February 12, 2016:

Someone hitched a ride with Lillith; could it be an act of revenge on Constantine?


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

In the beginning, there was nothing but darkness. Silence that expanded itself across the cosmos but yet within a blink of an eye we were there. We started out as one, split apart and broken into two. The two joined in union to make four. So on and so forth. And it was all with a guiding hand, that some may say. Some would say we were thought into existence but most believe it was all magic. Magic that how a billion of the Earth's Humans began to expand and spread across the lands with their innovations, their inventions and ingenuity.

Some say, that humans hold that special spark. The chosen few, that is. The chosen few who could create life with their very finger-tips and manipulate matter with just a thought.

And then there was Her.

The most unique and the most dangerous. And yet the most elusive of them all. No one knows why, no one knows where, but when she moves, the magic and matter could feel the thrum of every phantom step she takes..


Lillith was doing nothing, really. Having been 'promoted' of sorts with a little downtime on her hands she decides to take the car and just -go-. She no longer held her apartment that was right in the thick of New York, she resided near Hells Gate for easy commute and travel. But nothing about her venturing to the trenches of Gotham was magical. The worn down and beaten up bars is where this budding little alcoholic was meant to be, hopped on the bar stool with her sketch book in hand, drawing out random words and allowing the pencil itself to fly. Yet.. that moment, that very moment when she loses herself in her writing is when the call came.

The call that was ever so subtle within the back of the mind..

One that urges, seeks.. finds the place to take over and everything becomes dark.

Her eyes slowly meld and bleed sclera, filling all parts of it black, sinking into the whites again to return it to normal. And then there was a smile, a slight lean back as her legs cross over the other, the book itself carefully folded shut and the pen placed neatly upon it.

"Two whiskeys." She calls out with a lift of her hand. "The most expensive bottle you have."

"He's already got it," the bartender says, nodding at her table. Sure enough, there it sits, perhaps the last bottle of Johnny Walker Blue that the bar will see for a decade nigh to come. John's eyes are red-rimmed with fatigue and his sullen slouch seems to emphasize a bone-deep weariness that makes his every motion listless. He's playing solitaire with a deck of cards, and as much as a person can win, he's winning— the motion of his arms sloppy, his fingers yet nimble and quick.

When Lillith sits, he flicks his eyes up to her, staring through his eyelashes, then tilts his head back. The shadows around his gaze shallow but don't depart, leaving his face a grim mask.

"Can I help you, luv?" he asks the lady, making a vague gesture with the roll of his wrist. "Not really looking for a tumble or a turn of company today," he says, bluntly. He picks up the deck and shuffles it, bridging cards through the air from hand to hand.

There was a slight lean back, her shoulders rolling back and forth until the coat was shrugged off, building up behind her back as her hands join together beneath her chin. "Oh, well you're going to get it." Lillith 'not Lillith' states. "You have a drink I'm dying to have and you took the only bottle. The only way I see for us both to get what we want is if we share and exist in our own spaces or.."

She tilts her head slightly, lips pursing just a touch. Her eyes.. they were off. For if he looked at her too long, he could tell the subtle movements of her gaze attempting to look left.

"So what do you say, luv?" She tries to mimic, "Halfsies?"

"It's a three-hundred bottle of whiskey," John says with an uplifted eyebrow. "So let's say cash up front, and then we'll talk." Still, he leans forward and slops some of the whiskey into a second glass and shoves it towards Lillith with a lazy upsit, then immediately slumps back into his chair. "You looking for me in particular?" he asks the woman, his right arm dangling loosely to his side. His coat's draped behind him on the chair, as if he'd shrugged out of it much as Lillith had. "You're a bit too well dressed to be a doxy, and the eyes, well…" He gestures vaguely at his own eyes with his whiskey-wielding cup. "The eyes, you know?"

He comes up with a cigarette in his right hand and arches his hips off the chair to dig a golden zippo from his pocket. He cups fire in his hand, light illuminating pale blue eyes, and stokes on the cigartte with quick hollows of his cheeks to get it to life.

"And that's supposed to frighten me?" Lillith 'Not Lillith' had the money, for certain. A little trip to the ATM before she arrived would handle that. But.. his observations were correct. Even though she wore a plain black blouse with leather gloves that slightly match, and a pair of jeans that hugged every inch of her and not too pricey boots, she looked a little bit out of place here in the dive, but if she were really her, it would be a place that fits.

But, it seems as if he took notice; notice of the internal struggle, the cry for help as one who was possessed and attempting to break free by use of their own will alone. A shout that says, notice me! No matter how little.

And it was impressive because he looked and smelled like a rotten drunkard.

"I was." She states now, fingers palming the book which was pushed open, a few pages flipped until the light sketch of how he would have looked if he had a clean shave and a shower was there, drawn almost to perfection save for a few slip ups here in there. "I'm here to make a deal."

