Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	BOOK 1/SPELL 98: DEAD TO THE WORLD The sudden appearance of black obelisks and alabaster columns worldwide drew attention, and New York is no exception. Several people representing mystic, law enforcement, and civilian interests witnessed the glowing red-violet sigils decorating a gate that stood in the internal courtyard of the Temple of Dendur. Ancient friezes on depicted Isis and Egyptian gods along with several more modern figures, including Thor, Doctor Strange, Morrigan MacIntyre, and Zatanna Zatara. After scrutinizing and deciphering the symbols, it was determined the message ultimately read, "Pass the black gates which hold back the souls of the dead. Be bold to tread ways irretraceable. The living alone shine brightly to find the Word in the Stygian storm that would consume the world. Let the heavens echo the outcries of the First Law!" Led by Phoebe, they descended into the Underworld through the gate and entered the Heart Chamber, where brilliant hieroglyphs and wall paintings in an empty tomb depicted spells 126, the Weighing of the Heart ritual, in which the goddesses Isis and Ma'at judged the the deeds of the a deceased person against a feather; and spell 30, the Heart of Treachery, where the deceased appeals for their heart to be light and gentle, ensuring a peaceful afterlife. After much discussing between Morrigan and Rien, and an attempt by Radha to substitute an automaton heart, Rien decided to sacrifice her heart. Sara cut it out with Witchblade, while Melinda burnt it in a sacrificial bowl. Evidently burning hearts creates evil, inverted forms for Rien's alter ego emerged from the smoke and viciously fought her to the death. Though with Sara and Melinda's apt martial skills able to tilt the balance, Rien survived and her shadow did not. Thus opened the path, and a long, winding descent through increasingly peculiar architecture to Gravesend Station. New York has its own train platform in the Underworld, with but two options off those tracks. And so takes up Book 2.
Jane Foster	BOOK 2/SPELL 102: DEAD ON ARRIVAL GRAVESEND STATION Gravesend is an abandoned stretch underground, serving a city that never sleeps, at colliding points in time. Metal girders twisted and snapped off of skyscrapers tempest-toss'd by Loki's attack mingle with 19th century brick facades smeared in soot. The whole structure rises from the dark in eerie angles locked together, as if someone with no concept of curves attempted to reassemble the bones of a leviathan of the deeps. Sailing ship spars, gone silvery with age, cross over a narrow path made from cobblestones and partially melted guns and cannons from the Battery. Old things, Revolutionary things. The path is hewn by an abandoned stretch of subway, the years all wrong. Graffiti burns on the tiled walls, but even down here, there is no colour and very little light to see by other than the steel-black rails. Two directions, two means to leave. A few scattered shades stand on the platform, vaguely human in clothing and size, but incredibly wrong in other ways. Limbs too extended, faces gaunt and eyes hollow if they have distinguishable features at all.
Jane Foster	A train pulls up on the opposite platform. A collection of mismatched cars from the 19th to 21st centuries claims to be going to Barbican, but on its arrival it just sits there, chugging and clunking and not bothering to close its doors. Its few passengers sit in silence, unsurprised. The livery marks it as the Great Western Line. A black-and-white board above the benches announces the Eastbound Star Line train is coming from the opposite side, but doesn't say when it intends to reach The Crystal Palace. Never a good sign, a sign without a time. On the far side of the track, an enterprising graffiti artist with little fear of electrocution has smeared the tiles.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe was holding onto her little palmful of light as she arrived at Gravesend Station. Two ways to go, two trains, and no sign of anyone who might be --     She breathes out. There was still blood on her gloves. She could feel it tackily clinging on the inside to her fingers. The pressure here was immense and uncomfortable for the young magic-user, and she breathes out.     "Doc? Can you give us a refresher? Or... maybe a divination? Is there a way we should go?" she asks, turning back to the others, and she reaches to try and scratch her left wrist. It doesn't work, since she's wearing armor, and there's just a slight metallic thud and scratching sound.
Radha Thackeray	Radha Thackeray went towards the shadow instead of away from it because -- shut up, that's why. It wasn't sensible, but perhaps she felt guilty, or perhaps she saw something others don't. She can do strange things; perhaps she already has one foot in this world. Thus far she has mostly been present and aware of the situation, although even now she is cradling a modified robot toy of some kind like a small child. When they depart that ancient-seeming tomb and into somewhere else - "Oh! It's the subway!" - Radha is honestly relieved, because the subway is familiar. Radha is sufficiently relaxed to half-tuck her... toy robot back into her backpack. Instead, she takes out a black-wrapped clove cigarette from a metal case in another pocket, holds it in her lips, and lights it. The little flame from the lighter may materially increase the light level in the room for a moment. As she exhales with a deliberate 'pah', Radha gazes at the signs. She taps her foot. Still nervous. Radha looks at Phoebe for a moment and puts a hand to her chest as if to say 'me?? doc??' but then she opts to look round again. Obviously not her. "Um," she states: "So these are both real places, but I don't recognize the *trains*."
Rien D'Arqueness	Looking around the decrepit station reveals no immediate clue to one way being better than another. After thinking for a moment, she turns back to the group to ask, "So, either destination mean anything to anyone here? They're nothing to me, so one is as good as the other. I suppose we could try asking one of the... 'people' here if they know anything."
