Although that name definitely draws a brief, 'lol really?' expression from Cassie, FORTUNATELY a good portion of it hidden by her mask. "I didn't even know they had Public Relations for fire departments. Anyway do they always crank the AC up in here? I know it's been a warm fall so far, but it's kind of murder in a strapless dress." Evidence of the fact she's not actually used to dressing this way, as well.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks, at 'Chas'. "I'm not--" He sighs. Looks to John. "It was the /tone/, John, you were--"

    Jon stops, and John's tone /now/ makes every line of him stiffen. Without even bothering to apologize to Cassie or Sandi or anyone else, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he opens them, there's a distant look as he scans the crowd.

    Then he closes his eyes again, blinks, shakes his head, scans the crowd again. "Find the girl," he murmurs to John. Fear twists in his gut. "You hear it too?"

        After a moment, "Ms. Beach," he says softly, "I suggest you gather the children in one place. Keep them safe." He looks to Cassie, the /briefest/ of flickers. "Cassie Sandsmark?" There's the /briefest/ hesitation. He's not asking for her autograph just now, that's /silly/. "There may be trouble shortly. Do you have allies in the crowd?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John reaches into one of the inside pockets of his trenchcoat and comes out with the most innocent of things. A large marble, one of the 'shooter' ones in a set and then a second. He presses the things into Jon's hand and says, "You see a woman in a red coat, throw one of these at her. Doesn't have to hit, just get near enough." He doesn't worry about Jon hurting some innocent in a red coat, that thing is only designed to release a blast of Holy Light upon impact.

    And then he's pushing his way through the crowd without a backward glance or apology toward Cassie. <Phoebe!> His voice through the link of that sapphire pendant she should ALWAYS have on her is booming, commanding. <Circle, now... draw one and get inside, don't step out of it until I get to you!> C'mon girl, all that mandala practice, this is where it's put to use. <DO IT *NOW*!>.

    He pauses, his gaze flickering from place to place, spot to spot in the room. To EVERYONE, causing a scene or not, he bellows, "They're summoning something!"

    Then he's just SHOVING his way through the crowd, trying to reach backstage.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    There is a rise in the temperature. Did the moment pass? Or did John scare it away?

    Maybe someone just needed to turn up the heat.

    "Oh, well in Gotham you need PR for everything. I mean, if it wasn't for the Firemen being so ardent about going into certain areas to service those in need of help -- some areas of Gotham would just be burn-outs and shanty towns by now and --" she pauses in her talk to Cassie, and Beach turns to Jon.

    "Wait... you don't think... is someone after the kids?" she whispers quietly, her eyes going wide, and she brings a hand up to her ear. She's wearing an earbud "Security, did we have any breeches? Everyone here is on invite, correct?" she asks, and she frowns a moment, turning away before --

    A woman with a pink pantsuit on the stage taps the microphone.

    "Hello everyone" she calls out, "And welcome to the Gotham City 2021 Fireman's Gala and Orphan's Charity Fund!" she greets. Everyone claps.

    A couple big guys start making their way to Constantine. They look like Security. They've even got the earpieces.

    "I want to take a moment to thank all of you for coming out this evening, it means so much to those who protect us to know that we have their back -- otherwise they'd be 'hosed'! Get it?" she asks. There's some polite laughter.

Laura Kinney has posed:
Laura Kinney sniffs the air a few more times, then bursts into a sprint of her own, heading to the backstage area with no regard for event security.

No weapons drawn as yet. And with her slim build and expensive looking dress she doesn't seem like much of a troublemaker. At least until anyone tries to stop her and finds it far harder to slow her down than expected.

Over an Outsiders team subvocal microphone she murmurs 'Balms bleeding' in the hope at least one of the team has their comms on.

Asariel has posed:
Las just isn't sure what else is going to happen today and the uncertainy shows on her face. She looks down to her phone and sighs softly before she slips it back into her pocket. She heads back down to where the car is waiting to meet her and slips quietly back inside and tells the driver where they were heading.

Tim Drake has posed:
    At this point, Tim is something like halfway across the Hall, having already put down a few outrageous bids on auction items that have been secretly put up by Wayne Enterprises. Basically so that Tim can just donate the money and not actually have to deal with any of the prizes, which are... mostly pretty useless to him. But people expect money to be thrown around, so he's just doing his best to make it as economical as possible. All part of the charade.

    Which means he's far enough away that he only shares a puzzled look with Lonnie behind their masks when someone starts to shout. "Normal Gotham thing or actual serious problem?" Tim asks as he leans in close so they won't be overheard while a socialite and her new girlfriend chatter at them animatedly.

    Tim's still engaged in schmoozing when Laura's voice comes in through the comms, which of course he has discreetly tucked into his ear. He squeezes Lonnie's arm hard and then politely excuses himself and his plus-one from the ongoing conversation, before he starts making his way through the crowd, towards backstage.

    One or two older gentlemen try to stop him, probably to be overly familiar with Tim about one of the various Wayne business enterprises, but Tim just brushes them off. "Phoebe's hurt," he says to Lonnie when they're not surrounded.

John Constantine has posed:
    <Jon, open your bloody EYES, mate. Hot spots, all around the room, under the bar, under tables, disrupt them!> It's painfully clear that he means 'eyes' in a different way than just the opening of 'lids'.

    Those two big guys coming toward him? He'll give *one* warning. "Don't wanna do that, mates, I need to get to my daughter, she's in danger." One warning, snarled out in a definitive 'don't fuck with me' way, a voice that could *only* come from a father terrified for his little girl. Both of his hands are already raised, not for any use of lethal force, but to bat them aside like annoying gnats should the need arise.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "That's-" Lonnie raises his eyebrows, before he puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, "Well," he says, "This is your territory, not mine. Normally I'd be identifying who in this crowd would make a good charity hostage. Line starts with you, by the way." Then he shrugs, "Based on what that guy in the- what he was yelling this sounds like a magick problem, which means we're strictly back-benchers."

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
"Um... yeah there's uh, probably some of my friends around here somewhere?" Cassie answers Jonathan. She's actually not one-hundred percent who is who in all these outfits and who is where in the crowd. And even if so? She can't just yell 'oh yeah Tim is right over there he can totally help you with your SUPER HERO problems.' Sigh. "Why, what's wron-"

Where one Jon ends, the other John picks up, making a scene as he might.

"Summoning who in the what now?" Although Cassie's natural response is to roll her eyes, this is not a dismissal of the warning. It's just that she can rarely enjoy one of these fancy dress parties for what it is, without having to deal with some of this kind of bullshit. Without showing the degree of immediate concern that Constantine does, she nonetheless crouches down and starts hiking up the overly large skirts of her gown. This may be a somewhat inexplicable action at first, but becomes obvious in it's intent when the top of one of her stockings comes into view, held in place not with what might be the costume-appropriate accessory of some kind of lacy garter, but the coils of her lasso, wrapped around her thigh and then secured on some kind of holster worn there. Not like she has a lot of other real estate to work with.

She pulls it loose, and then starts drawing back up, although she doesn't quite burst into action, letting the dudes closing in on Constantine get closer and make clear exactly what the situation is.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon clutches the marble in his palm, scanning the crowd desperately. Red coat, red coat, the source of that drumbeat sound in his head, 'find the girl, find the girl'... "There's a necromancer involved," he says to Cassie. "Everyone's in danger. They're after Phoebe Beacon."

    Then he blinks and his eyes widen. <I don't...>

    But then he /does/. He /Knows/ how to look, he's done it before, he's just always looking for /minds/, not magic. But he's seen magic before, in Constantine's mental wards. He focuses, and without having to close his normal eyes he Looks around the room, and Sees the bright spots. Under the bar, under tables, as Constantine said.

    And then he tosses one of the marbles John gave him at the nearest 'hotspot' that he can see.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The marble disappears; there's no kaboom, but the ambiance in the room gets Holy! People are beginning to clap and wave over the really awful jokes of the MC.

    Curious.

    More people are moving towards the backstage area. Phoebe has not responded via the necklace.

    "And now what you're really here for -- The Orphans!"

    "... thats why the GFD needs PR..."

    "We have a special announcement as we have one of our charges who is aging out of the program, as she turns Eighteen on Valentine's Day."

    Awwww. She purses her lips.

