Owner	Pose
John Constantine	"All I'm saying is that Swampy would have been glad to help," John says as he puts a cigarette in his mouth and then doesn't light it. He doesn't light it because they're surrounded by petrol and what not, here at this facility. Every once in a while, something is bad enough ecologically --someone does something or begins a process that is so bad for the environment-- that John goes along with his wife's more ... intense sensibilities. "This counts as date night, by the way," he says, as he pops open a barrel and winces at the smell.
Meggan Constantine	"It's not polite for us to ask like that though." This from the woman currently covered in various bog flowers, none of which emanate a questionable scent. The yellow and small white blooms decorate Meggan's golden locks, woven into the thick peasant braids bouncing down her back. It wouldn't be ideal to have the flowers set on fire, but since when has burning /an elemental/ ever worked? Frankly, in the height of summer, trying to burn Meggan is like trying to dilute the ocean with a bottle of Evian. Frankly a bit daft, and evidence of poor qualities for leadership. Her bombastic response to such troubles might be to give the would be firebug a hug. Burn, baby, burn. "You take me t' the nicest places," she admits with a blown kiss to John, her fingers curling, green to the wrists and bearing that white tattoo left by Stephen Strange over the shard of John's soul linked to the disco inferno that is his wife. John's. It'd be a bad day if it was linked to Stephen's wife because she eats soul pieces she's missing or something. With luck, the tobacco in the cigarette doesn't start sprouting, though it can be said Meggan is strongly considering just pulling roots down. "He might end up regretting being up to his knickers in PFAs and all the leaking abominations flowing out into the sea. Suppose I ought to chum around with Namor again to clean this up quick."
John Constantine	"Hrn," John says as he looks down into the barrel, when she mentions Namor. "That's definitely who I want you chumming with," he says, playing it considerably more jealous than he actually is. John isn't much for the jealousy, after all, and he knows Namor is way back in her rearview mirror. He reaches down and grabs the backpack he brought, and pulls out a really big bag of baking soda. He opens it up and then lifts it, grunting a little, and then starts to sprinkle it into the barrel. "This is going to push their operation back months at the very least, give us time."
Meggan Constantine	"You know I'm a sorceress to the Atlantean Court?" The casual toss of that statement carries a laugh behind gritted teeth as she looks down at one of the metal vats barely sealed by rust and an abundance of wishful thinking. She doesn't need to poke at it to have a good idea of what is there, spreading her hands to press to the metal. It creaks and groans. Without some care, she might just rupture the tank from above. Probably helpful it's not the Ace Chemical Plant. "Too much methane in here. And some carboxylic thing. Mm, got a lot of stuff mixed up in the liquid, but it is foul. What the bloody 'ell are they using it all for?" Trust John to have a clue with the baking soda, which by and large just earns a quick wink for her. If any of the powder blasts back onto him, it may be in the obvious shape of a smooch - her best impression, anyway.
John Constantine	John grumbles again. "Yeah, I know. I just also know Namor," he points out. "The man's never let someone else's marriage get in the way of dropping his speedos." Just ask Reed Richards. It's noticeable that John is _not_ using magic for any of this. He wasn't kidding the other day at the beach when he said using magic for mundane problems was a bad idea; but that didn't mean _he_ couldn't use _chemistry_. "Pop the other barrels open, we'll make them all useless."
Meggan Constantine	Meggan's green-eyed gaze flickers against the dim interior of the place they've broken into, an apocalyptic industrial site mirrored in emerald. "Not a chance. I don't need that in my life. We've drama enough for eight, and Ceci. You really want more webbed fingers and gills, I can bring that, but I digress." A shining white smile might be what Reed can't deliver fully. "Besides, you've got a fine mug. Good strong grump energy." Her magic isn't magic, not here. Feeling the admixture of chemicals in a liquid is about as innate to her as smoking is to him. She isn't pushing around the contents of the tank, though coming to taste it out. "Open? Got it, though not this one. It's explodey." Very technical chemistry there. He asks, she does as bidden, floating across the floor to avoid sullying her feet to go harass another sealed up barrel to drag the lid off. It's not too hard, a good thump and a yank.
John Constantine	John rolls his eyes and laughs. "Uh huh." He moves from barrel to barrel, sprinkling in the baking soda, and putting the company behind several months in their project in the process. Once he's done, he tosses the bag aside and wipes his hands down with a rag, so that none of the baking soda sticks to his hands, and then he smiles up at her, because she's floating. (Of course she's floating.) "Ready for date night?"