8550/A Cry in the Night.

A Cry in the Night.
Date of Scene:	04 November 2021
Location:	Queensboro Bridge
Synopsis:	John's lonely heart betrays him and calls out to Zatanna in the darkness. Of course she shows up. The two share a dance, a back and forth in more ways than one.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Zatanna Zatara

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John Constantine has posed:
    The hour's somewhere in the wee hours before dawn, it's too late to be considered early and too early to be considered late. It's definitely a time when most people are nestled all snug and warm in their beds.

    John Constantine, however, isn't most people.

    He is, however, drunk; with a big old capital D. D.R.U.N.K. ... and on top of the Queensboro bridge. It's not an intentional thing on his part when the 'Find Me' comes through loud and clear over the amulet to the one person nearest to his heart that might actually be able to *get* to where he's at.

    Not intentional at all, he didn't even speak the words. But sometimes a little spark of the unintentional coupled with that bitch known as Synchronicity is all that's needed, innit so?

    So that's the way that Zatanna Zatara, should she choose to accept the mission, finds John Constantine walking the narrow beams of the arch of the bridge, bottle of scotch in hand and singing Johnny Rotten's rendition of My Way at the bloody top of his scarred, Silk Cut crud filled lungs.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The dream that woke Zatanna blended with the rest of her night, restless unending chases endlessly repeated. She stares up at the ceiling of the Curio ceiling, studying the chiaroscuro forms cast by NYC while the dream fades into uneasiness and alarm.

"John?"

She casts his name through the dark telepathically, one hand clutching the amulet. What she receives galvanizes her out of bed. With a word she changes from silken bed wear to witching-hour-cold in NYC woolens, fashionable, of course, and without heels because he seems to be on a bridge. A Bridge?

".oT nhoJ," she snaps urgently. Zee gasps at the wind and cold that blast her when she appears on a precariously high beam high atop the 59th Street Bridge.

"John?" she says, worry, love and wariness packed into that one word.

John Constantine has posed:
    And there he is in nothing but that usual trenchcoat flapping about in the wind, seemingly without a care in the world when he spins around on that narrow ledge to face her. "Zee!" he exclaims... happily? Or more to the point, drunkenly.


    For a precarious moment or two he totters, arms windmilling before he steadies himself again and swigs the last of that bottle. He looks down and lets the empty thing drop into the water far far far below. "What're you doin' here?" he asks, words a little slurred. "Did you bring booze?" Hopeful that!

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Most would worry about him falling, watching his arms flail over the deadly drop he walks over. Zee knows she can stop the fall into space, but she is unsure whether she can touch the black space inside him fueling this bout.

"No, not tonight...John," she doesn't utter the word that hung on the tip of her tongue. "Happy to see you, too. Thought I would take a walkabout, see how you were. Want to sit?" She crouches then slips her legs over the beam to kick her feet like it was a low hanging tree branch.

John Constantine has posed:
    Sit? Not yet. John keeps up his perilous walk around that beam he's on until he comes to a corner. "Look at it!" he calls out over the whipping, whistling wind. "Bloody fuckin' city mostly asleep without a bloody care. They don't even *know*." He barks out a laugh, mirthless.

    He spins on the ball of his foot, teeters again, but flailing arms keep him upright. Walking's bad enough, but when he starts... dancing? That's only a matter of time before he topples and falls. Finger's snapping, he sort of slides and shimmies his way back toward Zatanna, singing... Moon Dance. Who would have pegged him as having a crooner's voice? But man does he.

    That voice could have taken him places, other places, different places... had his path not been what it turned out to be.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zee pats the beam next to her trying to attract him out of that perilous dance. That voice despite the dance with death shivers into her skin, even drunk, he can make her think of other times.

"Come over and sit next to me, Moon Dancer. Of course, they don't know. Can't know. That's why we're about," voice pitched happily for his benefit."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Dance with me," John offers, one hand held out in invitation. Not exactly the *best* place for all that, is it? The smile he's wearing, man he still has that charm... but it doesn't reach those haunted eyes. ... doesn't chase away the dark circles beneath them either. When was the last night he slept? Really actually *slept*?

