Owner	Pose
John Constantine	It's not from the front door that John enters the bar, it's from the back room. Any one that knows him? Well, they know that look. That crazed thing going on in those blue eyes, all wide and wild, but pupils pin point. It's not just that, it's the way he moves with a purpose, but a little too quickly as if he can't quite get there *fast enough*. Where exactly is there? It's not his bar stool. He heads straight for the little stage set up for live music when it happens. He stops and eyeballs the area critically. "It'll do, has to, big enough, aye? Think so, doesn't need to be all that big, just big enough."     Anything on the stage gets moved off it, set aside, on top of tables, wherever, doesn't matter as long as its not on the stage.     "I can do it, just take out that bit, just for a little while... just that bit..." Man is talking to himself a LOT tonight. But he leaves the empty stage area behind to traces his fingers along the walls of the bar in a wild, random pattern of ups and owns and round and rounds and inside outs that go back the opposite direction and back once more. To those that can't see the warding, it's... odd. To those that can, he's tracing particular paths and lines in them, the ones made by his own blood seeped into the walls.
Terry O'Neil	"... and the weird thing is that my /dad/ was the original Cheshire cat, but apparently it's a whole Highlander thing and There Can Only Be One. When I was born, he-" the Cheshire snaps his fingers, "Poof. I didn't even know about it. Neither did mom. But then, nineteen years later, I suddenly got a bad case of paws and-" Terry was leaning forward, talking to Meggan before Hurricane John hit. The Cheshire has never met the proprietor of the bar, so at first he mistakes his actions for those of an inebriated patron and he is about to ask Meggan if they should call security. But the mumbling, the drawing in the air and the urgent look are very decidedly the signs of either a madman or a sorcerer. Admittedly, the Venn diagram for that tends to be rather... So he decides to rely on Meggan, who is the regular here, for guidance as to whether this was par for the course or whether they needed to worry. He glances at her, one eyebrow raised.
Meggan Constantine	"Truly?" Eyes widening with interest, Meggan sits back at the fingersnap, like an interested audience does. A refill on the pop, one lacking any sort of additive that Meggan is fully entitled to, stretches out the evening of conversation had with her fellow media addict. A few drops of vanilla added to the drink she idly stirs up mid-conversation by whispered encouragement to the admixture to reach the exact balance. She takes a sip. "Is the position singular, then? It's different for the greymalkins, but only one can be the King or Queen of Cats in the Unseelie--" Her head turns sharply, silver hair swept off her shoulder, before John crosses from the backroom door to the front. Ice cubes rattle in the glass pushed away across the bar. That tidbit ends mid-exchange, for a hurricane striking the Laughing Magician at full force both requires anyone worth their salt to be in top perceptive form. Worry creases her brow, and she puts her hand to the bar. "Something important," she says slowly, looking over to John while he moves in purposeful, rushed motions. "He's a magician, *the* Laughing Magician the place is named after. Using blood has to be serious. I cannot be sure yet what that all is -- still learning." The rise in volume isn't much but she projects to be clear as a bell. "Do you need us to clear out or stay back, love?" Her right hand covers the left, thumb scrolling along the imparted filigree over her alabaster flesh. "Whatever it is, Terry, might want to keep hold of your bag." Worry deepens around her, but the calm doesn't break, a shell of sunlight sinking in and radiating out.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe rushes in, coming down the six stairs with her messenger bag over her shoulder, in fresh jeans and Stella Artrois T-shirt she'd found on one of her thrifting trips, her hair pulled back behind a moon-and-stars scarf since it was still damp, "Sorry I'm late!" she and she skids to a stop at the front of the bar "... Terry?!" she asks incredulously at the cat being there. This may in fact be one of the few times he's ever seen her without being 'Battle Ready' -- 'barback' doesn't exactly call for the nicest clothing. She looks to Meggan in question -- and then to the owner of the establishment.     She watches John for a moment in his moment of mania, and she raises her eyebrows, looking to the rest of the assembled group in the room, and then she looks to the ceiling, and then stretches her fingers.     "Okay, so we're all clueless except John. Night's proceding moderately normal then." she states, tucking her bag behind the bar.
