9151/The Chas Enigma

The Chas Enigma
Date of Scene:	17 December 2021
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	A discussion of options amongst members of the JLD for dealing with Michael the Archangel. Do they "love bomb" him... or just bomb him?
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Meggan Puceanu, Zatanna Zatara, John Constantine
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

---

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's not quite living at the Laughing Magician, but he's been in the bar for more than twelve hours a day both Thursday and Friday, arriving around 9am and leaving late enough that he can't possibly be getting enough sleep. He takes a couple of walks to get food, but otherwise he's been haunting one of the corner booths, facing the door to the back room, poring over stacks of books. The general topic of conversation, when there is any, tends to be the angel they have chained up in the back room.

    The stacks of books are pushed aside, and Jon's writing in a notebook, humming along with the jukebox. It's playing Christmas carols, because they're good songs, and because irony is a thing. "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day," the Burl Ives version. It's one of Jon's favorite songs, period, let alone one of his favorite Christmas songs. He's given up on his irritation at liking Christmas music while hating Christmas itself. He likes Christmas trees, too. What's the point in denying all of /that/?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
How many days until Christmas and the fuss that goes with it, and people are stuck in a bar babysitting! Awful turn of events. Proof the universe is a right cold place and a total meany-pants. Stronger language could be called for. The faerie queen in all her midnight glory -- and a glossy bit of kit -- doesn't seem to be unlikely to use it. Pyramids click on the floor if barely from a pair of winter-not-appropriate heels but the winter-not-appropriate weather is altogether proof stuff's gone right and terribly wrong.

Proper bollocks, as it happens. Not dogs bollocks either, right the other way.

This does not explain why Meggan carries a small, neat box and a pile of tousled, icy ribbons piled up on it, a card jabbed jauntily in a sharp triangle. Is today a day? So 'tis. And she doesn't forget those dates, boldly striding up to the counter to plop the treasure behind the bar unless landmines, shouty cats, or Jon feel fit to halt her. After that integral task, she turns around to face him.

"No bruises or lasting injuries on him, aith?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon doesn't not halt the faerie as she walks to the bar, though he does look up. The moment she comes in, actually, before he can even really hear the click of her heels on the floor. He turns to look at her, eyes the present. Oh, that's right--Chas' birthday is... tomorrow, technically, but it's the 18th in Liverpool by now. So today, in a way. They're not allowed to have proper birthdays around here, it seems, courtesy of the agents of Heaven and Hell.

    "The only lasting injury is the one I gave the angel," Jon says, voice and expression grim. Meggan's presence always lightens his mood, and it /is/ lightened, which only goes to show how grim his mood was /before/ she walked in. "I burned the feathers off one wing, getting the name out of it, but Chas doesn't seem to feel the pain. Anything else I didn't notice, and probably got healed when I cleaned him up."

    He huffs out a sigh. "John kicked him around, so I heard?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
@emit A scroll with big lettering appears mid-air. It unrolls to read:

        Zee is incoming.
        Put your weapons away.

Zee allows enough time for the message to be read and fall to the floor before joining it with a mild displacement of air. There is a distinct aroma of incense and the sound of many voice chanting before the portal closes.

"Hello? Did I mishear that? You burned its feathers off one wing?" Zatanna looks faintly ill at the notion and takes a step toward the bar, nodding to the two in turn. "Jon. Meggan. Did John rough him up?"

The magician doesn't indulge herself in tuxedos anymore opting for conservative Harajuku street styles and low-heeled boots. Bending to pick up the scroll which disappears into the sleeve of her black jacket, she settles on a stool. "How is it going?" She gestures toward the back room and the angel.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
None get proper birthdays, no. Jon didn't, she didn't. Chas at the very least gets a break by someone who operates on UK time because Greenwich was decided as the start and the start of a day it shall be. Commonwealth rules or something.

"Good. We established Constantine stomping him did not break much." Good? When is Liverpool Rules for dealing with the celestial and infernal a good idea? Take it up with the man in the trenchcoat, which arguably she might want when dressed in such thin trousers and the black top, half-corset and half-corselet, an effigy of an oil-slick glimmer. A coat would be a good thing.