    "So we do this so they can keep sleeping through the night?" he asks, hand still extended. "I dunno, luv, seems... a waste sometimes, dunnit?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Their life together condensed into one gesture: Dance into danger with me, Zee, damn the sleeping world while we whirl! It calls to her; he calls to her. She can save them from the physical fall, so can he, but not the rest. The rest explains the dark dreams that keep him awake and haunt her sleep.

Zee rises as the last vestiges of good sense fade. The moment seems endless to her, a sign that it will reverberate into the future.

Zatanna ignores it to reach out across the danger and take his hand.

John Constantine has posed:
    John takes her hand in his. His is warm despite the biting cold of the wind around them. Demon blood does that. When he pulls her in close, he actually lifts her off her feet and manages a little spin on the ball of that same foot as before... in a complete, harrowing on that tiny little beam so far up in the air, circle.

    "I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Zee," he admits in a voice that's not a whisper, but might as well be in the whistling wind. "I don't know who I am anymore."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
They whirl over darkness. Demon heat warming Zee as her feet leave the beam and they spin.

"Fighting for Phoebe, loving your daughter, trying to save us all," she replies, the wind relenting enough for her to whisper it in his ear. The stars whirl above them. "What else?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "I don't deserve her," John replies as he leads Zatanna a few steps back and then a few forward, all to the music that's only in his own head now. Another spin, faded denim blues closed this time and a little smile playing on his lips. A breadth of a space between them and a fall to the depths and he's *smiling*. Says a bit about his state of mind that.

    The faintest hint of Hellfire dances in those blue eyes when he opens them again, a hint of both his own power and the price he's paid for it. Damned, demon tainted, doomed - or so he believes - to walk through the fires and darkness of Hell itself alone. "I wasn't enough. I let her get hurt."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Her eyes open in time to see the 'other' light flare in John's eyes, source of his despair. "But if you hadn't been there she would have died, John. Remember that. No Phoebe to love without you."

The magic in her trusts their dance and his arms around her, this walker into the unknown.

"Oh, but you do deserve her," she makes her own paradoxical leap, moving closer into his embrace.

John Constantine has posed:
    John makes a little spin of his own though, out and away before he lets go of Zatanna completely, back to her now. Even from behind it's easy to imagine the way his teeth catch the left corner of his lip, then the way his tongue peeks out just a bit with that little tiny shake of his head, titled to the side.

    "Ner... *he* saved her, Zee. Because of the deal I made." He turns, that Hellfire dancing bright now over faded denim. "...I don't regret it, that deal. It saved her. The blisters she had, the boils? That was him, keeping something else at bay. I don't regret it, but if I die out there tomorrow." He looks out over the city. "I'm his... I think I'm his. My heart stopped... when Jubilation's girl's powers ... she electrocuted me. I died. And the doors of Hell opened. Only a few minutes, Phoebe brought be back..."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Nearly, so close to pitching over the ledge. Zee's heart hiccups as he lets her go. She catches the impish tilt to his head and shrugs a shoulder at him.

Adamantly, her voice rings loud from their high perch, "You are ours. You are no one's property. Not even Hell's, John. Hear me. If anyone is going to damn you, it will be ME." Her eyes flash, reciprocating the Hellfire light with her own power and belief. Does he know that other gods have more than wagers on the fight?

John Constantine has posed:
    That head tilt again, a little roll of one shoulder in a shrug and he turns his back again. "Deal's a deal, luv, signed the dotted line, in blood even."

    "I don't regret it," he repeats, and he doesn't. John would walk into Hell tomorrow on his own accord to save Phoebe's life. "... but I was a walkin' dead man when I made it, Zee. I wasn't supposed to *live* through that spell, with the Demogorge. I just wanted to make sure they'd have some protection in whatever world might have been left if we'd failed and I wasn't here."

    He lets out a little laugh as he turns back toward her again. "A bloody seed of destiny, planted in my fuckin' *heart*, luv. I wasn't supposed to *live*."