John Constantine	Ah, there it is, the spot where that particular bit of it all began and ended. It's at that spot, the completion of the ambling this way and that circle that runs around the entire bar and stops again *right* where his finger rests. A double tap, a few words in Aramaic and a blazing trail travels the pattern of that bit from start to finish; at least to those that are 'other sighted'.     Come all ye Angels as thou are no longer banned from the Laughing Magician.     To the STAGE, quickly, quickly, hurry! Not over yet, not even close, can't get to the end fast enough. Why the hurry, John Constantine, it's not as if demons and monsters nip immediately at those heels. Nothing chasing this even, save the end of everything as we know it.     White spray paint, a perfectly formed circle on the stage, swirls and twirls and and curly-cues and sigils and letters oh my. It's different this time, at the end of it. John doesn't stand outside the ring, he stands at its center.     He point snaps at Meggan, "Shuddup, love, no need for you here." Ooooh... harsh, but he still has a few more than a few issues to be dealt with on that front. "My path, not yours." Alone on it always. Even that bit is too manic, too... crazed. Why? Well maybe because he's smack dab in the middle off a manic episode as well as a circle. But sometimes, every once in a while, brilliance comes from his madness, dunnit?     The language he speaks is Enochian and his intent clear to those who speak it. Daft bastard is calling down the angels. If downstairs wants to be sodden arseholes, let's look up. Are you there, God? It's me, John.
Terry O'Neil	Terry 'aaahs' silently at Meggan's explanation. At this moment, this magician didn't seem to be laughing, but he was ready to take the title in good faith, anyways. He is about to ask another question when- "/Pheebs?/" he asks, eyes growing wide. He quickly glances over to the door in case, you know, Lois decided to stroll in. Or Diana. The way this day was going, that was possible. He turns back to face his friend, "Man. You take advice from an old decrepit wizard and all sorts of weird coincidences happen..." He frowns at the way John speaks to Meggan, but he doesn't interrupt. He is no fool. He may be untrained, but he can recognize when someone is doing an incantation. But he does lean in to whisper, "... what's he going on about?" as quietly as he can. Perish the thought that he might distract a wizard casting a spell. Be wary of wousing a wizard's wrath and all that.
Hela	All stories are lies. But good stories lies made of light and fire. And they lift our heart out of the dust, And out of the grave.      -- Mike Carey Beings from the first inception of creation cannot simply walk through the front door, even should that door be temporarily erected on a musical stage laden by emotions from however many performances. The white paint scarcely settles into a beautiful ring before the inner circumference starts to harden and lift along supremely ordered facets. Milky protrusions resembling quartz crystals lift diagonally inward to the Laughing Magician. Imagine a turn of a gem in front of two mirrors, and the paint spikes fracture again, growing at rigid geometric angles. The process repeats in a constant turn that processes the constellations over the night sky and sends planets in orbits around stars, stars round galaxies, galaxies through the eternal void expanding faster than its age. What was set in motion billions years past continues apace as the air thickens and produces a soft zephyr circling ever upward. The second great warning of something immense collapsed down into being follows. Hushed sound, what altogether sounds like flipping pages or falling sand, bleeds through reality thickened upon itself instead of thinning. No weakness appears between the veil separating mundane reality from the countless other planes around it. A single feather alights on its quill, the vane beginning to burn with clear aquamarine flame. When they consume everything but the downy barbs, the fluff lifts up in a circle spread around John. And a girl of about twelve smooths her t-shirt down over her shorts and proceeds to clasp her hands together. Her hair is braided back off-center, the rest brushed smoothly down her back. "Hello John Constantine. Thank you for the invitation," she says in a voice still just this side of piping, her brown eyes lifting up to him. For once, he finds someone shorter than himself. A little curtsey follows, bobbing, straight again. "Would you be offended if I pulled out a notebook?" She pats the little canvas satchel at her side. Designs all over it run the gamut, though she has a little enamel red and yellow pin that reads 'Eyes on the Fries' along with a certain famous eye from the American dollar bill, instead of a pyramid. "It would seem wise." https://open.spotify.com/track/3pTNVDJpzaLxiZnbC18SMX?si=4a2376925bc7425e
Meggan Constantine	Meggan is halfway to rising from the barstool as Phoebe dashes down the stairs, sending a brief but warm smile in her direction. Her gaze goes to the pretty stars scarf, then back to the younger woman's face. "It's okay." Words that might be a rote recitation of belief hold an entirely different conviction there, engraved from some place deeper than flippant statements or hallmark greetings. "We are for the moment. Everything in due time, right?" The sting of being told to can it produces a wan lift of her mouth at the corner, but with John hastening to centerstage in more ways than one, she just gently shakes her head. The latter probably applies as much to Terry. Instead, she slips back atop the stool and perches there. Vibrations rolling around from magic, the high kind, keep her hands placed flat to her knees. "Called something big," she whispers to both of them before. And after? And after, the silence means being fairly captivated.