    "This particular member of our Fire Marshal Pals reports that she has dreams of attending the pre-med program at Gotham U, and continuing on through the /prestegious/ medical program there, and is being awarded a scholarship, after completing an alternative-school program, for Twenty Seven THOUSAND dollars!"

    Polite laughter and clapping.

    "But more important, and if you've ever had a teenager, you know this is so hard to say -- she's been adopted! So now, her full name is Phoebe Ameila Beacon-Constantine-Chandler after her new dads! Awwww isn't that the most adorable thing! But what a *mouthful*!"

    Where is the girl. Where is the girl.

    Both the Night Brigade and the Outsiders would hear, or get the sense of <<The kids are safe -- but HE'S HERE!>>

    And as the crowd applauds, a man walks out. His suit is badly fitting and scorched. His face is red and burnt, as if fromt he sun, and he just smells awful.

    Michael "Mickey" Rogers has returned to Gotham. And he's not looking well.

    "... where is the girl? Wh-where is... the mouse... girl..." he snarls, his words slurred.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Sir, you are creating a disturbance --" one of the men states, holding up his hand to John Constantine. "Which of the kids are your daughter? We'll ask the Social Workers to bring them out once you've shown identification." one states, and the other nods, but looks ike he's ready to grab John and sling him out. After all, he's not wearing a tuxedo. How important could he be?

John Constantine has posed:
    The announcement from the stage just causes John to catch that bottom lip between his teeth, give that little tilted shake of his head, roll his shoulders and .,.. shows those two guards his 'identification'.

    ...that is to say, a blast of force just enough to blow them backwards, perhaps into tables or a wall, but not quite enough to *kill* - hopefully, springs from those already raised hands of is. "I'm John Fucking Constantine, you gits and my *daughter* is in *danger*." He said *one* warning, they didn't heed it.

    That one warning extends to anything else that gets in his way, but he's not just heading 'backstage', no he's hopping a Wave, he's not relying on his 'last known whereabouts' of his kid, he's letting Synchronicity guide him straight to her in the quickest way possible. Following hunches and nudges, even if the quickest way is *through a bloody wall*, he'll take it.

    <Say it Phoebe, find me.> Because if the girl touches that necklace, speaks those words in Latin and he can pinpoint her *exactly*, he can just teleport there, but for now... he rides a Wave.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
The process of retrieving the lasso earns an odd look or two, but as far as making a scene goes, Constantine is still on top, drawing the majority of the stuffy 'My word!' and 'I never!'s (especially as he moves on from just confronting security to blasting them across the room). Cassie has to make do with a single disapproving matron glaring at her, and a trophy wife staring daggers as she catches her husband sneaking a look. "Yeah, -I'm- the one to blame in this situatiom," she grumbles with another eye-roll.

Until this point, she's been poised but not quite at the 'leaping into action' stage, but things get chaotic fast. Mostly there's a lot of screaming and shouting over Constantine's display, but she does spot the dude up on stage. "Oh, THIS guy."

It's probably no surprise, that if she's willing to yell at random people at a party over half-overheard references to Wonder Woman cosplay, that kidnapping friends and slandering the Amazons as human sacrificing witches puts him high on the shitlist.

"HEY DUMBASS!"

Yep. Forget subtlety, forget tut-tutting socialites. Suddenly, Cassie is airborn, gown and all, and heading for the stage. While STILL holding up her mask-on-a-stick in one hand, she's twirling the lasso in the other, before tossing the loop in his direction.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns as the marble disappears, then visibly relaxes at 'the kids are safe' but then... well... there's someone in badly-fitting suit, scorched, face red and burnt. He doesn't recognize the face, but that's it, that's the drumbeat he was hearing, coming out of the mouth of that man who looks like he's death walking. He's after Phoebe. He has to be. And if he's not, well... he's probably trouble regardless.

    So he takes a few long-legged strides toward Mickey Rogers. As Cassie jumps for the man, the Archivist throws the other marble imbued with Holy Light at him, praying to Thoth and--no, to /Ra/, to the /sun/, to the Holy Light--to make it /work/ this time. Please, /gods/, let it /work/ before anyone else gets hurt.

Tim Drake has posed:
    All hell breaks loose long before Tim has managed to get himself and Lonnie through the crowd to the backstage area. The announcements being made mostly flow in through one ear and out the other as Tim moves, but then he nearly stumbles right into some stuffy politician when Mickey Rogers arrives.

    "How is he--"

    Before Tim even gets the words out all the way, Cassie's there. Wait, Cassie's here? This is the unfortunate sort of side-effect to being a Wayne. It's very hard to keep a good eye on everything going on when you're continually being bombarded with people trying to get your attention. Bruce manages it, somehow, but it's not a skill Tim has mastered just yet.

    But, okay. That's at least one thing Tim doesn't have to worry about. And she's got her lasso, too, which only further weights the scales in Cassie's favor.

    So instead Tim pushes on, taking advantage of the chaos to hopefully avoid getting stopped by security.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The temperature rises again.

    John is permitted backstage -- the manager doesn't want to be blasted! Tim Wayne and Tim Curry (Err... Cardinal Richelieu) are permitted backstage.

    The area where the kids were has been abandoned. The TV stand that was playing paw patrol has been knocked over and is sparking. Someone's left a panda head, and there is a minor area that might have been on fire.

    John might be pleased to see that there was a protective circle, etched perfectly, into the tile of backstage, where some of the lights are beginning to flicker out, as if exhausted. There are nore 'hot spots' here -- and John would recognize the 'witch bottles' set up with steel and rags soaked in blood.

    , and then perhaps the most awful thing. There is a big body, with a skin fitted too tightly to it, exposing its eyes and its teeth in an awful grimmace as it confronts the three treading backstage!

    Phoebe's Beacon dings, both the one on her phone, and the sapphire amulet. Find Me.

    She's to the left, between this Grotesque and the one on stage!

    The marble imbued with Holy Light and the light of the Lasso catch the creature on stage. It snarls, howling in protest and pain, burning a little as its skin begins to slough off.

     -- and the creature on the stage begins to grow. The skin had been covering a blackened carapace that is now shining, wings beeting, buzzing, and jewlish tones beneath as it grows, like larvae splitting out of its coccoon.

    "GIRL! MOUSE! PEMMMMUUUUU!" the beetle-like creature howls, and grabbing at the lasso attempts to swing Wonder Girl into Jon of Arc!!

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The man in red looks up at the creature with its skin stretched too tightly over his face, and he says, "Jesus Christ, Joan Rivers would've told you to dial back the plastic surgery, dude." A little packet drops from Lonnie's wrist into his hand, and he crushes it - white smoke billows from his hand and obscures the monster's view. "Pop culture references are twee and best avoided, but as Doktor Krieger said-"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Not *today* motherfuckers," John hisses under his breath. Nononono, he's dicked around enough with this bullshit and now there's something standing between him and his kid?

    There's no warning, his eyes flare bright with rage and Hellfire, but it isn't Hellfire that is suddenly engulfing his hands, it's just *fire*, between the two, it's the latter that's actually more effective at cleansing away evil. When he throws his hands forward, it's a focused attack that packs just about the mightiest punch he's ever thrown. As soon as he lets it go, he mutters, under his breath in Latin... something about a ring of fire, trappings, blah blah. That thing will find itself encircled by just that, a ring of fire from floor to ceiling, a cage of flames that won't extend past what they are, won't burn anything but scorch the floor and ceiling where they touch.

    <Stay calm, love. Remember the things you've been taught, remember the things I've shown you, the things you've done by my side. I'm coming.>

    He's anything but calm himself, his *rage* is near palpable. ...and beneath it, his fear.

    He turns left.

    <Jon, *stop* that thing.>

Tim Drake has posed:
    Out from the scabbard at Tim's hip comes, yep, an actual sword. No one tell Damian that Tim absolutely lifted something from his collection--which means it's a real sword that's been recently sharpened and is precisely weighted for combat. And, okay, sure, swords aren't Tim's general weapon of choice, but he at least knows the pointy end goes in the bad guys.