    Not because he was martyring himself or had a death wish, but because John Constantine is a man of means being worth the ends, calculating the cost to ends ratio and one man? Just him? Not worth losing the entire world over.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zee stands tall facing him, dark hair blowing in the wind keening over the bridge. "I never said you regret it," she shakes her head in more than denial of his words. How could she have let go like that?

"We will break it. You showed us. Showed me how you survived the unsurvivable. That destiny was Phoebe's life and mine," her voice lowers at the last words. "You can't leave us," the barest waver in the words. "Others have waded into this bloody contest of damned contracts."

John Constantine has posed:
    "I thought I had time. Ten more months at least, but the gates *opened* Zee, wouldn't have happened unless something changed, unless one of them put in a bid that they had more a claim than the others. It had to have been him." It's another testament to the state of John's mind right now. When has the man ever... just accepted a deal as done?

    "If he makes it so, makes his claim weigh more than the other two? If he makes his case and wins it? I'm dead anyway, week maybe... tops. Because The First of the Fallen isn't going to let me stay cancer free with no deal."

    John reaches up to scrub his hands of his face, scruff a day or so more present than he even normally allows. When he lowers his hands again he adds, "I have a plan, but there's... other things I need to do first. If one of those other things kills me? I don't want any of you coming for me. I don't want any of you risking that. I made this bed and I'll lie in it for eternity if I must."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zee's eyes narrow at more than the wind as she takes a step back from the desperation she feels. Persephone's hand might be at her back, keeping her from a fall.

Gone the music and song."Of course, you have a plan. Tell me about it. Some beings," the magician is unwilling to evoke the Goddesses' name in this dark place where demons could listen, "have taken an interest in this, John. Does it occur to you that you put us /more/ at risk by not telling us than by keeping things to yourself?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John turns away again, doing a little hop step around. He can't face her when he explains, "I'm going to bind a demon to myself and kill Chas." Chas'll come back, of course, but the rest of it... "If anyone on the list *He* agreed to protect dies due to any sort of demonic influence, then he breaks the deal," he explains further before he turns back around to finish with, "He won't kill me to stop it because that breaks the deal too, none of them can actively end my life themselves and still have their claim be valid."

    Demon blood or not, the man's lips are starting to turn a little blue-ish from the biting cold of the wind in that thin damned coat. It whips and snaps about him like some sort of living entity.

    The plan'll work, surely if he can't expel the demon himself someone can get it out of him. But what will it do to an already fragile and damaged psyche, one's such as John's now, when he *kills* his best mate? Even if the best mate is destined to come back?

    "Of course they take interest in it, Zee, it's all part of their *game*," he adds along with a laugh that sounds just a tiny bit... insane?

    He spins back again, too fast, arms windmilling wildly but it's not enough this time; he goes plummeting over the edge into the darkness toward the water below. So. Far. Below.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The expected fall comes before she can protest and ask: what demon would he bind? what Chas feels about the plan. Will John's double-cross work, will Chas coming back negate the contract falling apart? Could she kill someone she loved, sure of their return? All these questions die on her lips. A painful contraction in her chest, nearly doubles her over, by force of will she straightens against the tightness, a sudden wind snatching the words from her mouth.

.ylF .mih evaS .mih potS (Stop him. Save him. Fly)

Arms open she drops off the beam after him.

John Constantine has posed:
    It might seem forever that John falls, time kind of stands still in a moment such as that, dunnit? It might also seem that he's perfectly fine with allowing him to hit that freezing water so far below, even knowing it's like to be his death from that height.

    But then, just as Zatanna reaches him, manages to get her arms around him even, he murmurs an incantation in Latin, it might have been something like, 'Lighter than a Feather, float on the wind...' Something to that order anyway.

    And then he is, they both are in fact, lighter than a feather, floating on the wind.

    "Can't die yet," he yells into the wind whipping around them, whipping them about even. "... haven't bloody well killed Leksandria yet, now have I, luv?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The icy waters seem to reach up to them both, grasping for the demon's payment.