John Constantine	His plan was to rant and rail and demand and stomp his feet like John is so wont to do when he's in a mood, when he feels as if he's been dicked around enough by both upper and lower management. It's a bit of a let down really, in some ways, John had that fit rehearsed so well. Instead he just mutters, "Huh, well that worked."     He waves a hand at the child-who-is-so-not and replies, "Whatever, Suri," he may be thrice damned but he knows his Archs at least, "s'fine, write it all down in the book of 'John Constantine's wretched life at the bottom of a bottle spent there because we never saw fit to HELP HIM SAVE HUMANITY!" There, that felt good. He sucks in a deep breath and adds, "If you aren't here to help, if you're just here to tell me that you can't involve your poor wee self because you might break a nail, then bugger on off..."     Chas, there behind the bar through it all and saying nothing because... well, what can he say? It's not like John *listens* when Chas goes: Don't do that, John. Well, the cabbie is just shaking his head, wide eyed and dumbfounded.     He grits his teeth and forces out the words, "Sorry, it's been a rough fuckin' month."     As if the Angel with the clipboard isn't aware.
Phoebe Beacon	She does not speak it, but Phoebe recognizes the melodic quality of Enochian. Her eyes go wide and she pulls back with a look to Terry, and then to Meggan, with a surprising amount of knowledgeable horror crossing her face as she considers making a mad dash to drag the Cheshire Cat away, but she breathes out. She can *feel* the vibrations -- and the healer reaches to hold Terry's arm as she looks to Chas, and then to Terry.     "This might be a really bad time for you to be claws out." she states quietly to him, and turns to watch John.     And chokes a moment at the statement.
Terry O'Neil	Terry visibly /relaxes/ at the appearance of the celestial personage, which is such an opposite reaction to the one a person experiencing an (arch)angelic visitation might exhibit. But, then again, they were not creatures of pure, if benevolent, chaos. It's like he has had a good serving of Irish Cream and is settling down in front of the fire for an amusing, if chill, afternoon. "Oh dear gods, look at her, Pheebs, she is /adorable/!" he says quietly, giggling a little, and then he frowns, "Why is he being so mean to her, though? She-" he pauses, and the glances at Phoebe, focusing. "Claws out? Hey... it's like that cartoon, Lyraculous Maydaybug, right? Except that dude's supposed to be handsome and I'm the red-headed stepchild. Cat. Step-cat. Step..." he shakes his head and takes a deep breath. What? he watched it as a kid. "But the three D models look weird anyways." After that influx of high magic from the summoning, it seemed the celestial personage was containing her emanations, so Terry slowly comes down from the high, even if he does remain a little giddy. "... she's some sort of angel, right?" he whispers to Meggan. Because only something like /that/ would have required such a wallop of high holy magic to summon. He is slowly starting to get some of his bearings and the giggling subsides, leaving a grin. He then proceeds to give a little /wave/ towards the archangel. Because he's still in that state of mind.
Hela	How sad to disappoint one's host. Only so much someone responsible for introducing the cosmic background radiation of the universe into being matter can do about that. Suri absolutely hears John's mutter. She has the grace not to exactly let on, with that coy teen way of averting her gaze to something much more intriguing. Floorboards receive a nanoscopic, intimate review for a few moments. Quarks and atoms might feel the urge to wave to her. Wrinkling her nose beckons them to <<Settle down. Be on better behaviour.>>. Weathering the shout half of Manhattan hears brings her looking back up. She waits for John to finish speaking before plucking open the side pocket of her bag. "I accept your apology, and your kind offer," she says. "Dad says don't be afraid, Mr. Chandler. You have a good heart and your spirit is in the right place." The girlish smile has a way of brightening her face, round apples of her cheeks still soft with traces of a smaller, younger child. The weathered brass buttons hold infinitely complex Enochian seals including her name. She pulls out a pen, and then follows with a cute notebook featuring, of all things, chibi-Batman brooding in the corner. Finding a fresh page the first time, she leaves a sunset gradient in loopy handwriting across the first pristine line. "I write nothing *nasty* in my notebook about you." Her forehead puckers a little but smooths out. Those eyes are so warm. "That wouldn't be very nice or true, would it? That's not -me-, Mr. Constantine. But I might have a few questions, which I also put down." She taps the page. See? A squiggly question mark. In Enochian. "Will you do a favour for me, Mr. O'Neil? Can you make this gesture if you notice anything getting kind of prickly and out of hand?" She holds up her palm, middle finger curled down and touching her thumb precisely. The surya mudra, for any familiar, which is only fair given the meaning of her name and her dominion. "That'll be a little sign to help me out. Do that and I'll stop and check in!" After he gives a response, she looks on to Meggan and Phoebe, and wiggles her hand with the pen back and forth. "Hi, daughter of Gaea and daughter of the light!" She loops another line on the page, and looks back to John. Such small changes and the world without her direct gaze feels looser, somehow less real, a bit sullied. Around her, that which Is and will Be is that much more fluid, deepened in the experience as much as the circle allows. "You've had a pretty crap few months. Lots of good in there, too, though. The good gives a special strength too, for from that flows all the great acts and small miracles ever undertaken. Your heart may ache from the burdened weights you carry, but it has not surrendered quite yet, has it? So, let's talk now we got the basics out of the way."