    He clutches his phone in his other hand, where it tracks the location of his team via GPS. "Phoebe!" he calls out, eyes rapidly moving back and forth until he spots... well, Tim isn't sure what that is. Besides probably evil. Lonnie creates a barrier of smoke between them and it, which Tim takes as an opportunity to dash past, phone held up so that he can more easily follow where it's leading him. The lights flash off of the rapier that he'd honestly only picked because it suited the theme... but he's a rich kid. No doubt he took fencing.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
While the visual is similar, Cassie's tools are not identical to those of her mentor. One of them is a loving paragon of honesty and wisdom, wielding truth itself as a light against the darkness.

The other is a zoomer with a temper. And she wields... something else.

Somewhat like with John earlier, there is a threat here, both implied and explicit. When you get snagged, you either give up like a good criminal and cease your struggles, or (more likely, if we're being honest!) you do something like this and you risk the consequences. Thus as the lasso finds a target and starts to tighten, Cassie gives the briefest warning: "You don't wanna struggle, pal, now let's-"

Obviously, it doesnt' go that easy. It never goes that easy.

As soon as the man starts to transform, becoming something other than just that human form, Cassie delivers on her threat. Well, she summons the will to do so, even as the giant beetle monster suddenly jerks about with impressive strength. She's not well-balanced in the air, and holding the lasso one armed (and STILL the mask in the other!), so she's whipped out of her hovering position and down toward the would-be cosplayer.

Yet even as she sails through the air toward an impact, her will manifests in the other half of that threat, and the golden length of rope suddenly electrifies, divine lightning coursing down its length. It's no danger to the young woman gripping it (and thus fortunately doesn't conduct through her as she inevitably WHUMPHS into Jon), but menacing to the beetle-man still trapped in its loop.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    One of the benefits of doing residency in a psych ward is that you get crisis response training; even if he's a newbie superhero, the Archivist knows how to shut off his fear and deal with... well, maybe not giant beetles throwing Amazons at him, but is that really /that/ much different than a big guy who's been given the wrong cocktail of medications throwing an orderly into you?

    It very much is, but they both /hurt/.

    "Bloody /hell/!" he shouts as Cassie crashes into him, knocking him to the ground. For a moment he's got the wind knocked out of him, and his vision goes all cross-eyed.

    Then the adrenaline kicks in. He mentally shouts, <On it! With Amazon backup!> as he's pulling himself up to at least hands and knees. After a moment's thought, he stays that way, takes in a deep breath. "EVERYBODY OUT!" he shouts, in a voice trained for the theatre, consciously forcing some telepathic 'oomph' into it to compel the lookie-loos into /getting the hell out of the way./

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
<I'm calm. I am so amazingly calm. So totally zen. All the kids got out. My friend Laura is taking care of them and can match them to parents.> comes Phoebe over the Night Brigade line.

    <Found a vent; coming out of the ceiling.>

    And as the paths for Tim Drake, Lonnie Machin and John Constantine meet up near the stage, there's a THWACK. CRACK. SNAP!

    A vent pops open.

    And a very dusty Princess Serenity from Sailor Moon, complete with ankle-length pigtails made up of thiny, thin, white-gold braids and odango, and what was probably a very nice dress with a butterfly-like bow on the back before it got into the vents drops down, and Phoebe looks... surprisingly zen. MInus the whole panicked flush and quivering lip.

    "... this was supposed to be the one that went right." she whispers quietly.

    The creature captured in the fire cage gives a righteous howl, stumbling back up to its feet, and trying to penetrate out of its bindings.

    A bottle shatters nearby them. Another creature begins to form, slowly, rising up like some sort of Halloween inflatable, its skin getting too big for it before it's ready, drooping off of the creature like a kid wearing his dad's suitcoat.

    Outside the backstage, Wonder Girl and Jon are squaring off against the Scarab.

    After its cries for the girl, for the mouse -- for Pemu, just... another word meaning 'Mouse', it begins to babble, its words echoing, contradictory. Pleading -- Get Me Out. GET ME OUT. Please Get Me out!

        FIND THE GIRL! Destroy the protectors! RIP TO SHREDS!

            DESTROY. DEVOUR. FEED. RENDER. TEAR, everything coming in an archaic version of Egyptian. The creature attempts to dive for Cassie and catch her between its mandables, the sharp chiton snapping!

    Jon, meanwhile, gets going. At his influence, finally even those who didn not beleive this was any more dangerous than being near a railing in a windstorm decided that perhaps it would be better to dine at home tonight.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    When the smokebomb clears, Lonnie is gone. Where did he go? It is a MYSTERY.

John Constantine has posed:
    John immediately, and wordlessly, reaches out to jerk Phoebe closer to him, putting himself between her and whatever's rising from that bottle. "The bottles, get them away from here! She's using them to send 'backup'!" Destroy them, he's not entirely sure that wouldn't just bring them all through at once. But taking them *away*, will that draw it all *away*.

    <Jon! You know the spell I used to free the souls from things like this. I told Gertie the story, find it, *use* it.>>

    But there's still the one rising to deal with, innit so.

    "Do not use your light, girl," he murmurs, afraid it'll just draw more Bad Stuff in their direction. "Keep it hidden."

    When he squares off against the newest threat, it's a chanting that starts rather than instant flame. Phoebe's heard the words before, the words to trace magic back, turn it back... turn what's being done around and inside out. Here's to hoping he can pull it off before that genie gets too far out of the bottle.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
"Oof. Hey, sorry about that."

After her human-cushioned crash landing, Cassie spends a moment pulling herself up, and as she does, the elecrifying effect along the lasso fades. It's a thing of the gods, and its use thus a matter of will (or even more accurately, of anger), not a simple tool to be turned on and off with a switch. So while she manages to get that first zap off before she's flung down, the lasso becomes 'mere' rope again in her hands as she spends a moment gathering her wits. She looks aside to make sure that Jonathan is alright, but he's clearly already in action working on the evacuation, and so she turns her attention back toward the stage...

...only to find that the beetle monster has helpfully closed the distance. Well, maybe not so helpfully.

"Ugh what kind of dumb crap is this, when'd we switch genres to the Mummy?" She does not actually speak archaic Egyptian, but the archeologist's daughter has hodge podge amateur familiarity with just about every sort of ancient culture she's ever been dragged along to a dig for.

But, let's focus on the biting, maybe! While she was able to get the lasso, Cassie's NOT wearing her bracers (they didn't /match/ the fancy gown!), so she has to check the immediate impulse to block the closing mandibles with her wrists. Because she needs her wrists. Instead, she goes with pure Amazon technique, rolling aside in the moment before the vicious biting things come down.

Once back on her feet (easy when you have both Amazon martial arts AND flight), she responds by punching the bug square in the side of the head. Maybe this will work. Maybe it's shell is super strong and it's a terrible idea. That is a step further than she's thinking ahead in the moment!

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist /stares/ at the beetle as it chitters, rising only to his knees. He understands every word. He understands. /He understands/.

    "There are /people/ in there," he says, his voice sounding disgusted. "/Children/." He shakes a little. He looks like he might throw up.

    <I... do? I...> He hesitates for just a moment. And then, firmly, <I don't need the spell. This is /isfet./ It is wrong in the eyes of the gods.>

    He pulls himself up, to stand at his full height. Raises his left hand, holds it out pointed at the scarab. It's deliberate, this time, the way he pulls in the retribution of the Ennead. "Osiris! Ruler of the dead, lord of silence, to whom all souls judged worthy are sent! Destroy this foul creature and release the innocents trapped within!"

    The beam that shoots from his hand this time is sunlight, slamming into the scarab. It's very definitely pointed at a part of the thing Cassie is /not/ punching.

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's instinctive. Before Phoebe even says the word vent, Tim's chin is tilting upwards, and he scans the ceiling with narrowed eyes behind the vague disguise provided by his mask. It isn't until she drops down and Tim immediately slides into a defensive stance, placing himself at her side, that he realizes he's lost his plus-one.

    No time for that. Lonnie is resourceful. Too resourceful, in fact. If Tim could stop to worry about it, right now, he'd be more worried about what Lonnie was getting himself up to than if Lonnie was in trouble.

    But he can't! "I'm sorry, Pheebs," he says, voice dropped low in sympathy, but then something breaks nearby and Tim spins on his heel to face it. Behind the mask his eyes narrow, focusing on the remnants of the bottle below it. Right. Most of the magic stuff is beyond him, but Tim isn't going to stand around and do nothing. He darts forward, past the creature growing from the bottle, and sidesteps it with a fencer's grace (rich boy after-school hobby confirmed) as he drives the point of his rapier into it.