Morrigan MacIntyre	Morrigan is towards the front of the group, because she's not really sure what to do in this atmosphere, she just knows that it feels heavy and she's not wanting to fuck it up for anyone. She just wants to get people back and see about getting towards the end of this nightmare. "It's a subway...for the dead." she nods to Rahda. Then there's a look to Phoebe and a shake of her head, "Not really sure which one we should go down. I'm guessing we just pick one and go. They might change destinations frequently. Probably not like the subway in the mortal world." she states. "But...which one do you all want to try?" she asks them.
Melinda May	As the Heart Chamber darkens, May's blades appear to glow all the brighter. As she passes through the gate, down the path, and onto the train platform, she raises one to use the stark white blade as a lamp. Its clear light does little to illuminate much beyond her personal space. All of which means it's really only serving to make her a target -- if her life and breath don't do that naturally in this place. She extinquishes the blades and pushes them back into her belt. Whichever way she decides to go on this line, it'll be in tandem with Sara. They make a good team. "Wait," she says, her expression flatly incredulous. "You're telling me you think this is all random?" That doesn't make her happy. She prefers her opponents to work with some sort of definable logic. Then again... she's standing in Hell after battling a shadow version of one of the women standing on the platform... with a pair of lightsabers she got from her own self several timelines over. What about any of this needs to make sense? "Yeah, forget I asked. Totally random makes perfect sense."
Jane Foster	The smoke that Radha's cigarette emits does not rise in comfortable coils, but rather tumbles away to pool in meaders on the tiled floor. Neither is the ember bright orange, but a weakly burning shade of gray. Everything here lacks for colour, the strongest shades reduced to washed out, faded vestiges of themselves. Everything else is monochrome: white letters, grey rails, black signs; or otherwise dun, the wearied bone-yellow tiles, weathered dun cloth, skin leathery-brown. For the few denizens lurking around the platform, any shock of colour is barely understood. A few bear watery reds, tattered velvet poppies stuck to their chests. One or two sport faded blue and pink, bar-striped ribbons at a sleeve or elbow where best displayed. Rien's glowing jade chest wound and the throbbing plasmic heart beyond casts that unnatural eerie light. Watery radiance strobes weakly off the thickened shadows, darkness here practically a cat that can rub someone's ankles. There's little light other than what they bring themselves.
Radha Thackeray	"I don't think it's random at all," Radha answers Melinda. She takes another drag and exhales again. She watches the smoke pool downwards. "Well if we go to the Barbican we could crash at my father's flat or something but I get the feeling that we ought to push on because there's all the ghosts and I think they're being, hurt? And I mean, like, if they're... human souls, not just, like, stone recording hologram things, then... you know..." Radha looks left. Then right. Left again. Right again. "Wait," she says. "Wait hold on. This is like, made up." A second passes. "Were they, like... destroyed? Yeah I think... this is all shit from the Blitz or something!" A moment passes. "If we're looking for John Constantine and the Sorceror Supreme, um, well." Radha points with the clove stick in the direction of the Barbican. "THAT was like... Roman... stuff." Then the other way. "And that was a big fancy pretty hall. I think they had the first dinosaur in there or something." Radha takes an anxious little drag. "We could split up. No, that's stupid. Is it? I don't know."
Sara Pezzini	Figures... get out of New York, see the sights, and there's still an F-ing subway to be dealt with. Her head was still reeling from having just basically killed a woman, then watching her get up, and if that wasn't bad enough, fighting an evil version of her. She was trained to deal with a lot of things, to lock up and internalize to get the job done, so that's what she did. Later... later she would have to deal with those emotions. Looking one direction then the other, neither destination meant anything to her. She closes her eyes for a brief commune with the Witchblade to determine if there is anything of importance in either direction. "It may not be completely random," she says as she opens her eyes. "Barbican is a name for a guarded defense of a walled city, usually a tower. They exist in the mortal world all over the place, including London and Paris. The Crystal Palace was built by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert to show off the greatness of the British Empire. What that means down here, don't know, but in the mortal world, that's their meanings."
Phoebe Beacon	"Yeah... even my love of Death lore is kinda failing me here." Phoebe replies to May, and she looks between the trains.     "Man, what a day to leave my drachma at home." she states, looking to her left wrist. "Well. A Walled Tower makes sense as a place to find a wizard, doesn't it?" Phoebe looks back at the group and then looks forward "Right, probably no D&D players here, reference lost." she breathes out in a huff. "I don't think we should split up, but this train's closer--" she states, pulling her hood back up over her smooshed and broken puffs. "Let's catch a train."
Rien D'Arqueness	With a shrug, Rien points at the train that is here already, saying "Well, if it doesn't matter, I would suggest we take the train that is already here, rather than wait who knows how long for the other to show up. I get the feeling we probably want to find out what is going on and get back to the real world as fast as we can, before we start looking like these poor souls." She gestures at the people who have been waiting here for an indeterminate amount of time.     "I have no especial love of death realms, so the sooner we get done here, the better. The Barbican seems as likely a place to find someone or something in a stronghold as not."
Jane Foster	The Great Western Line engine clunks and shudders, sounds emanating from somewhere to the back end. The low, shuddering whuffles and chugs breathe in and out through stained lungs. A wooden-panelled carriage slides its narrow windows down and thumps them up, arrhythmically clop-clopping while the ultra-sleek red car ahead of it slopes down to a narrow point, the headlights rakishly narrowed. Passengers continue about their business, as passengers everywhere do, not even bothering to look up. Look too close and their wheels aren't steel but conjoined pelvises, the axles wrought from spines, femurs, and ribs as suits the moment. The sign over the westbound train reads: Departing for Barbican. A familiar hiss of steam rattles up the body, the stench of dead leaves and hot metal racing ahead of a nearly hexagonal train illuminated in bioluminescent fungus crammed like neon around the front. It, too, boasts older carts crammed up against something that looks like it belongs in TRON or Bladerunner. The thing practically glides up to the platform, doors snapping open, almost not willing to stop. Marbles and bones crack into place over the eastern line: Departing for The Crystal Palace.