John Constantine	John's nostrils flare like a little angry bull. "I didn't call you here to talk about my bloody heart." Bloody in the curse sense and metaphorically in the bleeding and ripped apart sense. He pulls a Silk Cut; blue box those, from his pocket and lights one with his little zippo. "I called you here to find out how I stop the fuckin' ravenous wyrm monstrosity that's wakin' up and comin' to devour the Gods." He dare not speak its name. "Wee bit of a problem that, dontcha think?"     Tired. Tired. Tired. Fucking exhausted of it all, yet still going. "I don't *need* riddles and bullshite and run arounds and puzzles and more of the same," he points out before it even starts down that path. "How do I send it back to whatever vacay spot it prefers to lounge about in when Death Gods aren't destroying each other and ringin' the dinner bell in the process?" Right to the point, aye?
Meggan Constantine	Going from a warlock's scolding to being cheerily addressed by a little-not-girl would be enough to make anyone's head snap. Meggan still blinks through the vibrant patina left by the Enochian summons, Phoebe's rush of breath signalling her to pay attention to something other than the brilliant lightshow currently leaving her a bit dazzled by its presence. The brief delay in helping haul anyone out of harm's reach proves gratefully no trouble. "It's so bright," she whispers. "How can he contain that much with only that?" An element of appreciation might be there in the aside to Phoebe, but she really tries not to interrupt. Drawing breath a little slower than fast, her movements have a slowed, elegant quality as she slides back until the bar bites into her tailbone. Then vacating the stool is practically rote, her feet thumping on the floor. Actual contact, really. Only then can she really quite trust herself to nod a little to Terry. "Has to be. Otherwise it's the sun, and we aren't torched to a crisp. He's got it under control." Even despite the grumpy tones and the accusations being flung at something which could conceivably take umbrage and wipe out the Eastern Seaboard if she were in the mood.
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe is surprisingly tense. Nothing in Sunday School prepares you to meet an Archangel. Or that when she mentions something prickly and out of hand only the one that summoned her -- it? Her? She? Or being greeted by one. At least the first words were not 'be not afraid'. That generally follows with tidings, and Phoebe can trust herself, pushing back whatever emotions seeing the angel, seeing Proof. Meeting Paulie was one thing, but something contained largely in the circle --     The 'Thump' catches her attention as Meggan falls down. Phoebe releases Terry's arm, seeing that he should behave himself, and she hops the bar to grab Meggan, watching her own Light and powers and trying to lift the smaller woman back into a seat.     "He's got practice, Meggan. Up we go--" she states, looking to put the silvery-haired woman back onto a stool.
Hela	"That's just it, John Constantine, the heart and the soul are all that matters when dealing with Gaea's son." John's anger does not draw the archangel out. Not a wisp of fluff circles other than where she wants it. She weathers this as the pleas and curses of mankind, as the loss of brethren in the First War. "All he knows is the unceasing call for vengeance on the gods of death. Spilling their divine ichor cleanses Creation of their sins, but hurts a great many others too. When your focus gets that narrow, you can't see anything else." She pauses. A beat. Three. "You'd know something about that, maybe?" The wisdom comes from the mouth of a child, absent the pointed thrust of a holy lance through someone's denials or anger. "He needs to see something other than righteous anger brought by cries for deliverance and justice from the dead that reached him in his stony sleep," Suri says. She compresses her lips into a small puckered line. Her downcast brown eyes meet the page. She flips back two, and puts her finger on a line to read it. "He became restless and thrashed as the dead were forsaken, but the gods were too consumed by their squabbles to do anything about it, Mr. Constantine. They might have turned back then, but they did not. The litany of terrible wrongs poisoned his dreams to nightmare. There was no turning back when the old law was thrown down by spilling Erlik and Marzanna's blood in Hispaniola. They didn't just sin against every mortal but his mother, for Gaea is the Life Force. Now he arises from the lightless deeps, driven by a need for judgment to right the balance." She raises her finger to her lips. "They've gone and hurt the person he loves most in the world, and he is doing everything to save her. Except he goes completely overboard, and we're in this mess. He isn't much for talking and thinking clearly right now unless you can get through that. But it can be done, John Constantine."
Terry O'Neil	Amazingly, Terry is familiar with the mudra. "Ooh... I know that. Sure, I will!" he says quietly and subdued to the archangel. The presence is controlled enough not to send him into giggling fits, but in stead of awe, he is a puddle of relaxation. Like a cat basking in the biggest, brightest sun-spot possible. He frowns, though, and glances at Meggan and Phoebe. "Something is coming to eat the gods?" he asks them quietly, "Some sort of beast? It sounds... Jabberwockian." A brief pause. "That's not a word. Is that a word? Anycase... should we tell Diana? The god-stuff is her parfum. Perrier. Payperview. PURview." And then he grins. "Heh. Purrrrview."