    Then he withdraws out of its range, and as Tim moves he swaps the sword into his off-hand just before he ducks down, picks up another one of those bottles, and without losing any of his momentum, chucks it as far as he can throw. Away from Phoebe.

    Sure, it's no batarang, but Tim's got a hell of a pitching arm. And it's a bottle. It's not like he's dating an anarchist with a penchant for throwing molotovs or anything!

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe is pulled behind John, and she doesn't make complaint, pushing her feet more firmly into her shoes, and she looks to Tim.

    "It's not your fault," Phoebe gives a slight smile, though who that's intended to can be questionable, "we'll find some way to make it up, go break the bottles. It'll disrupt the circut and hopefully make the spellwork inert, like putting an interrupt in the electrical."

    Phoebe explains it, or tries to, in simplified electrical terms. She stays behind Constantine, both to watch his back and so he can watch hers, and she reaches beneath the skirt of her dress to her garter (INCREDIBLY unladylike) and pulls out her extending staff. She can't use her light, but she can still hit stuff!

    John would be watching as the bottle manifests... another Mickey Rogers, its skin still too loose for it, the magic tracing back -- to another bottle. And more bottles. Sequential and fallbacks. The creature gives a dull, yawning roar of a sound, and reaches out to try and grab John to interrupt his casting!

    The giant beetle's mandables clench down tightly on Wonder Girl, and it gives a low grrrooowl as it begins to get punched. The shell is quite strong, but the carapace does crack!

    And with that crack, Jon is able to cast. Osiris, apparntly, REALLY does not approve. That crack widens, and out of the crack comes smokey, gray whisps.

    At first it's quiet... too quiet.

    And the bottles under the tables, the 'hot spots', start to crack and break open. One breaks open -- and then EXPLODES when the marble reactivates with the release of a holding spell! A table is flipped in the air, and beef canapes with the hot horseradish sauce goes EVERYWHERE.

    The broken bottle Tim lobs has scraps of cloth dripped in blood, a poppet, and nails in it, along with sand and straw and bits of hair. It makes a mess as red liquid oozes on the floor.

John Constantine has posed:
    With Phoebe behind him, John presses back, pushing her along as well, trying to stay out of reach of that thing so he can keep the spell going uninterrupted. His chanting increases in volume, enough that everyone can hear that it's not Latin, it's not even any form of Egyptian, no... it's Haitian Creole, the magic he's using to try and turn the tides back toward Leksandria, it isn't dark, it's light as the noonday sun...

    It pays to have frenemies in low places that owe favors. It particularly pays when one of them is the *expert* on the inner workings of Necromancy and how to combat it. It really pays when that frenemy happens to be on the same page about an issue. Using the one's family, one's ancestors in such a way is Not Cool. Not even in the eyes of Papa Midnite, or maybe especially in his eyes?

    The words come faster, more intense, louder, a crescendo. He keeps moving back, back... stay out of reach, finish the spell. The spell that should *undo* what's being done, but should also send the backlash of tenfold to the original caster.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
Ending up playing tank for a giant monster while your choice of archers, techn geniuses, or in this case weird magic people do their stuff is... not wholly a new experience for Cassie. It would be nice if she WASN'T so familiar with the concept of getting knocked around while your teamates do their thing, but when your typical set of talents involve blocking bullets and generally being tough and smashy... well, it is what it is.

So Cassie plays main tank. Or maybe 'giant bug rodeo.'

It whirls and snaps at her again as she pummels it, enclosing her with those big chompers on the second try, and she only manages to avoid being too readily chopped in half by reaching around to catch the mandibles from the outside and using her not-inconsiderable strength to hold them from fully enclosing on her. And while this occupies her hands, Amazon MMA is a rather flexible thing, and she switches from punching it to kneeing it instead. Every impact causes a bit of a satisfying crunch against the hard but seemingly not-invincible carapace, and that's enough for her. Smash, smash, crack, crack.

As this is happening, Jonathan focuses his spell, and she can see that it starts to have effect, something seeping out of the increasingly cracked shell. "How long is this gonna-"

Finally, she sees a moment where the creature's grip falters just enough, and she takes it to push the mandibles open and then quickly fly upward before they can snap closed again. She doesn't stay up in the air long though, almost immediately reversing the motion into a powerful dive right back at it. She folds her body as she drops, and uses an elbow this time, minimizing the point of impact to maximize the force, to hopefully put one last big crack in the thing. "Incoming!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist staggers back, almost as if his whole body is taking the recoil from that blast he sent out. One step, two steps, and then he stumbles backward into the table that the marble flipped. He's not the most, err, physical person.

    Jon slips and winds up on the ground, dazed, staring at the wisps. He smiles brightly. "It worked. It actually /worked/!" He laughs, a little wildly. "It freed the souls!" he explains. If that wasn't enough to get rid of the scarab, he'll have to use John's spell after all.

    So he goes looking, while Cassie's doing flying suplexes onto the scarab, just in case he needs to bring any /actual/ magic to bear. A thing he has never done of his accord, but the memory is there and he has the will if he can just figure it all out. And if it's not needed? Well, then he's got it queued up for next time.

    It's a mark of how much his life's changed in the last month that he now just assumes there'll be a 'next time.'

    "Need one more hit?" he shouts at Cassie. Teamwork includes communication, Jon.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "We'll get that dress to Alfred later. There isn't a stain in this world that can withstand him." There's no time for anything else to be said, so Tim just gives a sharp nod at Phoebe when she passes along her instructions regarding the bottles.

    Destroying things is not often something Tim does, and as it turns out, it's incredibly cathartic. The next one Tim finds, he kicks at a nearby wall with his very expensive dress boots. Another gets lobbed up into the air so that he can smash it with a flick of his wrist, the rapier doing an excellent job as a makeshift baseball bat--handy that he's been hitting the batting cages lately--and then another he picks up and, like the first one, he yeets it as hard and as far as he can.

    Away. Just, away.

    His ongoing search gets him back out from behind the stage and nearly in the way of the wrestling match Cassie is currently engaged in. Wonder Girl VERSUS oh my god is that a giant bug?

    Thankfully he's run into spiders of an unusual size recently (even though he's quite well aware spiders aren't bugs, they're arachnids) so that despite the level of physical revulsion Tim is feeling right now, he's not actually distracted. "Hey, uh." He pauses for a second or two, just long enough for his brain to put some context clues together. "Thoth Dad!"

    Look, that's the name Tim knows.

    "The bottles need to be destroyed--just smash them! There are more of those things growing back here!" The technical term is probably summoned, but Tim doesn't know that.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Probably especially in the eyes of Papa Midnite, using ones own family in destructive, disrespectful manners was an affront to all who would use magic. Even dark magic. Phoebe moves forward, and as John casts in Creole (Creole... it's a Sultans of Swing reference folks), keeping to his back and guiding him around shattered glass and TV parts. "SO I know this is

    More glass breaks. How many bottles did they store? Who could have transported these all?!

    The creature facing off against John, its skin far too loose for its form properly. An imperfect, necromantic clone of Mickey Rogers reaches out again, its eyes almost pleading, but not quite the right color, and it's destroyed, the dark magic sent back to its creator.

    The souls in the scarab of unusual size are freed by the combined effort of Cassie Sandstank cracking open an Old One for the Boys. Behind them, the temperature starts to increase faster. It's nearly eighty degrees.

    YEET. YEETED. KOBE. BROKE'D. Bottles get smashed, and someone is dealing with a hell of the headache of sudden pain from her magical workings coming back against her.

    The unbroken bottles all begin to burst at the same time. There is a dignificant amount of magical current in the air -- it's almost like the equivilent of sticking a nine-volt on your tongue, except it's beginning to grate against some spirits as the sand and blood poppets all begin to coagulate together in the main hall.

John Constantine has posed:
    He risks a peek outside and bellows, "Don't let it come together!"

    There are reasons other than ... it's a security blanket, that John Constantine wears that ugly ass coat *everywhere*. It has pockets, it has lots of pockets, some are deep, some not so much, some might even be... deeper than humanly possible? If the latter is true, it's not where the can of spray paint comes from. That's just an inside pocket.

    It's quick and dirty, but John's done this so many times that even a quick and dirty circle of protection laid by him is an eloquent, artful thing. It takes no time at all for him to make one just big enough for Phoebe to stand at its center and stretch out her arms without crossing the thing.