Melinda May	May's eyes flit over the grafitti. It's glowing, in a world of monochrome monotony. "You know what the fare is?" she asks as people start discussing catching a ride on the rails. "So far, we've had to sacrifice a woman's heart--" she hasn't really been introduced to everyone, despite the names they gave the portal when they first passed the obelisk. Her eyes fall on Rien's glowing chest briefly to acknowlege that. "I don't know a lot of about magic, but everyone I've talked to about the stuff has always suggested that death and blood go pretty hand-in-hand. A pound of flesh or something. How are we going to pay *this* fare?" Maybe she shouldn't have put her swords away. She doubts her badge will get her a free ride, this time.
Morrigan MacIntyre	Morrigan looks to the walls, reading the graffiti, "All riders must pay the one-way fare on the Last Train Home." she reads loud enough for the others to hear her. "I guess if anyone is wanting to depart back to the MET there is a way to get there. Then she gives Phoebe a look, "I'm sure a few of us got the reference." she gives her a smile. "I think if anyone wants to get out...this is the last chance to do it. Otherwise we're in for the long trek through the land of the dead." she states. "We need to hurry if we are catching the Barbican." she motions to them as she heads that way.
Sara Pezzini	Sara moves toward the train Barbican, checking it out through the open door. "Let's just hope this is not the modern day version of Charon, but I'm in for the long run. We have a couple wizards to find, and we aren't going to find them standing about. May, you in?" She glances back to the woman once, then merely walks onto the train. Answers weren't going to present themselves.
Radha Thackeray	"I, I mean," Radha says as she moves to board the train - certainly not wanting to be left alone - "you've got more blood than you probably think you do."
Rien D'Arqueness	Moving towards the Barbican train, Rien answers Morrigans statement about getting out with a small chuckle and shake of her head, "Not after what I just went through, I think I'll have to see this through so I can complain rather pointedly to the management." She steps through the open door and onto the Barbican train unless something stops her from doing so.     "I believe the phrase is 'All aboard', non? Let's not get split up by the train leaving with only some of us aboard."
Jane Foster	Run they will. The Great Western Line train is already restless, and the appearance of the cars on the other line produces a low rumbling that strafes the interior of Gravesend. Waiting souls that barely watch the women shuffle to their final destinations, most of them hastily running for the open doors. Or in one notable case, mincing along on four snipping scissor-blade legs appearing beneath ragged pants. Hastening to the red Barbican sends them straight into a Q-stock car straight out of Blitz-era London, right down to the round Underground stickers on the windows. <<NO FREELOADING>> announces dire intentions. Wobbly doors snick-snack each person who comes through, biting them with rubbery and enamel edges. The pinches hurt. Soon as the last of them are in, the doors clang shut and the whole train bucks, shaking off inertia, starting to squeeze forward and inch along as the clunking, grinding energy builds up. Outside the Gravesend Station starts to slough away and the tunnel goes almost utterly dark, only the glowing letters marking advertisements or station maps overhead giving anything worth seeing. Inside are a variety of uncomfortable benches and bars, several of them occupied by shades clinging to the nooses around gaunt wrists, shackled to sway to and fro with the beat. A smart-looking man in a classic conductor's uniform, complete with black greatcoat and pocket watch, walks with a ticket-book and the hole-punch to mark the fare. "That will be your current greatest hope," he announces. A rider noosed to a pole leans forward to murmur and a blue flame erupts from their lips, floating over to the conductor's hand. He claims it, tucking it into his farebook. One stamped ticket later, and he hands it to the shade. "You may cross the Phlegethon. Next, next! Let's not delay!"
Radha Thackeray	Radha flicks her death stick into the space between platform and train car. Mind the gap indeed. She makes to sit down, though hesitantly, seeing the shades. Her leg is bruised by that gumming bite of the doorway; she tries to ignore it. Any seat is better than none right now, though. She looks at herself for a moment. Just how washed out am I? (That's what you get for wearing black for daywear.) Then she's asked for -- her current greatest hope. "Um," she says. "That things stop being like this, I guess," she says aloud, before laughing, a little too loudly and hollowly.
Sara Pezzini	The door closes on her, and she just accepts it. There is no pain from it for her, the armor takes care of that. Looking around she eyes the conductor, and the process of paying the fair. Always something. Stepping up to him, she extends her hand and offers over the fair, or rather follows the urge that presents itself to pay the fair, then she steps back. Internalize it, lock it away, deal with it later.
Melinda May	May's greatest hope *currently* is that they all somehow manage to make it back out of this place alive. Given everything that's already happened... she's not particularly confident in the viability of that hope. Whether it's enough for the conductor? She lays a light hand on Sara's shoulder. "*Currrent* hope," she says softly to the younger agent. "Don't give up your life's dreams for this..." And for just a moment, May finds herself surprised to find that, just maybe, there's an advantage to having had her life's greatest hope snuffed out years ago. There's an advantage to being old and angry. She steps forward to the train.