John Constantine	John's jaw clenches, that little muscle in his right cheek twitches. "No I wouldn't. My eyes and my focus are wide enough," he pushes out between grinding teeth in barely a whisper. "How can I stop him before ... he gets far enough. Where do I go to head him off at the pass?" So he can get 'through that', maybe? The question is asked softly, with perhaps a little tremor to his voice. Man's terrified, who wouldn't be?     That Silk is still tucked between his lips, bobbing up and down as he speaks. His hand strays to an inside pocket of his trench coat, one inside another that's even inside another, tucked away, hidden within a seam. ... a little plastic baggie filled with seeds. It's a subconscious thing, checking them. He's been doing it a lot lately.     But it's always *I*, not we. How can *I* stop it. It's not arrogance that leaves the we out of the equation, it's necessity; the feeling so deep rooted inside him by the events of the past few months that he no longer understands any other way to any real degree. Alone, it's the way he's meant to do *everything*, even this mammoth task, Herculean even.     No one came in the darkness, no one's come since. It's on him, or so it seems, and the weight of it has nearly crushed him to nothing. But he'll find a way through it or die trying, won't he?     "Where do I need to go?" he repeats in a more steady voice, tremor gone, bravado and swagger and arrogance stepping out of the shadows to slay the demons. It's who he is, it's what he does, right?     ...and Chas, the best mate and best cabbie in all the realms between Heaven and Hell, polishes the same glass he's been polishing since this all started, brow furrowed, expression a mixed bag of it all - anger, awe, terror and sadness. He has nothing to say because he knows nothing he says will change any of it.
Phoebe Beacon	"Something has been killing the Death Gods. I could have /sworn/ I sent a message when I first got wind--" she mutters as Phoebe tries to split attention between the conversation between John and the Angel, and keeping the two others in check, but she is listening. She Knows it is beyond her power at the moment, and she hangs back with Terry and Meggan, making sure they don't move forward or cross that circle. She keeps her gaze down slightly, her shoulders positively tense as she trembles. Her knuckles pale as she holds to the side of the bar.
Meggan Constantine	"He does. No one else I would trust to deal with it so well except the Doctor, and possibly the Pope, if the Pope even can," Meggan murmurs to Phoebe, with a smile all the same on her lips for a few seconds. She doesn't float, though her native state is buoyant, standing flat on the ground until aided back up onto the stool. Running a hand over her eyes blots out the intense radiance cast by spells and beings still contained within the circle. She breathes in and out for a good three seconds each, and blinks carefully after dropping her hand. "Sorry." She is! "I have not seen anything that brilliant before. It is beautiful, but so much to take in. Like staring full into the sun, innit? Everything's adjusting some, and it feels better now." A smile creeps out when turning to Terry, just for a moment. She looks aside to John, tracking him entirely with a range of senses not dependent on visual cues at all. "Would telling her put her at risk? I was bound to keep the nightmare from seeing me." Gently she reaches out to touch Phoebe's arm, a steadying hand as certain as the earth's strength, if she lets her. "He's got it, Phoebe. We will stand through this, and the season will pass. It always has, and I believe it always will." There can be no other choice, else might as well just jump in the grave.
Hela	Another string of notes spill out on the page, the gel transformed from coral to deepening red, purple, and up to cornflower. Suri draws a little smiley face inside a full sun. She watches everyone else outside the circle for a few seconds quite often, checking for hand signs, proof of distress or people not paying their bartabs. Chas has a twelve-year-old ally in properly running his business. "You best be sure," she replies, so mild it might be murmured. Her piping, girlish voice is better suited for singing and laughing. Is not life meant to equate to joy at that age, free the tempestuous headwinds of full adolescence when every bright child turns into a sullen, antisocial reprobate or a contrary banshee? While he rolls the seeds around, she nods to John. "Those will help. They open a window of opportunity. It won't last that long, so you need to use them smartly. He is made entirely of vengeance and hunger. Seeds from the River carry life's power inside them like his mother's, you see." "Kukulcan." The paper tears and she's holding out the sheet from her notebook with a map sketched in a neat outline, showing the Yucatan. "When you get in the vicinity, you show up as a smiley sun. You'll be joining the fight there. Asgard sent its princes and lady of war to combat their renegade death goddess, the Vishanti their champion. Others come, armed by resistance from the Underworld." She pipes up about Diana. "Every bit counts. Thanatos pushed creation to the brink. Pluto broke it and dances on the terraces of Kukulcan in his hour of glory." The shadow on the floor stretching away from her is small and neat. Nothing to intimate anything at all is off about a twelve-year-old, except the hissing of sand and shivering parchment strengthens again. "I want something from you, as you have given the other side freely so much, John Constantine. Seven lives of my choosing to be saved in the future. The *rules* say no putting my hand in without the other side pulling their own trickery. It's a nice work contract. You agree to help them to the best of your ability, and the gods and mortals facing the God-Eater get the greatest treasure I can give them."