"Wasn't aware fire was one of your arts." No judgment there; the queen of air and sparkles isn't specifically against fire as an element. Given that, well, she can be that. "He take it poorly, doing that? Have to reckon on it being in a bad mood, all in all."

Zatanna's arrival and question are bundled up into that, though she isn't particularly concerned by any of it. "Keep a feather or the ashes? They're useful."

For what, well...

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Not fire, no," Jon says, turning fully in the booth so his legs hang outside of it, facing the rest of the bar, and thus both Zatanna and Meggan. "I can conjure fire from the Astral Plane, but water's much more my element." A beat. "Lucifer Morningstar showed up at a therapy appointment and ultimately changed a flask of my own water into something... well. Cursed rather than blessed? It sizzles like acid, and a few drops of it was enough to burn all the feathers off the angel's wing." He touches the inside pocket of his jacket, dressed today in suit blazer and black slacks, the bale water tucked into one pocket and his sidearm beneath a shoulder holster.

    He takes in a long breath, let it out. "I didn't like to do it, but we needed to know what we were dealing with." His tone sounds almost defensive, though mostly toward Zatanna than Meggan. "It refused to answer me otherwise--I gave it three chances to give me its name. I didn't know how much damage it would do, but... I've got a couple gallons of its blood tucked away in a vault, now, for whatever that might be worth. Maybe we can trade it back for him to forget about this bloody apocalyptic plan of his."

    He looks to Meggan. He'd already told Zatanna. "It's Michael that Chas summoned. The Archangel. Guardian of the Gates of Heaven, leader of the Armies of the Host."

    He sighs. "I think we're right and proper fucked."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Well, Jon, that was an understatement." Her eyes travel between the gift, the giver and Jon who she shrugs at in apology, saying, "I'd never say that you'd enjoy it, Jon. Now, Constantine is another matter."

Her blue eyes shift to Meggan, "Thoughtful of you. Chas would appreciate it..."

"To borrow a phrase from Constantine, fucking hell. Michael."

John Constantine has posed:
"Don't be such a fucking sad sack," John calls from the doorway, barging his way into the pub in a haze of cigarette smoke, "For all the power an angel has, they aren't creative. They're beholden to laws, same way a demon is. Just need to find the right way to get them to catch their own pricker in their zipper."

He unceremoniously crosses the floor and slides into the empty side of the booth, leaning back against the corner and practically glaring at the other three. He lifts his hand, flipping the V towards the door that Chas was behind on his last visit.

"Anyway. You're the one who wanted to be in the bloody Justice League. Do you reckon they sit around saying 'aw no, we're gonna lose'? You'd fuckin' hope not."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Michael Demiurgos?"

Yes, Matilda, Meggan paid attention to her lessons. The Romanichal of the United Kingdom keep a right strange set of practices carried with them across the plains of northern India, wandering through the steppes and desert plateaus of Anatolia, weaving through the shadows of Europe. Some love their saints and angels, some syncretizing all sorts of pagan and world religious elements, and ultimately it comes together in a multicoloured quilt stretched down the longest of roads. They may not be the oldest human culture, but sometimes it shows. Meggan rolls her shoulder. "If that was actually Lucifer Morningstar, running a bar and roaming round with a smirk, then sticks to reason. Like to like or opposites attract, that not true? Things are looking up."

Her fingertips curl around the napkin found back there. Almost unconsciously she wipes down a stretch of the bar, smoothing out a lack of water marks and prints from passing glasses. Effortless to hop back, what given she can float, and perch herself right there. "Blood. Best let John..." Speak of the. Her teeth flash against dark lips, a curving smile. "Figure it out. I'm with him, don't bend over and claim all is lost. Last time round that led to the Fall, whatever bit of good that did. Were we two steps from absolute annihilation, where are all the pantheons that wandered about Mexico? No, there's tools to be had. Have to be smart about it, but paths all the same. Worse comes to worst, we could be right /awful/ in our solutions. Banging around the outer horrors, greater demons -- hm, one of those isn't allowed to hurt Chas or I, but Michael's not Chas -- collective weight of belief, other angels, whatnot. Can't imagine any of the Host smiles benevolently on someone halfway tipped to Falling himself."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon eyes Constantine as he slides into the booth. "Oh, I'm not giving up, nor giving in. Just trying to be realistic about the situation. The damn thing wants to re-make the universe with less free will in the next iteration, and never mind what anything /else/ wants. I'm sure we'll figure it out--I'm just hoping that involves the archangel whose wing I burned stuck back wherever it came from and not out there running about gunning for me." He smiles. "I'm allowed to be a /bit/ selfish, aren't I? Or is that somewhere in the Justice League contract, 'must accept one's fate without complaint?'"