Rien D'Arqueness	Stepping onto the train and being bitten by the door makes her chuckle, remarking "Well, I've never been eaten by a train before. I hope the rest of the digestive process isn't also replicated."     One of Rien's eyebrows raises into a classic Spock pose as the cost of the fare is announced, then she appears to be lost in thought. Currently she's not really involved in much beside sort of general magical troubleshooting. She's never been one to look deeply at the future, because the life of a demon hunter is not guaranteed to last past tomorrow. When May reminds Sara that is is only the current greatest hope that needs to be given to the conductor, she shrugs and whispers to the conductor, then moves to find a seat.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe walks through the door, giving a sharp 'OW!' as it bites her, and bares her teeth at it as if in threat, flexing her left hand again in irritation. It itches.     Then the conductor starts his walk, and she gives a mildly peturbed look. She would usually joke that she's the Beacon of Hope. It's a horrible joke, and it will never get old. She has so many hopes, which one to surrender?     Can a hope be regrown?     Phoebe does not step back, but steps forward, and she tilts her head forward towards the conductor. When she speaks her hope, it's in a whisper, very soft to the conductor.     Her shoulders sag slightly, as if she's tired, and the young mage remains standing, holding on to one of the empty nooses and letting all the OLD people sit down. Polite, she is.
Morrigan MacIntyre	Morrigan boards along with the rest, looking to the shades as she tries not to be too annoying. She wasn't sure what the motif was going to be down here. So it was all very interesting to see really. When she's bitten she chuckles, "I guess that is a way to do it." she muses. Then she's looking to the ticket taker and she sighs quietly as she forms her current greatest hope and hands it over, "My hope is to lose my vampirism." she states. The ticket solidifies and she hands it over to him. Funny how things worked really.
Jane Foster	Once all of them have paid, what remains but the trip to Barbican Station? The Conductor moves among the car, extracting indigo or pale azure flames from each mouth of the speakers. For a moment he pauses to murmur overlong to May, and then continues on. Phoebe earns a stern look for her hesitation. Eventually fares are collected, tickets given. Beyond the windows, all is dark until the harrowing illumination quite like any other arises. The Last Train Home must be following some kind of track, one assembled from bone and snapped apart at uncanny speeds. Wheels screech and crackle, held to the side. Below them and outside the windows, impenetrable blurred darkness sparks to live as a channel sweeps and curves past them. Faint orange pulsations seethe, like staring at a brazier burning in a distance. No flames erupt, no molten streams licking through, but the pressure and heat compress the old carriage inward, and condensation steams the glass. Through it, faces in torment and shapes emerge off the water, viscerally tormented hands and mouths open. True to its name, the train plunges ever lower, striking the boiling surface and sending them through the River of Fire. No reason a window couldn't be opened by someone really daring. Liquid midnight turns from that bare marigold-licked void into something at a distance. One spark, then two melt and mold into a straight line. Then another. Soon enough they might see a square formation, their station of the Barbican below them. Its tapering walls are hard to distinguish at first, even at the breakneck speeds traveled by the Great Western Line. BARBICAN The train pulls up to another platform after leaving the Whitehall Bridge behind. Cars cease their clattering, strangely hollow chorus as sound grinds to a halt. They practically seem to hiss and purr with a life of their own. Curious orange smoke roils up from beneath the carriage. Waiting too long as the doors peel back and nestle against the sides is not a wise idea. The station is impressive, though merely a small portion of a very large structure. The building forms a large square plaza sheathed in glass. Transparent windows made of triangular panes reveal stony cavernous walls, rough-hewn and nearly black, speckled by the odd corpse-candle grey light. Below, strange spires create jagged discord among the domed rooftops and narrow, orderly roads bunched tightly together for their own protection. Thin streams of light illuminate a mishmash of thin glass towers bound in wrought-iron lattices and stately villas roofed in dark ceramic tiles. There must be people down there.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe had given her hope, and then had felt that catharsis... and felt her heart sink. Her expression sinks as she touches her lips, feeling an unfamilair tingle, some sort of unkindness to them, and she breathes out as she looks to the others with their matching, and she then begins to crane her neck. Do any of these shades match John's appearance?     The familiar trenchcoat? She feels tired, weary, and she brings her fingers to her mouth again, heres squeezing shut as she's riding the train backwards, at breakneck speeds through the underworld.     Once they come to the station, though, her eyes are wide, looking over this strange vista of visas and ceramic tiles, mishmashed within glass towers of lattice. A mixture of different styles all rendered mutable by the sickly light that is coming through.     "Well. If I had to stay in repose forever, I suppose there are worse places." she remarks with unease. "Think this is our stop."     ... hrrk.
Sara Pezzini	Sara had remained standing, watching the windows and the world that passed by outside of them. She kept her thoughts to herself, what she was feeling locked up to deal with later. It may not be the most healthy way of dealing with things, but it's what gets trained into police and first responders, it helps them keep their cool in tense situations. To be honest, not having that hope hovering over her, constantly nagging at her, as rather refreshing. As the train came to a stop, she leaned down slightly to look out at the station. "Seems we've reached our station," she offers to no one specifically, then look away to find where May had chosen to wait out the ride. "You ready to move out?"