Terry O'Neil	"They sent Lady Sif? Oh, she's my friend! She'll kick major a-" he pauses. You are in the presence of an angel, Terry O'Neil, "posterior. But I'll let Di know! I'll call her..." he reaches for his phone, and then thinks better of it, "when I'm not so... y'know." When Lydia arrives, the Cheshire gives her the friendliest wave ever, even if she is a total stranger. It's a 'come, grab a chair and let's watch reruns of Touched By An Angel!' "Oh..." he says to Phoebe, "... do you think it would be gauche if I asked her for some souvenir for Caitlin? It would make Caitlin absolutely jump over the moon. She goes to mass every Sunday and everything, Caitlin does. She's such a great friend..." he glances over at Suriel and frowns. How /do/ you ask an angel? And besides, she seems very preoccupied telling John about where he needs to go. He frowns a little more and tries to focus on how to solve the problem with all of his buzzed, slightly high mind.
John Constantine	The request, it should be easy enough right? But it literally knocks John's breath from his chest for just a moment. Faded denim blues flicker from Chas, to Meggan, to Phoebe, little Geraldine flashes in his mind's eye, Renee - the woman who loathes him and probably rightfully so, Nettie, his best friend in the world outside Chas Chandler; his confidant and his *rock*, steady and always there. Six lives spared Nergal's grasp and even given the demon lord's protection...     ... so long as he doesn't tip the scales toward light when he restores the balance. A contract signed in blood that. Fuck. Will this do that? There's no way to know, is there.     He plucks his now spent Silk from his lips and tosses it to the stage to ground it out under a heel. It's his bar, he'll litter in it if he wants right. The pain of the decision is, for just a moment, written all over his face. Until his gaze drops to that crushed cigarette butt for a beat or five before he looks back up again.     Six lives, the lives of the people that mean more to him than his own life ever could weighed against... potentially all of humanity. How does one man MAKE that decision? By leaving his heart out of it, hardening that thing just a wee bit more, right?     "Fuck..." muttered and barely audible. A shake of his head, little motions along with a tilt, denial... indecision. ...and finally, "Fine, seven of your choosing." Those aren't tears that well for a moment when he speaks the words, it's just the smoke in his eyes from the first drag off the new Silk he lights before hand, innit?
Phoebe Beacon	"You know pretty much everyone, don't you Terry?" Phoebe asks with a dry tone to her voice, "And.. um..." she pauses, and she glances to Terry.     "World might be ending, might be a bit gauche to ask an angel for a souvenir... besides, you couldn't handle it. You'd probably get absolutely blitzed. That's not just /any/ angel, Terry." Phoebe states quietly.     Which is probably why she's so very tense.     "... honestly, I trust John more than I trust the Pope." Phoebe mutters, but she pulls away from Meggan, drawing back twards Terry as she minds both, keeping a wary eye on John and the Angel. She remains tense, in spite of the comfort and steadying. It's not John that she's concerned about... or for. The girl with her damp braids still up in that stars-and-moons scarf has her hands full as she watches the exchange on the stage. Her heart rises into her throat as John looks around the room.
Meggan Constantine	"Do you know everyone?" asks Meggan in a brief aside to Terry at the same time as Phoebe, though she hardly expects him to answer the question when the greater portion of focus goes back to the deal. Her eyes move to the white painted circle, settled down and ringing man and immortal being. Human in likeness of God, God's great servants. Her breath comes out in a rattle. "You'd be right. The Pope has a different set of standards to run with. It all comes down to doing the right thing, doesn't it?" Fingers curl, and she brushes her mouth over the back of her hand where a sorcerer's exquisite handiwork twists the channels of time and eternity against the seasons and holds them suspended. She meets John's eyes. Shuddup? She can be silent. But an empath is still an empath, and for a moment, her lips lift just slightly.