    He physically moves her inside it, stoops, touches the drying paint with his fingertips and whispers an incantation that sets the thing to life. John is, very likely, only still alive thanks to sheer stubbornness and spite, sheer *will*. And it's that will he pours into that circle, the design another given him by the Master of Necromancy.

    <I can't leave her side, Jon, you need to deal with that... stop it from pulling together.>

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
Cassie lands on her target with a satisfying enough CRACK, and then somewhat at reflex flies back to a little bit more of a distance. Sometimes magic things explode when they get smashed, or their eldritch wahtevers unwoven, or whatever it is that is happening here! She can see the stuff steaming out of it, but it's not entirely clear if this is a victory.

Which also means that Jonathan's question is equally a question mark to her. "I dunno? Is it dead? Defeated? Banished? What's happening, even? I am totally down to keep smashing it all day until we got bug paste, but I'm not really sure what the objective is."

Which means that it is also convenient that Tim makes an appearance, providing some useful context. Well, except 'Thoth dad.' That causes her to look at magic-guy curiously, like she's double-checking if this is actually directed at him or what.

BUT!

Tim told them that there are bottles that need smashing, and smashing is something she can handle.

"Let's smash, then!" ... "Uh, you know what i meant! Thoth dad, you want a ride?"

Suddenly, she's zooming in flight, looping around to snag up Jon #1 on the way toward the back to get to whatever SMASHING needs to occur.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    For a moment, Jon is not the Archivist. For a moment, he's just Jonathan Sims, psychiatrist to superheroes and first responders, who's used to /hearing/ about this stuff but not /living/ it. And some kid he doesn't know dressed up as a Musketeer just called him 'Thoth Dad.'

    "...What?" He stares at Tim for a long moment, blinking owlishly. "I... mean that's not inaccurate, but..."

    Wonder Girl cracks the scarab open like a pinata, and then /all/ the bottles are bursting, and Jon--the Archivist--struggles to his feet just in time to get yanked into the air by Cassie.

    <We're on it, John. Same spell you suggested before, or a different one? I'm not certain I can bring down any more divine judgement today lest I burst a blood vessel in my brain.>

    Out loud, to Cassie and Tim, he says, "We have to stop it pulling together. Pull the fire alarm maybe?" This isn't his forte. Shit.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's still reigning down destruction on any bottle he can find. Well, that one was definitely just champagne, and he tries his best not to think about how much it was probably worth. Maybe Lonnie had a point about the catering costs. Oh well.

    But he's only one guy, and he certainly hasn't been able to find them all, so now they have to deal with whatever's going to come out of those remaining. And Tim has... a sword.

    A pointy sword meant for thrusting rather than slashing, which would at least be more aligned with his prefered combat style.

    "Ironic," is all Tim says to Jonathan as he calls for the fire alarm. Because, well. They're standing in the Fireman's Hall. But he's already on his phone, which has of course been linked up with the building's various systems this entire time. Surveillance, security... sprinklers. Tim taps through a few screens, bypassing the alarm--best not to call in first responders until this situation is handled--before he hits the toggle for the sprinkler valves to open.

    Then he tucks his phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket, where it'll get soaked regardless, and readjusts the grip on his sword. "What I wouldn't give for some magic missiles," he mutters.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe is clearly unnerved now. She feels it grating against her, the strangeness of the circle.

    "John..." she whispers, and she draws down, coming eye-to-eye with Constantine. Her callused fingers, skin worn from staffwork and sewing and all the gardening she has ever done, touch against his hand and then -- the sprinklers come on.

    Everything around them is doused in water. Phoebe and her extensions and the white dress.

    The linnens. The canapes. The standing drinks. The whole thing gets doused from the obviously up-to-code and VERY efficient sprinkler system.

    And the sand turns to mud, and the blood drips... and begins to absorb into the linens. The linens begin to pull from tables, and the creature begins to form.

    It's huge, its form easily filling half the hall. Its carapace is blood red and soaked and shining, its mandables made from teeth and bone, jutting ribcages and broken femurs. Its eyes were dead and empy, grinning skulls, and along its back, heads begin to form. Mickey Rogers heads, all crying out in pain. They're calling out PHOEBE, HELP US. PHOEBE. FREE US. A chorus of pleading men in inhuman amounts of pain, reducing to screaming as the water pours, the alarms sound around them.

    The scorpion's form sprouts three tails, each tipped with a stinger that is dripping venom. Any place the venom falls, hisses as it corodes through the floor.

    Whatever happened to Mickey Rogers, he's long dead now.

John Constantine has posed:
    It's a good thing that paint is really quick drying. Washing away that circle would make for an Unhappy Constantine. Here's to hoping it holds.

    "Bloody fuckin' Hell," John snarls out, frustration, rage, fear... all of it in that one growl. No it's not the same spell, creepy crawling coalescing crap is a NEW aspect to all of this.

    <Trade me places!>

    "You stay *right* here." Phoebe knows him, knows that snarl still present in his voice isn't aimed at *her*, but the *firmness* of an order from 'Dad' is definitely there. "You don't let a fuckin' pinky toe within an *inch* of this circle's edge. Do you understand me?" Even as he's speaking, he stoops again. This time, he puts his finger in his mouth and bites a chunk of his own flesh off to spill blood, blood he uses to add to the power of that circle with a touch and a whisper. He spits that bit of his fingertip into a handkerchief pulled from a pocket before straightening once more. Man isn't dumb enough to just leave tiny chunks of himself laying around.

    But when... the plan to keep it from coming together fails. John takes a breath. He stands and steps inside that circle with his daughter. Another whipser of a word as he takes her hand his deactivates the ward he tattooed on her wrist only, a month ago? Not even that long? If feels longer than that. John's grip on Phoebe's hand is tight, so tight. She'll feel it when he starts pulling on that light inside her, pulling it into himself to channel it *through* himself. He raises his other hand and what comes from it, what pours from it and down toward that three tailed monstrosity from above? It isn't Hellfire at all, it's *Soulfire*. The stuff of the Heavens.

    He lets out a defiant scream of a sound and bellows, "You can't have her!" ...even as blisters appear on his own skin. Phoebe's Holy and John's demon blood are a bit like oil and water, they don't mix.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
"Pull a fire alarm -maybe-?" Cassie echoes after Jonathan, with heavy emphasis on the last. "You've got a way better handle on what's going on here than any of us I'm pretty sure, so how about less 'maybe' and just tell us what we need to do!" It's not exactly angry, although there's a sense of frustration in her tone, no doubt fueled by their lack of control over the situation.

That being said, apparently Tim HAS gone and 'pulled' the fire alarm. Or at least turned on the water works. Which promptly start to do a real number water logging her gown. "Ugh."

Also? IT DOESN't SEEM TO HELP.

"Uh so.... is that what was supposed to happen?" she wonders, nodding in the direction of the giant towering bone-scorpion-whatever. She dips by the stage, drops off her human cargo. Becaaaaauuuuse....

1) It looks like it's back to tanking while the magicians derp around. And 2) she's gonna need the maneuverability.

rHanging midair, Cassie tilts her head, giving her neck a preparatory CRACK, and starts portioning out the lasso from one hand to the other. This creature definitely looks a bit more serious business, compared to the last one. "Seriously, if you guys are gonna do some magic thing to fix this, any time now-"

And with that, she charges right back in, her expression now far more determined and serious. The beetle guy? Maybe not the scariest thing, on the scale of crap she's had to deal with in her short career. But that was, apparently, not even its final form. And version 2 looks pretty scary.

As she flies in, there's a definite plan in the work: wait for the tail (s), evade, and get the lasso around one. Control the most dangerous weapons.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Oh for /fuck's/ sake!" Jon shouts on seeing the thing forming. "I /had/ the magic missile, but I used my damn spell slots on the scarab thing! I'm /new/ to this! Literally /three weeks in/ okay?! I'm first fucking level, give me a break!"

    Oh. Oh /that's/ why superheroes quip. It helps with the terror and the anxiety. He's going to remember that.

    <John you IDIOT that's going to kill you!!> He's desperately searching through the Archive's memories of Constantine's life, trying to find /something/ that will help against this thing.

    "Eletricity will disrupt the energy, or cut off the heads on the back!" That last is to Tim.