Melinda May	May doesn't sit. She doesn't even sag when the hope is taken from her. She's used to fighting for hopeless causes. So, even though she no longer believes they'll all make it out alive, she'll still fight to the fullest extent of her being to see that they do. She's the Cavalry. It's what she does. The only thing that makes her pause are the words that come out of the conductor's mouth. Only the damned let hope die; best decide where you stand. The faint, wry smile that twitches across her lips isn't happy... or surprised. She's been damned ever since that fateful day in Bahrain... even if she knows, now, saving that girl would have been worse. Thus, she doesn't respond beyond that, only glancing down at the ticket and slipping it into a pocket for later proof of fare. When they do finally reach the Barbican, she glances to Sara when the other agent speaks. She gives her a tightlipped nod and moves steadfastly off the train. She's lost track of what her purpose was for coming all this way. Really, she just wanted to make sure no harm came to the citizens of New York. Now, however, she seems to have entered some Dantean nightmare that has nothing to do with all of that. And her job seems to be to make sure the others who came with her come out alive -- a job she's fairly certain she'll either fail, or accomplish through dying. Well. It's not the first time she's felt that way. It might be nice if it were the last. She steps out onto the platform and automatically starts making a tactical assessment.
Rien D'Arqueness	Rien stands from the seat she had found for the trip as their destination comes into view. "Well then, this looks a little nicer than the spot we just left. Hopefully we're not going to have to give up too many more body parts. We're starting to look like we're going to a rave, not the Underworld."     She steps out of the train and onto the Barbican platform, taking a look around and, for whatever good it will do, sniffing to see if Constantine's scent lingers here, if the man passed by this way. At the least, checking can't hurt.
Morrigan MacIntyre	Fire burns, no matter what color it is and Morrigan feels it as the price is paid to travel in the Underworld. At this rate she was just going to ask for a leave of abscene when she got home. She wasn't sure how she'd explain the feelings and she wasn't sure she'd have any one to explain it too after this. If they even made it out alive. Her violet gaze grows lighter as they approach their stop and the redhead reaches out to finally grab a handle, "Well, onward. Can't stop now." she gives everyone a nod as she steps out towards the next platform.
Jane Foster	In the Barbican, a gently sloping pathway stretches from the western wall where the trains appear, the clear tiles giving a dizzying impression of the many floors below. Leading along the train platform to the corner of a wall, the route marked helpfully by a few painted arrows turns at an abrupt ninety degrees to follow the wall. It traces a square, descending with each corner, with the resulting inner courtyard populated by any number of wonders. The platform shines despite the dim light, and immediately outbound passengers must weave and twist their way through a shimmering labyrinth. Statues populate the floor in every direction. These look like people, some beautifully rendered in rich detail in their business suits, their short skirts, twin-sets and trousers or suits of armour. But the features are diminished, fogged over hands or faces frosted and worn away. Chipped elbows produce razor cuts through clothes and skin at the merest brush.
John Constantine	Walking down that dizzying, sloping pathway is non other than John Constantine. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his trench. He's not looking down, dizzying means more potential puking; he's done a lot of that this trip already. Instead, faded denim blues scan his surroundings, but not with a whole lot of interest. His usual curiousness in regards to all things strange and weird is more listless disinterest now. The white shirt beneath his trench coat is ripped, torn and stained, pants too; somehow that trench coat doesn't have a tear anywhere, just dubious stains. But it's not the stained clothing or the listless eyes that might grab attention. It's the gaping hole in his chest and abdomen, his lungs and spleen glowing the green-blue of ectoplasm. The Silk Cut tucked between his lips isn't lit, he hasn't broken down and done that yet. It's his last one.
Radha Thackeray	Radha finds herself breathing out - it hurts - she raises her head, but, it's, what did I, Radha thinks, before she is mutely handed a ticket. She looks at the ticket. I bought this, didn't I, Radha thinks bleakly. It's not good for the mood. A few moments later, when she feels the train rush, she clings to a strap - flincing away from the walls as they heat and contract. Deeper - down - *she* isn't going to open a window, that's for sure. But presently, they're at another station. Radha shuffles off of the train with the others, looking round, but with slightly flat eyes. When she sees that others have a green tinge to their lips, she pauses for a moment, to touch her own mouth, to check in a small makeup mirror. This act of vanity seems to center her enough to look around. "... Well, I'd say it's aesthetic, but," Radha says, before brushing back a lock of black hair and not finishing her sentence. She shuffles forwards, looking round. She seems to spot something in the corners, for a moment, frowning as if an idea is hatching in her head. As they walk, she reaches up as if to gingerly touch one of the statues -- And flinches back, popping her finger in her mouth immediately. Sucking on it for a moment, she mumbles around it, "well fuck me then that's real glass isn't it"
Melinda May	"There's a path," May says, dragging her gaze away from the burning river. There'll be time enough for its flames once she actually is dead and damned. Right now, however... there's work to be done. "It looks like glass, too. So, watch your step." She draws those plasma hilts from her belt again and ignites them. She doesn't really know they're looking for Constantine. She sees his figure on the path she's indicated to the others, albeit some distance away. But she doesn't know the man well enough to actually realize just who he is or why he's there. She eases her way past the statues, one cut being enough to warn her about the rest. Where they get too close... she backtracks to find another way through. It's tempting just to break the statues. But in case they're frozen souls... she'll err on the side of caution. When she does reach that path, though, she takes point and starts to ease her way down the slope.
Sara Pezzini	On the platform, Sara takes a moment to look around, analyze the surroundings. This was an architectural nightmare, perhaps that was exactly the sort of person who went to this part of hell. Nothing matched, but the river... there was no mistaking what that was. "The River Phlegethon," she says quietly, watching the flames for a moment and knowing full well what was within them. If someone wanted to know, they could ask, other wise she wasn't sharing what was happening in that river. She looks back to the others. "I may get tidbits of information from Witchblade, but it does not mean I know what this is or where we are."