Constantine is silent for a moment, glancing up from the important business of lighting his cigarette. He snaps the zippo shut and sets his wrist on the table, fiddling with the battered golden device. He glances from her to the toy, and then back again.

"Why would you want to treat with me, luv?" he asks the raven-tressed woman. "I'm just some bloke in a bar. A shitty bar, at that," he adds, glancing around at the worn decor and the stained wood everywhere. It's a place that's been at best cleaned, but not maintained. "And I already told you I'm not looking for a tumble."

He eyes the depiction of his person on the table, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. He reaches his hand over to the sketchbook and he rests two fingers on it, tugging the sketchbook a few inches closer for a better look. And extending his senses both regular and acute towards trying to glean any whiff of magic about that depicion.

Images have power, you know.

"Because you have something I want." There was a little hesitation there, her eyes nearly tugging left again until they straighten with a lift of her gloved hands to press and terse together.

The picture in itself wasn't magical save for how it was made. Weeks ago, in a small, one bedroom apartment. Telemundo upon the television to brush upon her spanish, that same very notepad that he touches was suddenly snatched with something she would wrongly call inspiration. The face was drawn, like scores of other faces of his own.. sometimes scattered upon the floor, on her dresser, sometimes on the bed, sometimes well defined and sometimes vague. Though it wasn't her doing the talking, it was someone sent by Her who found him.


"There is someone coming." She states plainly. "Someone with more power than you and me. But natrally they're trapped." She lets that hang in the air for a moment as she draws back again, hands upon the table.

"Your magic is what we need. All of it. Every bit of it. And this person will make your dreams come true. Anything you wish, you shall receive. Money. Women. Scores of liquor from a never ending fount.."

As she speaks, the room slowly begins to darken.. or at least their perception of it. Magic is a strange thing, for those that milled and mingled around them looked to be frozen. Like statues..

John shifts warily, feeling the magic in her words, in her voice. As the shadows start to close he looks around uncomfortably, eyes narrowing like a fellow expecting a sucker punch to hit him from his blindside.

Abruptly that lighter flares to life, the flame more gloriously red and yellow than it has any right to be. It beats back the shadows around him in a three-foot radius, a glimmering font of light.

"I deny thee my voice, I deny thee my will, I deny thee my soul," John intones immediately, staring right at the tip if Lillith's nose. "I deny thee thrice, wretched harridan, and damn you to boot. What is your name? What is your name? What is your name?" he asks, playing to the rule of three that so many of the fae-touched seem unable to resist adhering to.

"Stop.." The murmured words were hurshed with urgency as she leans forward upon the table, her hands immediately sliding to grip to the sides of it to keep herself still, the table itself slowly beginning to rumble with the hardened grip she provides. "STOP IT!"

The was a howl in the distance, surely that something was ever dramatic as the darkness surrounds the area save for that one little spot, the light of the lickering flame allowing the figures within the shadows to form, meld.. reach out and hiss back from the light. It burned them.

But it was easy, he read the compulsion, her eyes jerking left hard three times.. right the next.. upwards so much that her teeth were bared and gritted then down until the whites of her eyes were seen, the black sclera soon flooding which gave no indication of the direction she were to look save for when her head moves.

"I…" She struggles out. "..HAVE NO NAME.." The chair beneath her begins to bounce and rattle, the wood nearly snapping and cracking. "IT WAS STOLEN FROM ME!"

John ashes the cigarette as fast as he can, exhaling vast amounts of smoke into the air— more smoke than a cigarette should make. It's rich with scent, more than cloves or tobacco, and a very keen eye would not that John never inhales any of it. It's a melange that'd kill almost anyone— colloidal silver, mistletoe ash, rowanwood smoke, and atomized iron particles. Toxic to humans, but knee-weakening poison to the faetouched.

"Cor blimey, they all come to me," John grunts, getting to his feet with a scrambling motion. He spins the flint on his zippo several more times, the fire now a foot high and burning with a straight and intense heat that no amount of fluid could produce.

He digs in his coat pockets and comes up with a piece of glittering obsidian, some chalk, and some silly putty, and clears the table with one big sweep of his arm. Whiskey and ashtrays go flying, and John starts scrawling on the tabletop with the chalk and laying patterns out with the string and putty.

"Fuck me, I hate this quick and dirty shit," he grouses. "Stay with me, luv, I need just a few more seconds," he mutters, clearly recognizing the geas working on her. "Eyes on the fire, focus on the flame," he says, as if making a mantra of it for her.

The internal fight seems to build, but she doesn't stop talking. 'It' doesn't stop talking, the being with no name.