    As for the Archivist? He finally finds the right memory, it's actually his own. Lightning crackles over his left hand. It's a terrible idea, with the water, what /choice/ do that have? The only other option is one he'd never take. It's /not/ getting Phoebe.

    So, evidently, he has an extra spell slot to cast Lightning Bolt at the scorpion. Hurrah for mid-session upgrades? A lash of lightning whips out to try to grab one of the scorpion's tails, one of the ones Cassie's not going for.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There really are no words to express how much Tim would like to not be looking up at a writhing mass of flesh that is swiftly ballooning upwards to fill half the room. And yet here he is, getting doused by the sprinklers in a tailored suit that makes it difficult to maneuver in, wearing dress boots that aren't made for walking on slippery surfaces, and without just about all of his equipment.

    "This is building up to a point where it pops and it's all over, right?" Tim calls out on the heels of Cassie's Press X to Doubt, looking on dubiously as the monster's form continues to grow and dwarf him in size rapidly.

    Though Thoth Dad's cry about magic missile has him snorting. "Well it's not like we can take a long rest right now!"

    Tim strips out of his jacket-slash-tabard and cuffs up his sleeves quickly. Right. Cassie goes diving in with her lasso, Jon strikes out with a burst of lightning, and Tim is right there along with them, vaulting over tables and chairs as he runs around the creature's massive bulk. The water droplets from the sprinklers overhead splash against him as he takes a running leap towards a buffet table, then from there he launches himself into the air.

    The rapier makes a terrible slashing weapon but Tim doesn't even bother with that, he just throws it like a spear at one of the aformentioned heads on the back of the creature.

    When he lands it's with a heavy thud, and Tim barely manages to convert his momentum into a roll instead of faceplanting. The ground's slippery.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    That is EXACTLY why heroes quip. They're all just anxious little balls of worry about each other. The Scorpion creature, however, continues its litany of pleading for Phoebe to free it, its eyes unseeing as the multitude of heads turn and crack necks. A couple of them go limp. The whole of the creature shutters and its mouth emits a scream that sounds like the crushing of a metal ship, metal grinding on wet metal and echoing in darkness.

    Phoebe, meanwhile, was terrified. Two of her Outsiders were out there. Without her. John just deactivated the ward on her wrist, and now she was glowing again. She could feel the thing so much more strongly, grinding against her aura as John pulled on her light. She felt tears at the corners of her eyes. Tim on the rooftop. Cassie rescuing Scout from the fire. John's vicious grin when she learned how to separate her healing on the fly on the floor of the Laughing Magician -- after almost killing him. Jon saying she had the choice.

    And though it hurts, and it hurts so much, her head pounding and chest constricting as the temperaure continued to climb, but she shivvered in the wet dress, and she winces out <I can't... let it kill you. I've got you.>

    The trio of tails try to strike at Cassie, one after the other, trying to pluck her out of mid-air as it screams. The lasso does grip around one, causing the other two to pull bacna dn try and break at the rope that's binding it!r

    Jon's electrical stroke hits true. The massive scprion with its thirty-foot reach gives a loud, low hiss as it gets shocked, and it turns, trying to sink its claws into Jon's form as it tries to go forward -- and Tim strikes true, with the thrown rapier. IT strikes one of Mickey Rogers's stupid heads, and it ceases to scream. All the other ones start crying and wailing.

    The soulfire lights up the room around them; striking Cassie, Tim or Jon it feels tingly and cool -- like Phoebe's healing.

    Striking the Scorpion is something different though. It cries out, screaming. Its voices change.

    Mickey Smith. It imitates Conner. It imitates Tim's voice. Crying out. Begging for help.

    Bart.

    And John Constantine would recognize the voice of Paisi.

    Caroline Beacon, Phoebe's adoptive mother.
    The thing uses Chas's voice.

    And finally, an unknown male's voice, ripped from across yesteryears

    Phoebe can't take it. She can hear them all, she cuts the connection and the rain of fire ends as she chokes out "DAD!", and she bolts towards the main room as the brilliant fire ebbs.

John Constantine has posed:
    It could, kill him that is, if John does it for too long. Is it a risk he's willing to sake for the girl whose hand he grips so tightly in his own right now? Absolutely. This is some eleventh hour shite right here, not a time to be squeamish about self-sacrifice. And he's pretty sure Jon would do the *same* thing if situations were reversed, so he doesn't even bother to comment.

    Skin blistered and bubbling, all nasty like the worst sunburn ever, the sort where the skin sloughs off in yellow chunks after the blister's pop, John's eyes go wide when Phoebe pulls away from him. "Nooooo!" he screams, "Stop right now, young lady!" Isn't that what dad's are supposed to say? Even as he's screaming, he's after her. With the same spell he used just a few nights back to stop Jon, he lashes out with a thin rope of energy, snapping it forward like a whip to wrap around Phoebe's waist in an attempt to jerk her back once it has her, before it's too late.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
It's impossible not to see that Cassie's approach has changed, her effort redoubled. That she's gotten /serious/. She's faster as she flies in, and there's a brutal Amazon efficiency to the pattern of her movements, to the precise execution of a tactical plan of action that solidified in her mind mere moments earlier. The stinger comes for her, but she's ready, and if anything, the speed of her approach is still restrained, to give the creature a false sense of her movement, before she burts into an even faster pattern of evasion, weaving between the multiple tails. One to the left, the right, and then she lets the last deadly barb go under her, rolls over, and drops the lasso from above, tightening it just below the base of the stinger.

"Gotcha." One of the other tails tries to break it, but finds it every bit as indestructible as Diana's less zappy version. "L-O-L dude, nice try." Moments later, her looping flight uses the rest of the lasso to encircle the other two, binding all three tails together.

And while she has given Jonathan a bit of 'the business,' she's clearly still following his lead, listening for whatever advice the 'magic dudes' might have on this subject. And wouldn't you know?

"Electricity, you say? Well gee. Be a real shame if a certain scion of Olympus had her dad's signature weapon on speed-dial." Via her half-brother, but she doesn't usually bring that up. "Oh wait, I TOTALLY do."

And this time, it's not the taser setting. Above them, outside the Firehouse, the heavens briefly tremble, and inside they'll hear the roar of thunder that announces the delivery of the stroke of lightning a fraction of a second after it's visible arrival. The lasso lights up, and stays that way, lightning crackling, dancing on its surface with searing, destructive heat.

"That's creepy as fuck," she says of the copycat voices, but it doesn't change the equation, doesn't fool her in the least bit. And since she has no clue what will prove that this thing is actually truly defeated, she's not going to take chances.

It keeps moving? She keeps zapping.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The claw aimed at the Archivist /does/ strike true, gouging /right/ through Jon's abdomen. Tim's strike is what immediately saves his life, keeping it to gouging at soft intenstinal bits and not the all-important heart or lungs. He cries out, and doesn't have the will or training to keep up the spell through the pain; the lasso of lightning drops and disappears and he stumbles back, eyes /very/ wide for a moment in shock.

    For a moment, for /just/ a moment, it's... bad. Then the rain washes over the wound, healing it, saving him from whatever fate those terrible claws were going to mete out. Not all the way, as Phoebe breaks the connection, but enough. He won't be in the hospital tonight.

    But now he's on his back, staring up at the giant mass of flesh and he screams at it, "SHUT. UP!" He throws every ounce of telepathic compulsion he has in him, every scrap of energy he can find, to get the thing to /stop talking/.

    It'll be up to the others to do much other... actual fighting, though.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Oof. Bit of a rough landing, there. Tim's soon-to-be-bruised knees will catch up with him later, but for now he only feels the pain of the impact or the twinge in his shoulder for a second as he drops it down leading into a roll. Right now, the rush of adrenaline through his veins overtakes everything else.

    And maybe he's not going to get that sword back (sorry, Damian), but Tim is more than capable of using Improvised Weapons.

    Another way-too-expensive bottle of champagne? Tim chucks it at one of the heads on the back of the creature. Steak knife that was going to be used to eat one of those $4k-a-plate dinners? Thrown with impressive accuracy at another head.

    If Tim can find it in the chaos of waterlogged destruction around himself and it is of a size that can be conceivably yote, thus it shall be.