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe evacuates the train before she evacuates her stomach, between the river, riding backwards and all other things, this has not been a very pleasant introduction to being in the land of the dead. She takes a deep breath of pressure and her eyes go wide, and she has a moment before she takes off her hood, her hair completely messed up and she just breathes out, looking at the inverted puramid, beginning to walk through the glass statues, and suddenly feeling very happy that she's wearing her Gotham 'work clothes', kevlar protecting her as she brings her hood back up. She was shivering slightly. She didn't want to get more injuries than she had to."It's... like the Louvre." she comments quietly, and she follows Radha and Sarah and Melinda to the side, the green glowing tinge on her own lips making them look extra pale as she teeters slightly.     "Just... look at that. It's a complete mismash of different styles -- and they're clipping. Who made this place, Bethseda?" she asks, somewhat to herself, and looks down, slowly, approaching the clear glass walkway.     And her heart stops a moment.
Rien D'Arqueness	John's scent does indeed come to her nostrils, because, well, there is the man himself, just a bit of a way down the path beyond them. She hurries through the statues, basically ignoring any cuts she receives along the way - she's had far worse, and it'll heal up anyway. Once she's closer to him, she calls out "Constantine, hold up. The rescue party is here."     Not that the rescue party is doing significantly better than John is, but it's the thought that counts, mostly. Perhaps with his knowledge added to this mix, they might find a way out of this mess, or at least a better idea of just what is going on in the world.     She kicks it up to a jog once she's past the statues, following the path Constantine is taking to try and catch up to him.
Morrigan MacIntyre	Morrigan's not quick enough to get the message that everything is going to be jagged glass and she manages to cut her arm open when she's turning to look at one of the others. "Well shit." she hisses out in an irritated breath. Irritated at herself for not being more careful. She makes sure to walk lightly and carefully through the rest of it and comes out the side with a few more deep cuts. She's not a ballerina! She is towards the back so doesn't realize what's going on yet up in the front.
Sara Pezzini	It was moment like this that Sara felt guilty. She could in fact block one side of the statues with a shield formed from Witchblade, but that would lead to issues on the other side. She herself could not be cut, but she could at least try to use the shield to help block some of the glass and other cuty bits for those going through. She would bring up the rear, the last one through, so that the thing shield of metal could offer protection to one side for everyone going through.
Jane Foster	On the Barbican platform, the train comes to life with a rumble, shaking off a sheen of water drops that hiss when they contact the ground. The glass tiles hardly change, though anyone marching through them faces a nasty slip, and with the razor-sharp statues around, maybe it accounts for the damage. Shades disgorged from the impatient carriages and cars huddle, peering around. One begins to wring its hands, muttering to someone who isn't there, a quarrel begun almost instantly. Another starts trying to bend and pick up luggage he hasn't brought. A guy in a grey hoodie bops his head to the wires stretching up to a pair of headphones from his pocket. He navigates up the path rather than down. The casual twist and turn leaves him unaffected by the statues scattered around him, which are many. Another pair of businesspeople with grey faces and spikes sticking out of their joints, fingers stained yellow and nails long, keep arguing over paper in front of a bench.
Radha Thackeray	"You found him?" Radha asks, when she hears a rather familiar name. She stands on the balls of her feet, craning her head. It's not easy to see in here. Especially with the crowd. Except they're not all quite the same shadows. She watches the passing shades(?) and observes aloud, "You know, I think I am getting an idea of the shape of this place. Miss Beacon, uh, can you see it? I think this is like a pyramid but upside down. Is there a pyramid in Bethesda? Like, some Mason thing or something?" "Yeah, like the Louvre, but... I don't know. What would something like this be made... for? It's not a, like... a ghost building, I don't think there was ever anything like this in that part of London."
John Constantine	John stops and turns... and sees exactly what he did *not* want to see; other people here. To rescue him? "Bollocks," he mutters under his breath. He turns back around as if he might just keep on walking, but he doesn't do that. He just stands there, hands in his pockets still. He turns his gaze up to where heaven should but, but he's doubting more and more that it is every second, and does his best to pull himself together. When he turns around again, there's still a sort of muted, dead quality to those faded denim blues that are usually alight with that barely contained crazy the man has going on most days. "Don't need rescuin', luv!" he calls back. "Just made more work in doin' so, s'all." Bloody Hell, how he wants to light that cigarette. Not yet, John... save it.
Phoebe Beacon	"Someone could have modded one into Skyrim and it would not surprise me." Phoebe replies distractedly to Radha, and she gives a swallow of a lump in her throat, and decides, right at this moment, to not loudly announce that she is also part of the rescue crew, and she keeps her hood up, taking a couple of steps back. to partially hide herself. After all, he's only ever seen her in free T-shirts and second-hand jeans, probably wouldn't recognize her in armor, right? Right. We'll go with that one and not cause more stress.
Radha Thackeray	"I don't know what that is," Radha tells Phoebe. "Wait, is that that old game?" She tilts her head back a little more even as Constantine, in the distance, cheerily refuses the offer of rescue. 'Cheerily' anyway. She exhales with some force, folding her arms and pursing her lips as if considering what to say next. Something about it - "Oh," she says. "Oh, shit. This is sort of a protective thing, isn't it. For something, anyway. It must be, that's what the pyramid itself is for, right? Like magically, as well as being a giant piece of stone with traps and such."