    He shifts back into the booth, to grab his messenger bag. "Speaking of. I don't know if this'll be any use in an exorcism, but I thought I'd offer anyway." He pulls out a stoppered Erlenmeyer flask, 500mL, with hieroglyphs and the Eye of Horus written on it in silver Sharpie. Wards of protection and containment. The liquid inside is red, and bubbling.

    He offers John the flask. "Name, rank, and some of its blood. If that's not enough to get the damn thing out of Chas... well, everything I know about exorcisms comes from the church liturgy, which doesn't account for much."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Not that you ever were, right, John? Or did you just get off on Diana's spangle outfit?" She smiles without humor, John nettles her and he knows it. And, knows that she knows it.

"Besides, who has claimed defeat?" She points at John, the low lights glittering on her red nail polish. "Not I. You can check with me if I go to the astral plane permanently. Ta. Ask me then."

"Jon, what /does/ Lucifer have to say about it? And does the rest of the Host think of him swanning around killing people?"

"Zee's mouth drops open at the flask put so matter-of-factly on the table, she gapes a moment before laughing aloud. "Well, don't take me too literally here. But bloody hell and damnation. Why /doesn't/ Lucifer take him? Can't he be trapped with that?" She nods at the flask.

John Constantine has posed:
"It probably is," John answers, "Didn't one of them die a few years ago and come back? But don't look at me, I'm not part of the Justice League. I'm a consultant."

He reaches out to take the flask, wrinkling his nose as he does so. He swirls it around a little, peering in at the contents. But then he simply puts it inside his coat. How on earth he manages to keep the flask from breaking or spilling in there is anybody's guess.

"I'm not interested in just extracting the blighter. I'm going to peel it apart atom by atom. Smarmy git gives me the shits, and I'm gonna make him pay for that."

Zattana's comment only earns a raised eyebrow from John and a frown. He reaches out to extinguish his cigarette on the table, tossing the stub to the floor and crushing it beneath his heal.

"Let's hold off making any bargains with Lucifer. Cunt'll have you singing or giving him a handjob in a gentleman's club somewhere."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan finishes another two passes of the napkin before considering the bar appropriately polished for company. That their company consists of vampires, wizards, and angels matters not one bit for seeing things perversely to rights. With a shake of her glossy hair, she pushes herself back down to her feet. The needlepoint stilettos connect with a crack on the flaring pyramids chased in crystal, every last squared chip glimmering and selected for their grounding and protective qualities.

"What options are under discussion, anyhow?" she asks. Distance narrows to the booth where they gather, and she doesn't so much ask a by-your-leave of John before slipping inside his personal space. Her slim fingers brush over the back of his hand, lingering for several seconds.

"Zatanna has the right question, the one at the forefront of my mind. I'd assume that, mm, maybe they do not value our lives so much either." For all she talks to Zee, the vial holds her gaze riveted with the same peculiar fascination someone usually turns on a never-before-seen species. It triggers a brief wave of curiosity pointedly aimed at feeling the nature of the blood out. "Luv, that man's a vessel for all the fires of making. You start tearing it down and where will all it go?"

Swiveling a smidge is all she needs to sit squarely atop the Laughing Magician, the shock of her lunar profile turned to them while she holds up her hand to better focus a little of her hair-trigger senses for the preternatural. No middleground with her, it's fine or everything, and the floodgates are scorched and smoldering still from playing in the waters of the apocalypse. "I've no Brian Cox to narrate while blowing the Beeb's travel budget, but pretty sure that creates the Big Bang all over again. We look at another angle for settling Michael down some? He came round out of a place of pain and sorrow in a mortal lens. That could be like a drug. It's certainly true for demons, spirits, and the other sort. Would finding someone of similar strong convictions in kindness or compassion and goodness convince him to turn back, you reckon? A selfless sacrifice, a reminder of love."