"She will scour the earth for you! You will kneel before her or you will die screaming in your fiiiiii…" She couldn't finish the words, the smoke choking off the sound that vibrates through her throat, the inhale sharp and deep, met with a loud hacking cough that sounded wet and dry all at once. She squirms, her body jerking left and right as she tries to draw herself away and into the shadows.. another one stolen, but her fingers clasp and latch upon the table unwilling to let go.

Lillith was going to be defiant until the end.

The black viscera of her eyes force themselves upon the flame, unwilling to look away. That fight within her wanted to speak, she had a chance. She had a true chance at life and..

"…h..hurry.. the fuck up!"

John works frantically fast, his motions just on the functional side of sloppy. He won't win points for artistry, but he's against a clock here— and he's fighting the power of a seriously heavyweight-class fae armed with silly putty, string, and a nubbin of white chalk.

He smacks the zippo into the center of a four-point compass, runes and diagrams growing around it in the regular order of a fractal pattern. The lines suggest a deeper pattern without explicitly detailing them, but like the patterns of a sunflower seed, there's a hint of eternity there.

"Waste of good whiskey," John says, picking up the bottle. He swigs a mouthful, blowing some spray to the side, then inhales mightily through his nose and lets loose a monumental spray of high-proof booze.

The flame turns blue and explodes skywards, screeching with the heat and the suction of air. "Puiendit es grathal!" John shouts into the whirling malestrom of energy. The fractal pattern grows and grows, building on those chalk lines with an array of light that crosses into multiple dimensions. "Istoch sa solara ordeme dhuit!" he bellows, in the language of ancient Gaul.

And, finally in English: "Into the light, I command thee!" Spoke once, twice, thrice, he flings his will into the fire to compel those demons holding Lillith's spirit hostage towards the burning prison that the zippo has been made into.

Damn right it was a waste of good whiskey. Even though someone else was riding Lillith, didn't mean she couldn't appreciate a good brew every now and then. Hell, she probably wouldn't have even attempted to call for help if she had a swig and a nap.

But the words were beginning to become more and more muffled, whatever she tried to say came out in foreign tongues that could barely begin to be deciphered, the shadows still licking, pawing and clawing, shrieking at the touch of the light..

Her mouth unhinges widely as the black smoke begins to form at the back of her throat, her eyes peeled wide enough to be inhuman, which soon ejects from the three with a show of force, an inhale and a push out of that dark cloud which draws up towards the ceiling with a tilt upright of her chin, hoovering for but a second until it shrieks and is called into the impromptu house it was made for.

A heavy cough soon leaves Lillith's lips as the chair ceases it's shaking, her breath heavy and wheezed, the little bits of the smoked spirit slamming down into the zippo with a quiet squeal as the top itself slams shut. The veil of darkness slowly lifts as if a cool breeze were in the room to blow it away, those people who were there lingering remaining still for those few moments.. long enough to right what wrong has been done.

"Son.. of a bitch.." She squeaks out, her gloved fingers finally rolling away from the table, soon smacking against her lips with the need to upchuck but was forced down the only way she knows how. (Swallowing, duh!)

John grabs the lighter and snaps the lid shut, and it swallows the flame— and the spirit riding Lillith- into a gold-plated prison. The lights in the room dim and then resume their life, and the patrons who have maintained any semblance of consciousness look about, groggily as if they're unsure of what their senses are telling them.

John drops into his chair with a groan, sweat pouring down his brow and soaking his thin white shirt. He pants heavily from the exertion and leans forward to rest his brow on the table, taking a moment to get himself together. "Blimey," he mutters, finally. He looks over at Lillith. "You might as well vom, luv. You won't feel right until you empty your stomach." With shaky fingers he reaches for a crumpled pack of cigarettes- real ones- and drags heavily, using a box of matches this time.

Lillith could only shake her head, her gaze lifting to look at him, her body lurching back with a slight of a start as she realizes just 'who' she was talking to. Or at least sitting with. It wasn't as if she had known the name, but that face made it's way to her walls and to her floors, to her couches and to the chairs upon her kitchen. Even the bathroom mirror had got a chance to be blessed with that British mug.

"I'll be fine.." She manages to snap out, her hands shaking, fingers drawing forward with a drag and a wiggle to take one of those cigarettes, though.. if he didn't hand them over she'd try to snatch and light either way..

Being a cop, she thought she'd be used to the weird shit. But not when it comes to someone riding the living hell out of you for close to .. was that an hour? Time.. just went. "I know you." She states. Though, the last time she 'said' she knew him, her throat was being ravaged by smoke and right into a zippo. "Call me Crowley." *COUGH*

"Constantine," he says. "John Constantine."

A name that promises either a drunken lunatic or the most dangerous man in the SRD, depending on who a person listens to. Considering what he just pulled off with string and chalk, it might shift perspective a bit. He picks up the zippo and 'haahs' in pain, tossing it from hand to hand, and folds it in a white kerchief he produces from nowhere. "Still hot, cor," he mutters. He wraps it into a tight bundle and shoves the entire affair into a pocket of his heavy tan overcoat.