Head tucked into his shoulder, arms feeding him warmth, Zatanna feels the scrape of his unkempt scruff against her cheek, "Oh damn you! No absolution for you tonight."

No, he has too much to do in this life. Zatanna does, too. They float, dancing above the black waters.

John Constantine has posed:
    With a little gesture of one hand, a fist curled loose in front of his own lips, breath blown into it and then the hand opening, they find themselves guided through the gusting winds in the opposite direction of that released breath, to the safety of one side of the water beneath them.

    When his feet touch ground and he makes certain Zatanna isn't going to fall over, he finally replies, "Already damned, luv and that's where everyone seems to make the mistake. Never asked for it..." Absolution that is.

    Seemingly out of mind to share anymore secrets or talk about whether or not he'll be able to kill his best mate in the end, John changes the subject. "This meeting Diana's called tomorrow, you goin'?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
On the banks of the river, Zatanna stands erect without his help. She stares into the black water racing to the ocean, pondering about the darkness pulling at them both. She startles out of her reverie at the question. Aghast, "Yes. Are you planning to go, too?"

Energy. Time. Phoebe. Maybe even a thought for herself. She does not trot out the familiar arguments.

"John, did you wonder why I came tonight? It wasn't to have a little trip down memory lane, you know."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Thinking about it," John admits about the meeting, which even him thinking about it is ... well, a step in a different direction.

    He reaches into his pocket for those damned Silks and lights one with Hellfire dancing on his fingertip rather than fighting with the Zippo in the wind still sharp and chilled at the water's edge.

    He rolls one shoulder in a shrug and comments, "Because I'm just too bloody sexy to stay away from for too long?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"You can't resist me," Zatanna counters, dimples flashing as she pushes back her dark mane of hair. "That's why I got the call."

"I'm definitely going and worried about stretching myself a little thin. I might drop some performances. I'm good for money," she muses aloud. The familiar tang of tobacco floats on the cold air.

John Constantine has posed:
    John seems genuinely confused when he asks, "Call?" Man seriously has no clue. But when does he ever have a clue as to what he truly needs?

    "I'm just curious as to what everyone has to say about things and shite," is his reasoning behind attending that meeting. But the rest of it, the talk about money and performances has him eyeing the lightening sky and the near rising sun. "Bollocks! Fuck me..." After a frustrated snarling little growling sound at the back of his throat and an almost petulant stomp of his foot, he says, "I gotta go, luv. Meeting some mid-life crisis trophy wife that's convinced her step-son hired a witch to curse her." Because for him? Money isn't so good.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna blinks, stifles a sigh and nods once, instead of frowning. Of course, he didn't know. A French phrase floats into her head: a cote de la plaque. His amazing power and acuity never quite reaching the mark.

Trying to keep her voice even, "Yes. Think about it while you help the trophy wife. You might shave before you go. Don't let me keep you." She can portal out of here on her own and try to get some of the sleep she missed.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Shaving, it's on the agenda. Along with a shower or at least a change of clothes," John promises before he offers a wink and a cocky little grin along with, "Maybe I'll get lucky and she's just looking for a shag that isn't her eighty year old hubby, aye?"

    What an *asshole*.

    But the grin doesn't reach his eyes, there's no spark or twinkle to it. Anyone that didn't know him well would take his words to heart, think he meant them, because his poker face is *on point*, but those eyes... to anyone that does know him, they tell the truth of it.

    It's nothing but bravado, putting on a show, a front. It's what people expect of him, innit? Snarky little manwhore? Rat bastard that doesn't give two shites? Might as well give them what they're expecting.

    When his own portal opens, it's not to the House of Mystery. Zatanna might catch a glimpse of the dungeon of a little basement space he's carved out for himself in the Curio. Dark, cold... empty save the necessities and walls filled with maps and dry erase boards. It looks like a lonely, sad place. Fitting, that.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
It's not just the cold wind off the river that stings Zatanna's eyes. How long can he keep it up? Something inside him is reaching out.