It worked in Gethsemane...

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Lucifer," Jon says, and raises his hands to make air quotes, "is 'on vacation' and would rather not be bothered with all of this." He rolls his eyes. "John's right, though--best we not depend on him too far. Nor any others of the Host, because that's what got us in this mess to /begin/ with. Of course... I'm not certain any of them /know/. Not if..."

    A pause. "...Something spoke through me, at Michael, when he revealed himself. Something /very/ angry, that accused him of using Chas for his own ends and then said 'It is not my place to stop you, Guardian. But they will.' The Great Mother, possibly--Michael claims She imbued my ancestors, long back." He shudders; it wasn't a pleasant experience in the slightest. "Point being, I think we're supposed to fix this whole thing, and I'm just as glad, really. I don't trust /any/ of them to care about /us/."

    He chews at his lip and frowns. "Meggan's right, though. Not sure we can /afford/ to peel it apart atom by atom. Much as I'd like to, what happened the other night rather implies Michael's fundamental to the workings of the universe. But we can't just let this stand, either."

    He eyes Meggan for a moment, then adds, "...That might just work, one way or another. Reminding it of love. I did try." He swallows. "I asked it to look inside Chas, see the love that caused his cry for help. Michael just said 'it is a rare thing and not shared by all and that is the problem.'" He shakes his head. "Perhaps we'll need something bigger."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Did you hear about the love fest at the Rockefeller Center not too long ago? It had some of the magic community agog from what I heard on the grapevine."

She shrugs, a single eyebrow lifting at Meggan, a side of her mouth curling up as she flicks a finger.

"What would ever be enough love for him if he would dismiss that? Would he listen?"

The magician's smile waxes as she hums, "Love is all you need. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."

John Constantine has posed:
"It can go somewhere else. This isn't the only 'creation' out there."

The mention of Lucifer's vacations does nothing more than make John roll his eyes: "Cunt should have thought about his 'me time' before he led his little rebellion. That's the fucking thing about these angelic cunts. No work ethic."

He doesn't seem to react to Meggan getting into his personal space, instead reaching around her to light another cigarette and rest it between his lips.

"I mean, you guys can go ahead and shag the angel. I'll be over here thinking about ways to shunt it into the spaces between."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Crossing her legs, Meg has a care not to scratch Constantine with a heel or kick anyone with the pointy toe. He may be lounging halfway to a Tahitian holiday in the booth, but she keeps a more elegant posture caused more by that shirt.

"Pardon my togs and manners," she drawls out the latter a touch more sibilant than the situation would normally allow. Icy, bright nails prick against rough trousers as she curls her fingers in for a bit of balance. "Like sittin' next to the speakers at a stadium concert. Led Zep or something, roaring in my head."

Her eyes thin, pupils contracting in a vertical arc, just slightly. "Lessee. We've the vial of his blood and several more liters where that came from. None have announced to the Host what's about, might be worth exploring though runs a risk they get too sympathetic or interested in the second rebellion." Another light shift marks her leaning forward. "Show him love. One wasn't enough? All respect, Jon, a telepath sometimes gets caught up in the thoughts or it's looking for excuses. You throw a whole sea of glad people embracing the holiday spirit genuinely -- or a maternity ward -- he might think otherwise. What if we could gather it up? Like, distill it down... what's it? The cooking show idea, when you get the concentrate from a lot? That. Wonder how well we could bundle that up and incorporate it. Would having a love cube work much for your magic?" The trio are all addressed specifically by that.

"Get the works of creation that speak to experience. He's looking through eyes of a man pushed far and suffering. Look, had I woken up too to see the twenty-first century and not known the wider human experience," she adds, "I'd be right pissed about the lot of you too and say reset it all. He is missing the value of life. I could ramble about that but if you grow his perception, maybe it matters."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I was there, Zed," Jon says, and shakes his head. "That... wasn't natural, actually. The tree lit itself without electricity and then there was a magical aura of love and light through the whole of Rockefeller Plaza. But if the Sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul can help..." He shrugs. "I won't turn them down."