    Then they start to call out in voices that Tim recognizes. Some of his best friends. Is that--him? Cassie's comment about how creepy it is is followed up by Tim's "What the hell," which is, to those that know him, a sure sign that he is unsettled. He backs up slightly to take a look at the creature.

    It's about then that he notices that the pain in his knees and shoulder that he's been mostly able to ignore is now pointedly at the forefront of his mind because it's gone entirely. Certainly less drastic than the gaping hole in Jon's abdomen getting stitched back together, but Tim knows what Phoebe's healing feels like, because in comparison to most of the team, he is as squishy as a marshmallow. "Phoebe?" he yells, hand cupped to his mouth in the hopes of amplifying his voice.

    Then he realizes--comms. He touches his ear. "Phoebe, where are you? What are you doing?!"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Red and blue lights of Gotham's Finest are lighting up the walls outside. No one seems to watnt o go inside without some sort of confirmation that the scene isn't hot.

    AND THEN THERE'S lightning bolts! Crashing from from above, electrical striking again and again at the giant scorpion as it screams in voices and tongues. Pleads for its life from its many tongues and almost as many voices, begging for help, screaming for Phoebe to save them, but it wasn't until Phoebe heard Charles Beacon's voice that she broke.

    Phoebe errupts like a cosplayer on a rainy day. Her dress is pretty well ruined at this point, clinging to her body, wet, her hair soaked and chunks of the braids coming out. She looks pretty fairly a mess. She's caught by the lasso spell, slipping down and fighting. "NO! NO! SHE HAS MY DAD!" she cries out, "PLEASE - she has him!" Phoebe wails, panicked. The first time she's heard his voice with her own ears in years, and it's wailing from the back of this scorpion, in its horrid appearance, nightmarish as its remaining heads -- one cut by a bottle, one impaled though the jaw. Electrified. Broken. The creature's wails are turning into pained voices, beginning to fade out, broken and unable to form full words.

    The voices break down, turning to Egyptian again.

    <Unbound, we see her clearly!>

    <The lady in Red sees herr!>

    The temperature begins to drop again, and creeping around the edges of vision, shadows are gathering.

    And it's like one of those scenes, unskippable. Like the dogs, these necrotic creatures shift. The claw flicks out, as if going to cut across the open area, shifting around and its stinger forming.

    Phoebe's begging halts for want of breath. Red drips down her dress from her struck shoulder.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Nooooo!" John's voice echoes, booming louder than any bullhorn could ever make it, magic behind that, rage fueled magic. He clears the distance between himself and Phoebe much more quickly than one might think he's capable. He steps in front of her and unleashes *Hell* in the form of bolt after bolt after bolt of electricity flying from his hands at that thing.

    He might not even stop if it vanishes at this point.

    With each slung attack he lets out a sound that can only be describe as... well, a little insane, like a feral animal defending its young. Why? Because he knows something's *wrong*. She's bleeding, she's not healing, dark magic clouds his 'other' sight. He doesn't know what *exactly* is going so horribly wrong, but he knows it's *something*.

    He sucks in a breath, a deep one, and with it he bellows, "I WILL KILL YOU, LEKSANDRIA!" A name, there's power in a name and in his rage, John pours *his* power into the use of that name, every single bolt he sends flying, he's trying to make sure *she* feels it too.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist lies on his back. It didn't work this time. The compulsion. He tried, but it didn't work.

    No matter.

    He turns to his side, pushes himself to his feet, one arm wrapped around his waist, staggering. He draws in a shuddering breath, lets it out. <<It's not real, Phoebe. She doesn't have your father. It's an imitation. She was trying to get to you.>> And she did. Of course she did. The heart is almost always the weakness.

    The Archivist glares at the scorpion thing, and as it screams from its blows he shouts at it in that archaic Egyptian, <Leksandria! /Give me your Story/ so Thoth can judge your soul!> It might not work--she's probably too shielded for that. But at least, /maybe/, the idea that the gods are coming for her will scare her just a little.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There are no mystical threats Tim can use, no pent up magical rage he can throw. All Tim can do is get himself to Phoebe's side, opera mask dropped to the ground as he lowers himself onto his knees, and put his hands around the stinger dug into her shoulder. His fingers dig in, and it's a good thing his costume included gloves tonight, isn't it? "Sorry," is all the time Tim spares before he wrenches the thing free of her in one quick motion. Straight out, doing his best to minimize additional trauma caused by the removal.

    And then he presses his palm flat to the wound. Hard. It's going to hurt, but Phoebe's gone through training. Tim knows she's tough. He also knows she's stubborn as hell, so she's going to make it. That's what he keeps telling himself, and that's how his voice remains level. "Phoebe, talk to me here. Can you heal this?"

    Despite the fact that he's soaked, when Tim pulls his phone out of his pocket, it still works. That's Bat-tech for you! If he couldn't use his equipment on account of being thrown into the bay or the sewers (ugh, let's not talk about it) Tim would be out on his butt at least once a month. He hits a number on speed dial and tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder without letting up on the pressure he's holding on Phoebe's wound.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
This is still all a bit outside of Cassie's expertise, although the obvious course always remains: keep fighting, keep zapping, don't let up until the enemey relents. It is Amazonian thinking, to be sure, moreso than the generally super-heroic. They are a hard people with little room for mercy.

Yet, obviously, Phoebe's wailing is... well, it's something. Is she doing this wrong? "Pheebs, what do you need? Am I hurting him?" Her dad, presumably, not the bug-creature she totally WANTS to hurt. "I have no freaking clue what I'm doing here!"

Without any other course, the divine lightning keeps on pouring...

Until it stops. Because, well, it's in the name. It's a powerful thing, but it is a thing of the gods, and even for one of their children, you can only grasp hold of such a thing and wield it for so long. And when that effort is spent, the crackling energy flickers from existence, the lasso again merely a braid of gold, and Cassie is left panting, bobbing lightly in the air.

"Patrons, what does it even take to kill this thing?"

And then, the shadows. They move, she can see them, and she even wishes she could move to help as something strikes from the darkness at her friend, but the fact is she's still holding the very real tails of the big monster, and dares not give them slack in the lasso to strike. "Guys, I am really, really strong but even I can't hold this thing all night..."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Between the lightning, between the rage. Between the demands for stories, the screaming stops. The sprinklers keep working, soaking everything and beginning to dissipate the blood and sand, the strips of cloth and soaked table linens and the ruined food, providing the background for sirens. Demands from the police to open up. The scorpion moans, in a very human voice... the last one it would utter. Mickey Rogers, former owner of the Gotham Gate. The eyes of the last head look to be in so much pain.

    "Please... save... me..."

    Phoebe is aware that there are people talking. They sound like they're in the next room. Where was John? She turns her gaze up to Tim, her eyebrows knitting a moment.

    She opens her mouth, and whispers 'It was supposed to go right tonight. He adopted me." she whispers, around growing blisters on her tongue and lips and her hands.

    "I can't... I can't feel--"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist reels back for a moment, getting /Mickey Rogers'/ Story instead of Leksandria's. His life, laid out--the things he'd done in the past, the way he'd captured and beaten Phoebe, and then... and then the end of it.

    That crisp English accent begins to monologue: "He'd been released from prison. Finally, after all this time, a chance to get out. To /live/ again. He'd rented a car, gone to a museum show. It was supposed to be a nice night out. Finally, everything was supposed to go right."

    He wants to stop, but the words pour out of him. "He got electrocuted instead. Someone stole his car keys. The bastards! How was he going to get his money back on the rental?!"

    He stumbles back a step, hunched over the mostly-healed wound in his abdomen. "And then... /she/ was there. Beautiful, but wrong, dark-skinned and dark-haired, eyes like gold, face ever-shifting cowrie shells and rotting flesh. She promised him a night he'd never forget."

    "Easy not to forget the night you die. She bled him dry like a stuck pig and then used him to create a monster."

    The Archivist wobbles, falls to his knees.

John Constantine has posed:
    He doesn't look at his daughter, has to trust the others to deal with that. John suddenly *stops*. He goes completely still. He's doing this wrong. He's bloody well doing this *wrong*. That little catch of his bottom lip between his teeth happens, that tilted shake of his head, that roll of his shoulders.

    ...and John Constantine walks straight for that *thing*. Claws or anything else that come at him? He attempts to swat them aside with a much more powerful version of what he used on the security guards.