Jane Foster	In the Barbican, distinguishing walls from floors or benches is dizzying in a glass labyrinth. They're all made of the same substance. Dodging around a schoolteacher clutching at her bag means stumbling over the slippery floor into a firefighter or accountant putting a broken arm to his brow. Frosted fingers stretch out from another headless sculpture near Phoebe. When she steps back, it's nearly to run into something. Someone. Guy in a grey hoodie is there, bopping to his tunes, the low buzz of static emanating from the headphones probably under the raised hood. He's the sort of guy that ladies usually cross the street when they walk alone at night. The sort of dude that gets a berth and blamed for doing things in the shop, profiled by every passing police officer. He reaches up to steady her. Snikt-snakt pocket-knife fingers emerge through her body under the kevlar, slinking, twisting in ways joints would have to possess a few more spans than double to properly achieve. In under the arm, jammed out, reaching for the light and the life and the-- Ow.
Morrigan MacIntyre	Morrigan looks up from the blood of hers that's hitting the ground as someone knifes Phoebe, ah crap! She rushes forward, not really caring if anything stabs her and tries to make a grap for the guy in the hoodie. Coming up from behind might work and she reaches out to grab him around the throat to pull him off and away from Phoebe, "Bad idea for you today." she whispers in an icy tone to him.
Phoebe Beacon	"Yeah, old videogame that they keep coming out wi-" Phoebe began, her voice low as she backed from Radha and just tries to be as unobtrusive as possible.     And then she falls backwards, stumbling against the glass. She hears the static, feels the opposite of her own magic against her, and as the knives strike her flesh at the weak points in the armor, her voice rings out like a bell, feeling knives peirce through her flesh, digging into her.     It was instinct then. She turns, she raises her arm, a brilliant shaft of light forming in her hand as she tries to ward her attacker OFF, blinding brilliance of the sun forming in her hand as her blood spills, brilliant ruby red dripping from the holes ripped in her armor, stumbling back as Morrigan takes point, Phoebe collapsing backwards.
John Constantine	Oh no, John doesn't miss Phoebe being here. He could sense that girl a mile away and she's currently marked by his magic. "I *told* you, more fuckin' work!" John snaps at Rien as he's shoving past her. Statues? He doesn't give two shits. This is the Underworld, there's magic *everywhere* even if it is the sort of stuff one likely doesn't want to touch with a ten foot pole. It's not fire that he sends in the direction of anything or anyone in his way. It's blasts of ice, followed by sheer force, followed by wind if necessary, lightning, followed by whatever the fuck he can pull out of his arse in the moment. He'll draw power form any source he can tap, even Phoebe herself, Morrigan, Rein, the chaos of *this* place itself. Anyone ever seen John Constantine lose his shit completely? This isn't a calculated risk, this isn't deciding to jump into a dark void to find answers, this isn't *deciding* to ride a God or drain an ancient stasis spell... this is madness plain and simple. ...and hoodie guy? He better hope he has somewhere other than the this place to spend his eternity, because if John's able? He's going to blow that fucking shade from existence in this realm. ...a man can only take *so much* and his worst fear is happening right here and right now, losing another person he cares about to the *bullshit*.
Rien D'Arqueness	Continuing towards John, Rien is not aware of what befalls Phoebe until the light bursts through the area, casting a long shadow in front of her. She spins, squinting against the glare of light and sizes up the situation, mutters a curse or two, and starts running back to where Phoebe is. John leads the way with blasts of ice and force, and Rien follows right behind him. After realizing what he's doing, she mutters a few words, runs through a couple of gestures and forms a shield of pure force between the people and John's fury. Shards of glass and ice hit the shield and drop to the floor instead of scything through the people gathered around Phoebe. Enchanted claws rip out of both hands to swipe at any statue that still threatens to cut someone walking by once John is done with them.     When she reaches the girl, there is probably a nice clear path back to the point she reached before coming back. If it is the hoodie guy who stabbed Phoebe, Rien will be there with claws leading the way, if there's actually anything left after John's first attack at him. She does, however, keep a watch on the area to make sure nothing sneaks up on the group when almost all their attention is on the injured girl.
Sara Pezzini	Holy... talk about exceedingly careless! Sara sees the statues shattering, the shards of glass landing on the slipper ground that people were already having troubles walking on. This is not good, this is the opposite of good, this is bad. The first thing she does is form a shield large enough for others to get behind or if needed, to lay down and catch someone on if they fall. In the other hand a metal shovel like weapon appears to start shoving the shards of glass out and away from the group, as far away as she can fling it. She could have broken the statues herself, it would have been extremely easy with the weapons at her call, but she didn't want to risk the carnage that apparently this John person gave no care about. "Watch out for the glass!" She warns quickly, and in this moment loses track of where ever the hell it is that May might end up. One versus many, she'll have to explain to Phil later and hope he understands.
Radha Thackeray	Hey, Radha thinks as she sees Phoebe stumble and then get -- stabbed -- pressed into by that knived shade -- Remember when you gave up your hope a moment ago? THAT WAS DEFINITELY REAL RADHA DARLING, she tells herself, staring in numb shock, which does have the upside that she is in fact just standing there, temporarily stunned, instead of screaming, smashing into glass statues, and so forth. Cold comfort... but that still counts as comfort, right?
Jane Foster	In the Barbican, Phoebe's defense burns... white. Not gold, not the friendly shade of a yellow star. But white, barely yellow around the edges. The least bit of light scintillates violently off so much glass. With that much, it absolutely explodes into coruscating black rainbows. Not much is needed to send iridescent shadows refracting in a way that hurts the eyes. Anyone in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden might recall a similar effect that devoured the Sorcerer Supreme in a torrent, and that hung from the trees in the Shakespeare Garden. Except this seems to be its weaker cousin, and the shadows reflected from the edges of glass are barely perceptible shades. Or more properly, wraiths. Morrigan grabs the hoodied guy and well, he has a hoodie. His jeans are jeans, if tattered. Wires are wires. But it's like grabbing a bag of air wearing clothes with metallic hands, and under that hood is merely a sheet of grey. No face in shadow, there is simply /no/ face. Her fingers clutch on compressed cloth and some kind of resistance, but not nearly enough.