    Then he looks at John firmly. "We /did/ that last Saturday. Shunted Michael right through Nullspace. And we briefly /ended the universe/. This universe, I suppose, but this one's the one /we/ live in, so I'd rather not do it again. Stephen Strange came by to find out what the hell we'd done, called it doing 'its best impression of a VCR when it is unplugged, then plugged back in.' Of course... if sending him back to Heaven is good enough then I'm all for that. Isn't there a gate he's supposed to be guarding?"

    He frowns at the surface of the booth, considering. "A love cube...? I mean, I suppose... if... if we could get him to /see/..." He rubs at his face and slumps back in the booth. "I suppose if it's wishful thinking there's still John's plan to tear it to bits."

    He sighs. "I'll admit I'm at a bit of a loss. When they've dealt with angels before, the Archivist usually pulls out its statement and then... I don't know for sure. Destroys it? Banishes it? But this is... bigger than anything my ancestors dealt with." He waves a hand toward John. "That's why I'm mostly leaving this to the experts."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Glace de viande, glace de l'amour. It takes a huge pot of bones and some veggies to make the stock for that and then hours and hours of slow cooking once the stock is ready and strained until it comes to a gelee." Zee sighs audibly and pulls her barstool over closer to the booth.

"Love bomb him? Get him to digest a quantity of love that will overcome Auschwitz and Pol Pot?" She shakes her head. "I love the idea but...I like banishing it a lot more."

John Constantine has posed:
"Well, let me see what I can turn up," John says with a shrug, not decrying the love bomb idea but not exactly jumping onboard with it either, "If this bomb idea doesn't work, we can probably figure out something else."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The breaking point now and then sends a shudder through Meggan. Consequences for being the conduit for such a ritual still clamour in the marks on her skin, the bleeding wounds dripping ichor over the soul. She stiffens, halted down to statuesque posture with her hands still as marble. Ice rimes the starless hair, the eyes bled turquoise in shades that do not humanly exist, not even for really cool contacts.

Hurt turns its fangs inward, and she woodenly shrugs to roll through the wave scraped bare. "We fucked up. Let's not botch it again without a few precautions. Add that to the list, focus on the gates. Who guards the gates in the absence of Michael and have they turned an eye down here at all?"

Teeth too white, too sharp for human norms and hair bleeding a faint corona of shadows all announce that Winter tilt, at least for a few seconds. "Not one to recommend a war. It is a most human of options. Launch something as a distraction to point the gaping hole in their guard. I know of an army might be up for the fun. Might be willing to stop too." Planting her curled fist under her chin, the cool-eyed Tuath nods at Zatanna's description. "Banishment may not be something we can do right out. Imagine using multiple layers to encourage him to go home a changed being? Show that love, compassion, kindness. Let Michael stop seeing through an absolute viewpoint, that even a thing that makes sense? Soften his spirit and see it's not all bad."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon closes his eyes as Meggan speaks. He doesn't want to say that maybe it'd be better to start over. The nagging bit of him connected to Nullspace whispers that everything ends, everything dies, and maybe they've ruined too much and done too many horrible things to be worth saving. That's why he ran off to Ecuador for half the week, after all. To remember why they're not giving up.

    And anyway, a reboot /wouldn't/ be any better. Not the way Michael's talking about.

    He finally rests the back of his head against the booth and opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling. "I apologized to my daughter once, that we adults hadn't done more to make the world better. That we let all our rage and idealism melt away, that the world she was growing up in was worse than the one I was born into." He sighs. "'Tikkun olam,' she said to me. The world is innately good, and God purposefully left room for us to improve it."

    He looks around then. "We'll figure it out, one way or another. Maybe in the moment. I have faith in that." He smirks. "You may not like the name, but I /do/ believe in us. The Justice League Dark. Humanity." He glances at Meggan. "Children of the Mother, whatever their type. We'll manage."

    He moves to start gathering up his books. It's getting late, after all.