Hela	"Getting to engage with the wider fam is a W, you know?" Her brown eyes brighten. The pen waggles, close enough for hello. "I'm highkey thrilled to get some help." The girl of twelve with a cool t-shirt and cutoffs looks up at the ceiling. "Lady Sif halted a ritual murder at no small cost to herself. Her blood runs cold with a maiming spite. A thing that can only be corrected by a father's forgiveness or a hunter's placation. Pity that brother of hers has his eyes turned elsewhere, wouldn't it be nice if he..." Thinking aloud, she returns to writing another note or two. She is not oblivious to the pause. Not to the question for something given as a gift she might provide. But in the end, what binds mortals and the archangels has never been any matter less than life and nothing smaller than choice. "I will give you a name. A death that must not come at Chichen Itza if you may halt it," she promises softly. His pain sends her moving inside the first time, pacing three steps to the right. "What you are carrying cannot restore the souls reaped by the death gods. I'm sorry." She gestures. "Anyone lost that way has been lost until." The statement is deliberately incomplete. Call it unfair, but the High Mysteries shall remain so. "The Seeds require something to root into for them to take effect. They are life and life can exist nearly anywhere. Destinies begin in something so small." A jot of movement and she pokes the air, leaving a bright coral dot of gel ink hanging there. "Traditionally they were sought by the infertile to quicken their fields or their bodies, and so would be taken with water into the soil or swallowed whole. A healthy child will result, always. A field will be fecund and feed the multitudes. Placed in the dying or freshly dead, they can restore them to wholeness and wellness. Though it's a tricky business with the Great Law cast down, be *careful* with the deceased. A child conceived of a Seed or eating one will know never starvation, disease, ill-fortune or infirmity. They will have a destiny, one spun of a thread of gold and silver. No cheating, though, Dad won't let any of us say what that will be. *Living* to see that destiny fulfilled is another matter, but the Seed of the River makes someone stand out. You know?" She smiles. "But there is more. These were watered in front of the Bayt al-Hikmah and so bring the collective weight of wisdom to them. Wisdom's a tricky thing. Double-edged sometimes. Gaea's son is not immune to the Seeds or what they embody. But show only reason for him to rage, he will rage. Like I said, a matter of the heart and mind. You have to separate them out for him to have reason to stop punishing everyone and go away. But *if*." Her finger rises. "*If* you all can do it right, he'll restore what he took away. My dad and his mom are big on putting things to rights." Then leans forward, and whispers something to John.
Terry O'Neil	"Pheebs, the world almost ended /yesterday/ and we stopped it. The world almost ends all of the time. An Archangel only happens once in a lifetime!" he whispers back, and then he blinks at the question, given to him by both women, perhaps as a distraction. "I mean, I know you Pheeb, and you know Diana and I know Di and you know Red Robin whom I know as well, and Megg knows Harley who's my best friend and she knows April who's my cousin and they both now Ivy and ..." he trails off as the Archangel speaks to John. He listens to everything. Except the whisper. Even if he /could/ because he has cat ears, he doesn't. That would be impolite, and Sister Julia Child Of God had taught him better than that at Catholic school. Wait. WAS that her name? Once he has heard everything that was polite to hear, he turns to his friends and whispers. "... If I weren't lightly tripping balls, I think I could have understood that better."
Hela	Suri isn't going to be heard by anyone else unless it's Meant To Be. Not short of the Presence or the few above her, as space does a little shimmy dance. Where the need is present, so does her mighty Dominion extend, the Word of her purpose resonating across layers of reality. Spying done days from now won't work. Spells or attempts to peer through a scoured patch of glass on the moment are locked by her will evoked. "Seven lives of my choosing to save in the future, and you'll help them to the best of your ability," she whispers. "Ready for your life to save? Here's your name." She waits for John's confirmation. A moment longer, then she presses a scrap of paper into his hand. John Constantine. Her voice at his ear says the same, infallible, in Enochian. "John Constantine." A beat. "Save yourself. In Dad's name, /try/."
John Constantine	When John reaches up to rub at his left eye with the heel of his palm, it's just the smoke again, right? Or tired eyes maybe. He hears everything told him by Suriel. It's why he's going through this innit? To get answers. It may not all be processing through his brain yet, but it's being committed to memory for later processing.     ...and then comes the whisper; his breath is knocked from him again. The paper handed to him nearly gets crumpled to nothing before he stops himself. All the color drains from his face; not that there's ever much there to begin with. His head shakes again, those little side to side motions, eyes closed tight, a tilt to his head. Those faded denim blues open again, they're wide with disbelief and too bright with the same emotion his voice cracks with when he states, simply, "That's not fair."     Who said life was fair, Johnny Boy.     "Why?"
Phoebe Beacon	Phoebe turns to to Terry, and then just shakes her head "I don't need to know that. My anxiety's already through the roof because I can't do anything about this one." she mutters to the Titan, just oh-so-softly an admission. She breathes out unsteadily, watching John's reaction. Her face fills with puzzlement, her dark eyes set and watching the Angel and the Magician on the stage, before she closes her eyes, and takes a couple steps back. She raises her left hand to her face, knuckles to her lips as she watches, apart.