    It looks like the crazy bastard is going to damned well try to lay bloody *hands* on the thing. What is John Constantine first and foremost? He's an exorcist. What do they do? They pull things *out*. Evil things, but why can't it be used to pull good things out of evil things.

    His mind's racing through it even as he stalks forward. Have to change up some of the wording, switch it around, reverse it, maybe order the *thing* to *release*.

    Holy magic is not outside his wheelhouse, he just never thought to use it for *this* before. He starts chanting before he gets there, at first it's slow as he adjusts to the new phrasing. It's Latin, the mixed up, turned around, backwards version of an Exorcism. When he's close enough, he lays his hand on whatever part of that thing his short ass human self can reach and releases the power he's been building along the way. 'Let him GO!' is what it amounts to.

    But when his second hand comes to contact, it's *her* he aims the last bit at *her*... 'AND BE GONE'. He knows he likely won't really destroy her or banish her, but maybe, just maybe, he'll weaken her enough that she'll go down easy when he hunts her like he's one of her dogs.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There are other conversations happening around Tim that he can't afford to pay attention to, right now. Against his ear, his phone continues to ring, waiting for someone on the other side to pick up. "It's okay," he tells Phoebe, even though it very much isn't okay at all. His other hand slips beneath her, cradling the back of her head so she's not just laid out on the ground.

    "Doctor Thompkins?" Someone says something on the other end of the connection, and Tim still hasn't let up on the pressure against Phoebe's shoulder. "No, put her on the phone, please. Yes, it's an emergency, why else would I be calling this number?!"

    He grits his teeth through a slow, calming breath.

    Not the time to lose his cool, here.

    Instead, Tim shifts so he can put Phoebe's head in his lap, and then he lays his hand over her forehead. "You're going to be okay, Pheebs. I promise. You just gotta fight through this, okay?"

    Tim looks up, away from her face, eyes narrowed against the water dripping from his hair. He looks from Constantine, back to Jon. The words spilling out of the Archivist makes Tim's eyebrows draw together. "We need to get her out of here!" he calls out, though he isn't going to wait. He tucks his phone in his pocket and rips the sleeve off of his shirt to start fashioning a tourniquet for Phoebe's shoulder.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    That's how she created her monsters with the modern parts. Murder. So much death, and split amongst what remained of Phoebe's blood with Mickey's. Luckily he was a big guy.

    The claws are weakly snapping, hardly a threat anymore. They are twitch with every blow Cassie lands on it, and Wonder Girl continues to beat it into submission, until John extracts the souls -- so many, not all from The Village, but one or two older ones. The others are drawn out, released. And when he banishes the other energy, tied right to its creator, it sends a massive shockwave that rocks the Fireman's hall. Every inch of it echoes with John's Be Gone, and then it is still.

    And Jonathan draws out Mickey's end. You almost want to feel bad for the guy, but Thoth wouldn't have judged him worthy. He wasn't a good person.

    Phoebe's head is adjusted. She tries to call out. Her hands shake as ugly boils form against her palms. Tim's hand is shielding her eyes, from the water. She gives a cry out as she's moved, even that little bit, and she reaches for John.

    "I'm scared." she repeats quietly, before her tongue becomes too bruised to speak.

Cassie Sandsmark has posed:
Cassie gets in what licks she can, but really, she is focus on holding it, more than anything else. Because this is one of those Wizard Problems (tm), where you just gotta let the pointy hat folk do their things.

Witness: Constantine's exorcisim. Or reverse exorcism. Or whatever it is. Cassie speaks only a dozen more words of Latin than she does of Ancient Egyptian, for the same reasons of her unorthodox upbringing. But she holds the lasso taught with all her strength... until that very end.

An end that comes with an explosion!

(She totally called it.)

The explosion causes a reflex action, but again, she's sans bracers, and it's not like she's ever gotten Diana's aegis trick to work. So it works out to be that she's mostly just guarding her face with her hands, which is still a sensible precaution. Midair, she has nothing to hold to, though, and the blast throws her to the edge of the room.

Crash. Thump.

She lands in a pile of rubble, lays there a moment, before dragging herself standing. If her fancy gown was just sopping wet before, it's properly trashed now.

"Ugh, ow. OK uh... you guys, get her, get her wherever you need to get her to help her, cause GCPD is about to come in. I've got top tier hero sidekick cred, I'll talk to them. Just, just help her."

And then she turns, and stumbles toward whatever entrance, where she can hear the police stacking on the other side.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist trance over, Jon rocks back from the shockwave of John's spell, then turns to look at Phoebe. There's a moment, as he looks at Phoebe with her head in Tim's lap, her shoulder bleeding, her body covered in boils, that his face blanches and a memory overtakes him. Another child, lying injured while sirens wailed and--

    He pushes it away. He can't deal with that right now.

    "Thank you, Ms. Sandsmark!" he calls. "For everything!"

    Then he stumbles over to Phoebe. He'll help get her out of here and safe, however he can. "It's going to be alright," he says to the girl, but there's that look in his eyes, the one adults get when they're lying to comfort a child.

John Constantine has posed:
    Magic's messy, innit?

    John turns, covered in burn blisters and now...scorpion goo. EWWWW! He reaches up to wipe goo from his eyes before, "Leave my daughter where she is..." John's tone certainly does not invite argument. "She could die if you take her anywhere without me." Dark magic, he saw it, really dark shit. Now he just needs to figure out what to do about it, get his kid behind some safe wards... and go hunting.

    So, that's what he does. First, he kneels over Phoebe, *sight* open and pulls whatever he can from her, taking it himself if he *has* to. Blocking it, stalling it, slowing it, whatever he can do is what's done. Next, he raises her shirt, pulls out a black sharpie and by the time he's finished, her poor belly looks like one of her mandala's from her practice book. He draws the same on her forehead. A little of his own blood rubbed against her skin and a few words activate the protections, mind, body, soul... they won't find her. Last... he kiss her on that inked up forehead and stands.

    "Go with her, Jon."

    ...and that's it, he turns and vanishes through a portal into the House of Mystery to land wherever he's going after that, wherever the Waves take him that will lead him to his prey. Dead woman walking, that's what Leksandria is in his eyes now.

    Bitch is gonna pay for fucking with John Constantine's kid.

Tim Drake has posed:
    As Cassie makes the executive decision to handle the emergency responders just about ready to beat down the doors, Tim aims a thankful nod her way. There's a reason she's his second-in-command; sure, neither of them know what the hell to do in the face of big magic monsters (beyond, well... smash and/or poke with pointy end of stick, which they both managed to do admirably tonight) but Tim knows he can always count on her.

    Eventually the sprinklers are gonna run out. In the meanwhile, Tim does his best to shield Phoebe from the water raining down from them. "I know," he tells Phoebe, and then his jaw works for a few moments. No more words follow, though.

    He holds her through Constantine's examination and application of magic protection, keeping Phoebe still. And keeping pressure on her wound, through the makeshift torniquet that is now wrapped around her shoulder.

    After, Tim stands, and as carefully as he can manage, he lifts Phoebe with him, up into his arms. "Come on," he tells Thoth Dad. "It's probably better if I drive." No reason for that given, though eventually Jon's going to find out when he gets stuck in the backseat of an expensive car, taking care of Phoebe during the drive. Spoiler alert: Tim breaks a great many laws of the road on the way.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods to Constantine. "I've got her. I'll put out the call for help. Go ride the wave and find that bitch--and tell me where you are if you can so I know where to send people."

    Then he nods to Tim, and goes to help him support Phoebe on out to the car. He's a little too tired to care about being stuck in the backseat or rules of the road. There are more important things, just now.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Well, it's not like that $70 dress wasn't ruined already. Phoebe's forehead is feverish and sweaty. her hands are shaking, her breath struggling before John kneels over her.

    The bleeding slows. The progress of the poison halts. The skin around the wound begins to turn ugly, and bubbled. At one point Phoebe tries to brush her hand against John's trenchcoat arm, as he presses his bloody thumb to her forehead. And then the kiss. Her fingers grasp against his hand, just briefly but as what John can do is done, her body relaxes, and her eyes closed, with the sprinkler system crashing down around them all, Phoebe Beacon-Constantine-Chandler (which assuredly will not fit on her buspass), is transferred quietly from the building to a very exclusive clinic, where they're going to puzzle over the markings, but accept that their NDA's cover any and all of their patients.