"So that was a major presence that was riding shotgun on your soul there, Crowley," John says, sliding silver Zippo, cigarettes, and the rest of the bottle towards her. "I don't know if YOU know me or that… presence does, but you either picked the best person in the world to blunder into, or it picked the worst. I'm the exorcist," he tells her. "I'm the best. What the hell have you been gettin' into?"

Well, if someone had a true comic book name this was it. Fourth wall now broken, Lillith takes in a drag of the cigarette, her fingers shaking so much that the ash begins to fly, her eyes cutting up towards her head as the other reaches to press and rub at her temples. "Lillith Crowley since we're going full gusto." And her name seemed like it came from a dirty romance novel. No walls broken there.

His words flow like butter, easily heard now but there was a silence. A pursing of her lips as her head tilts a little to the side as she tries to figure out how to explain this mess.

"I wasn't looking for you." She states, as if it gave all the explanation in the world. "Maybe I was pulled or I came here, I don't know. But.. three months ago. I started to draw you. Constantly. Sometimes doing something random like drinking in a bar or smoking a cigarette while you were walking. Maybe eating a sandwich or.. sleeping." She looks around for the glass that was poured. She remembered it being poured but.. it was gone?

A hand lifts and fingers were held up, two. Doesn't matter what. Her mouth was dry and she was thirsty.

"Then, one day. I think it was after Christmas. I had a dream. Something wild. We knew each other well. I guarded you. You guarded me. Whatever that thing was.. you beat it." He was the best, right? "I guess that dream holds some weight because.." She gestures around. Quick as he was, he was damned good. No doubt about it.

John scowls, thoughtfully but not in an angry fashion. "Bloody prognosticators," he remarks, drumming his fingers on the table. "I don't like this. Someone either hitched a ride on you because they knew you were coming my way, or you came to me to get rid of your hiker." He eyes his coat pocket, where an impotent, silent bellow of rage comes from the golden zippo. "Can you tell me when this happened?" he asks Lillith. "Anything— did your dreams become weird and alien, did you stop having dreams, have you quit sleeping… whatever you can remember."


Sure, Lillith lived her life in denial but thanks to the DEO, those assholes gave her the cold hard truths and leather gloves to help with the fact. "Honey, I came to this place to get rid of a lot of hikers. All I wanted was some fucking beer." Truth be told, a sandwich wouldn't hurt either. A good, big greasy ass burger and a side of onion rings to boot.

Her head shakes a little, tilting a bit to the side as she takes another drag of smoke, inhaling hard.. then exhaling. "I felt something. Like a tickle at the back of my neck on the way here." She shakes her head, then shrugs. "Soon as I sat down and began to write.. I was gone."

Now those questions were interesting. "I stopped.. a few months ago. It was like a welcome surprise. Haven't slept so good in those past months than I do now. Then.. I can say around Christmas is when the first one hit. When I dreamt of you."

John scowls. "Someone's been scouting me via you for some time," he tells Lillith. "I don't like people snooping on my business. I don't like being followed, and I don't like somone trying to offer me a deal."

He reaches for his coat and rises, shrugging into it. "On your feet luv," he tells her. "This place isn't safe and there are too many prying eyes. We need to get somewhere more secure and suss out the rest of this." He upturns his collar and produces a fistful of bills, and peels off five Benjamins and throws them down on the tabletop.

"I wasn't here," he tells the bartender, meaningfully. The fellow nods, terrified, and John jerks his head from Lil to the door.
f "C'mon, let's scarper."

"Hey man.. I don't even -know- you like that." Lillith protests. This someone? Whomever it is? They must have gotten the drop on her but she couldn't think for the life of her when or how that happened. As he stands and reaches for his coat, Lil takes one more drag of her cigarette, allowing the smoke to hold for a moment, leaning forward to put the butt out onto the table and stands as well. She wobbles a little, but if help was going to be offered she was going to refuse. Being touched wasn't one of her best parts.

Her coat was grabbed and slipped on, a clear view of the gun tucked within the back of her pants, arms slipped into her peacoat which was soon buttoned as she heads straight to the bar.

"Excuse me." She says to the nearby man, snagging his drink and drinking it, coughing just a little and gesturing towards the benjamins with a slight half smile and a follow along. "This is fucking nuts.." She hisses, pushing the door open to step into the subjectively fresh air, taking one whiff and nearly horking it all up right then and there, but she still doesn't. She can probably hold it til she got home.

"Who did you piss off?"

"I don't know," John admits breezily, leading the way with a quick step. "I've got lots of enemies. Maybe it's something I haven't even done yet," he concedes. "More likely it's something I've forgotten about."

He pats his hip, where the protected zippo resides. "But our little friend here, he should have some answers for us, yeah?"

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