Meggan Constantine	Meggan has things to say about Harley and Ivy, flattering ones and generally positive admissions that may express how terribly uncommon her life became after ascending from Hell. Lead a few infernal rebellions successfully, maybe that builds a rapport with Ms. Quinn and another servant of the Green. Environmental activism only looks different when your kiss is toxic and mulching people is considered an acceptable conservation method. She gives a little nod to Terry's admission to Phoebe, but everything else slews away in the breathless moments that separate seconds into relative epochs. Whole aeons rise and fall between the speaking archangel and the reaction from the one person on Earth that means more than life itself to her. Every etched score of emotion writes something on the palimpsest of the psyche, but she harbours her silence in tranquillity. Another gentle mental whisper directs that quiet chord of harmony to him, simply there in the background, but present.
Hela	Why. Fundamental question of the universe, asked by nearly every sentient being at some point or another. The archangel of the primordial beginnings and eternity, the benevolent judge of souls, considers John for several moments. Seconds that surely feel like eternity. Wings brush the firmament with a plaintive chord though her shadow and form do not possess them. Reality would crumple like paper without her compressing herself into a finite space, self-sealed and checked by an Enochian circle and demon-corrupted blood that might not actually do a thing to suppress her if she pushed it. Chocolate brown meet faded skies, earth and air or water. "Dad believes in you," the word is simultaneously registered as the personal individual and the personal group. "Is that not enough?" A cheeky little smile blossoms. "Mm, Gabriel won't like this much but they can take it up with Michael," she says rhetorically. The notebook goes away into her colourful canvas bag. Finally she turns sideways until those outside the circle can see her, and she sees them. "You said yourself, you got the short end of it." Again the singular, again the plural, in the same word, so understanding is painfully clear. "We move to inspire and empower those in creation to reach their fullest potential, not leave them brought low." Terry earns a little smile, and it spreads. "You will need to face the coming darkness together. It is not a task for one, even you, to complete. Remind him, Terry O'Neil, the value and strength found in bonds to others." Cue that finger-wiggle to Chas. "He has faith in you. He trusts in you and stands by you against all tests, fuelled by his conviction and conscious choice. Am I to name him false?" Then a pause as she assesses Phoebe with the same slight smile. "She has hope. She would act to infuse the very light she holds to create a better world in the future. Am I call her wrong?" One last moment, and her gaze slips from the last woman back to John. "Love." No more, no less. "What else gives means to bear, believe, and endure all things. Am I to deny it?" "Choose the answer you like, but you have my terms." Suriel's smile is back, a little cheeky again. "Are you prepared to act? He will descend on Kukulcan and his wrath is infused by the very bloodied ground the gods of death fused their new dominion from. Such hunger will not be satiated by them alone."
John Constantine	It's a barely there whisper, but his voice is flat now, even. John's taken all the rest of it and shoved it away in a filing cabinet marked with a big old 'Do. Not. Open.' sign the key tossed away in the dark where it belongs, where *he* belongs.     "So I can add their faces to the others?" It's not really question meant to be answered, he doesn't even explain it. Perhaps she knows, maybe not. Either way, it's easy to see that he's done and ready to be out of the circle.     ...that he can't leave without breaking and he cant break it until she's gone.     Louder though, "I'm always prepared to act." Too much so sometimes truth be told.     Lit Silk still between his lips, he paces a little at the far end of that damned cage he's locked in. Out and away from it all, to think or drink or both... the latter until he can no longer manage the former? Always a good plan, until the day dawns anew and the problem is still fucking *there*.     What's a mortal man to do when God 'believes in him' but he belongs to Hell? Fuck'm both, right, and chart his own course. Something he'll find in the light of day after downing a little of the hair of the dog and a half bottle of Tylenol.
Terry O'Neil	Terry sits up straighter when he is addressed by the Archangel. His personal theology has become /very/ complicated, and he is not entirely sure how all of the gods and multiple afterlives line up... Nor does he quite know what will become of a Wonderlander when he dies- because no Wonderlander has died yet. He gives her a quick nod, the kind that says 'yes ma'am!' at her request. Bonds to others- that was something he understood. Colette might cynically observe that in being so gregarious, Terry might be making up for some personal void and a fear of loneliness and rejection. Kian, optimistically, might say that Terry simply just liked people a lot. Donna, with more wisdom, might say it was a little of both. At the end of the day, Terry took his friendships seriously. Which reminded him of something else, too. How do you ask for things? Prayer, some would say. He doesn't speak out, but thinks of a little petition- not for him, but for Caitlin. Then he glances at Meggan and Phoebe. He sensed there was a lengthy conversation coming, after this.