Owner	Pose
Phoebe Beacon	It all started with a text message. "Meet up? Have ?'s, need answered w/o bat or z" -- and an address of a seedy bar that's open almost 24-7 in Gotham, near the docks.     Phoebe was recognizable, unless you'd only met her a couple of times. She was wearing a gray do-rag over her short braids, a heavy hoodie and heavier make-up than usual -- which is to say she's actually wearing make-up. She has her head down, toying with a Nine of Hearts playing card, nimbly passing it between her fingers in a distracted fashion. She's got her investigation book bag -- all leather next to her -- and she looks less exhausted than the last time John might have seen her, but more worn.     The bar itself is a seedy place with a lot of faded, roughed decor. There's some pool tables in the back, some smaller tables along the front, and of course, the titular bar. The bartender's a big guy with a gut that sticks out beneath a threadbare polo shirt that might have once been white, but's faded to dishwater gray. Neon orange ash trays are available near the door -- most of them aren't clean.     Phoebe is sitting in the back, and she has an amber glass that hasn't been touched in front of her. Then again everything is amber colored in this place; the lighting's horrible, and the stink of forty years of sailors drinking their pay away hangs heavy.
John Constantine	John knew the bar, of course. He knew almost all of them. The ones worth knowing, at least. When he steps through the door, the man behind the bar just gives him a dark look before going back to cleaning a glass in a half-arsed fashion. John simply smirks, striding across the bar and claiming a seat next to Phoebe without any fanfare. "Knocked some cunt's head in here," John muses as he sits down, immediately lighting a Silk Cut and placing it between his lips, "Deserved it, mind." He glances at the glass in front of her, raising an eyebrow before picking it up and sniffing the contents. Satisfied, he takes a sip and puts it back down. "So ... "
Phoebe Beacon	"Yet another thing," the teenage girl starts, who really shouldn't be in this bar at all "we *weirdly* have in common." Phoebe remarks quietly, pushing the ashtray and the tumbler glass over to John. Neither were hers. She steeples her fingers a moment, her dark eyes regarding Constantine with a mixture of suspicion, wariness and something else behind her dark eyes.     "... I need to know how you constructed the puppet. And I need to know about a spell that was mentioned in one of the books called the Camdever Curse." she cuts to the quick of it. She keeps on eyeing the door, as if watching for someone, then she shifts her weight, and bites the inside of her cheek. "I need a backup plan for what might happen if the plan I made with Sims goes wrong, and I need a way to ensure it works that's separate from our fair feathered friends."
John Constantine	"The puppet?" John asks sceptically, though it's clear it's not out of confusion as to what she means, "What do you need that for? It's a dangerous thing, luv. Leaves you open to all kinds of bait and switch shite." He exhales noisily, leaning back in the rickety chair and taking a drag off the cigarette. Smoke curls up in acrid tendrils to join decades worth of staining on the ceiling. "And the Curse? Look, I'm not about to play the whole 'you are not ready' gatekeeper bullshit. If you think you need it, I'll help. But ... you gotta be sure. This is bad shit. Black magic shit."
Phoebe Beacon	"I dropped Radio City Music Hall on Angels and ripped open my own aura with harvested Celestial Will and tattooed the holder of the Witchblade with unfinished spellwork to test a theory. I'm pretty sure I'm beyond worrying about what I'm being opened up to." Phoebe challenges, crossing her arms. "If it means that Jon comes back and another little girl doesn't inherit a bunch of magic powers before she can get a driver's permit, it'll be done"... Phoebe taps herself a moment, scratching at her left shoulder where the burn marks are beneath her hoodie. She looks uncomfortably warm.     "... but it's easier if there's more than one person who kinda knows what they're doing. Z's already brought up an 'ex boyfriend' who's currently residing in Hell who played around with black magic. Batman's put me on a week's vacation away from the League like it's some kind of time out, and if I'm risking my best friend with this, I need to know I have a backup." she states, and she turns over a notebook.     The instructions and spellwork, all manner of advanced magics and theoretical connections for the transferrance of The Archives to some poor bastard named 'TD'. It shows influence from all over -- John's tendency to cobble together different eras and areas of magic, Zatanna's fine, exacting spellwork and failsafes. Ancient Egyptian from two different traditions, even work from the Sephirot from Central Park have left their marks on this complicated working -- and that first page was just the abstract. Like a scholarly paper. Beneath it all was charts -- truly, the Devil was in the Details. Whatever work his copy did teaching her, she took it on like a thirsty man drinking water in the desert.     "The curse is the final failsafe. If it's all correct... the knowledge and relationships I've built up int he last year, everything from Red Robin to Lydia--" all the knowledge and love and friendship -- "... could be enough to stabilize it. But other than the effect, my book didn't have anything other than the Curse, and I don't have the time to search the five thousand tomes and scrolls for what I need. The last time I did it..." she reached up, and touches her chest quietly, a frown forming on her face.     She's still blaming herself for everything.
John Constantine	"I can't go with you," John begins, taking a deep breath, "Whatever you end up doing, you need to do it yourself. I'll give you the tools, teach you what you need to do, but in the end, you'll have to do it yourself." He seems almost apologetic at that, maybe even looking a little guilty. "I've got something I need to do. A way to maybe stop all this, or at least give us a better shot. Can't tell you what it is, just need you to understand that that's why I can't go with you." He takes another deep breath, stubs out the cigarette, then leans forward. "Alright, let's talk ... "
Phoebe Beacon	"... I don't care if you're here when the first part happens or not." Phoebe replies, maybe a little cooly as she looks to the Merseyside Magician, and she leans forward.     "But the Camdever Curse requires two to cast, and unfortunately there's no one else in this world who's mad enough to work it with me."     Phoebe grabs out a new notebook, and clicks a dark red pen, the color of dried blood.     "Let's talk."