Melinda May	Too far ahead to prevent the attack on Phoebe, May is inevitably caught in the landslide of ice and glass that follows the English Magician's response to it. And, being just far enough ahead of Sara, she lacks the protection of the metal shielding the witchblade can throw out. Her feet go out from beneath her, sharp shards of shrapnel of various sorts slice brutally through her tacsuit and across unprotected skin. As she tumbles into the darkness, the light from her swords winks out as they are knocked from her bleeding hands and she disappears down the slope. Alone.
Jane Foster	Then the ice careens over already slippery smooth surfaces, glazing the downsloping path until rime pours over the lip to the layers below. A level or two down, black iron and tarnished bronze pipes form impressive cobweb apparati under white snowflakes, swiveling and turning relentlessly through a glass shard blizzard. John's arc of force blows apart the field of statues, cracking them into dazzled splinters where not protected by Rien's dome. Even shielding doesn't stop them from sliding on a damn near perfectly smooth floor. And those floors have no barriers from the outer walls or the open hollow going all the way down to the point. Anything sent through smashes the outer casing of the pyramidal walls, and the deeper splinters run down the narrowing floors. Shades without any protection are flensed to ribbons and sent hurtling down onto the city outside or the grey hedgerows arranged into a labyrinth below. Hysterical wails and keening shrieks raise a cacophony. Souls caught in repetitive routines still perform them, but sob in terror and scream. Those souls fall just like human bodies. They break like anyone here would, hitting the ground or being run through by countless pieces of glass. They cannot heal, and they cannot die again. Madness that would kill the very people come to find an answer brings its own dizzying dangers. Glass that leaps up comes raining down, because everything in the Underworld invariably goes down, down, down. The ancient arts of stasis utterly resist any ability to pull on them. Even seeking to tap that unchanging, static energy is like sucking the concrete wall of the Hoover Dam through a swirly straw.
John Constantine	Walk around this place for days trying to find answers, be put through hell physically, mentally and emotionally, to the point that nothing mattered anymore... that Vows and oaths made were forgotten, to the point that there was *nothing* left but an empty void? Then have it all snap back, the pain and suffering of being faced with the WORST of one's fears. No one's seen careless yet. His man can only take so much and John Constantine is *just a man*. Once he's through those statues, John slides to his knees beside Phoebe. He doesn't make a sound, if he does he's just going to start screaming and not stop. In his mind's eye, he sees her pawing at the windows of that bus now too, accusing him just like the rest did. His expression says it all though, the pain and misery and the *daring* anyone to get close to the girl.
Phoebe Beacon	It's not a comfortable feeling to have someone pull on your powers. Especially not when your body is freaking out.     Phoebe was wide-eyed, her body trying to pull on its own magic, to close the wounds, the pressure around her and John pulling on her own m agic to fuel his stealing her breath, her eyes wide as she slips, broken glass and ice around her, slicing at her palms as she tries to reach out with her left hand, her right over the wound in her side as she tries to croak out John's name, and she has the realization that the k nives have turned her lung to hamburger. And she grasps her hand over the wound, her eyes going wide as JOhn slides to his knees, and she reaches out.     Then retracts her hand, knowing in this state, she would hurt him, and as the wound finally closes enough for her to go on auto-pilot, the draw stopping, she leans her head back, and closes her eyes, and lets tears of mixed relief and shame fall.
Morrigan MacIntyre	Morrigan releases the shade to it's own flencing, because she wasn't about to let that one get away. It might have been mindless...but she wasn't so sure. Then she's moving over to where Sara and the others are. "Hey, Phoebe." she states quietly. "Can I...try to heal you?" the Irish woman asks. She wasn't sure if it was something she was going to be allowed to do and she wasn't going to just do it if it wasn't a possibility.
Sara Pezzini	With the threat of the glass now gone, the shield and odd shovel turn back metal tendrils then slide back into the armor as a part of it. Where was May? "If possible, Phoebe," that was an interesting name. "You should try to let her heal you. I don't think we're done here and it's a good idea to be at our best."
Jane Foster	While tapping into the Underworld's pool of magic to invoke chaos may be a herculean task even for a Master of the Mystic Arts, other magic can be used. Phoebe's light burns. Rien's shield holds. Morrigan's healing can stitch the slashes together. John's own assortment of tempestuous, primordial volleys alloy the glass in ice and leave gaping holes in the walls, having very well sent the hoodied guys, the few who survived, fleeing. The wraiths seek the shadows. Beneath John, a slightly golden circle forms. It takes a moment for the sparks to fully merge together. Hell's Kitchen waits on the other side. The portal lasts for a few seconds, long enough to bridge the divide, and he's gone.
Phoebe Beacon	"I... I've got it under control, Dr. MacIntyre." Phoebe replies, lifting her hands. There's plenty of blood about, sure, but the flesh is healed, at least, though the kevlar body armor is *wrecked* on that side, and she goes to sit up, expecting admonishment and then -- the wraiths are gone... and so is John.     And Phoebe just looks lost a few moments, before she tilts her head back, and just lets her head thud down.