Smoking and Joking

February 25, 2016:

John, following Lyn, blunders into one of Joker's traps.


A run down, decrepit theatre in Gotham.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Gotham by night, Detroits abused and neglected twin left to languish in the streets of decay. Trashcan fires burn bright in the alleyways shadows dancing out onto the husks of abandoned cars already stripped of seemingly all parts but not quite yet hauled away by the police. Men in trench-coats wandering street-ways looking for people interested in buying genuine Rolox watches, or the latest Snark-Phone. Women of the night and their managers almost as common a sight.

The lights of the streetlamps flicker and dim their way in and out of focus as time passes, just barely keeping up with that all encompassing black of night which seems to permeate almost everything about this decaying city. Rainwater floods over clogged drains passing over discarded baby shoes, and 'lost' emptied wallets. A harsh frozen breeze passes through this part of the city.

Half hidden by the smog and darkness memories of brighter, happier times still remain, half covered over by graffiti. A poster for an old black and white film still hung in the window of an abandoned theater warn and faded over the years only the garish visage of a vaudevillian clown left smiling out of the yellowed poster, the shattered glass long since swept away.

The argument had gone nowhere, fast. John had been stubbornly intransigent about letting Lyn out of the clinic following their earlier meeting, but the proud Vodoun seemingly didn't want to spend a minute longer in the chapel than she had to.

So, striking out, she goes into Gotham, and like a darkling shadow, Constantin follows a few seconds behind.

He's good. For a fellow who looks like one more shady drunk down on his luck, he has an angry tilt to his head that sends plenty of pickpockets and muggers looking for a softer target. He's not particularly trying to hide from sight. But every time his target looks behind her, he's conveniently obstructed by passers-by, or a passing car. At one point he crosses the street, standing just behind what would be a comfortable periphery of vision and walking on the edge of shadow and light, seemingly claimed by neither. His hands tucked into his pockets and collar turned up against the cold, the only thing that differentiates him from the rest of the city is the careful calculation in his eyes when he follows the path his target is taking, on the lookout for things that seem to escape everyone else's vision.

Lyn had heard about Gotham from a lovely young mother of two. She lived here, somewhere, and the girl with the floofy hair had never visited. Dark and pretty, she said, something she liked, but seeing something from a distance is far different than viewing it up close and personal. In many ways, she belonged here, just another piece of discarded humanity, with ratty clothing and a lean figure, the only thing pronounced about her being her hair, and those cheapo, boxy shades that hide her eyes.

She was smart lipped to John, and no matter what, she was going to leave. That inkling was there, lingering, rippling up her spine that she was being followed. Sometimes, she pauses and glances over her slender shoulder to see nothing but people. A pass of her tongue along her lips, perhaps to moisten them, tells her all she needs to know. That smell; you can't mistaken that smell.

Her steps pause as she stands before the run down theatre. Head up, she gazes over its skeletal structure and smiles smoothly, dimples forming on both of her cheeks. The way she gazes is like that of someone coming across something truly beautiful and awe inspiring.

The bright green eyes of the purely black and white poster blink twice, moving back and fourth before retreating back inside of the other side of that poster. A feeling of dread as the unnatural force of comedy vanishes back behind the eyes that had been watching her. Normal eyes replaced right back where they belong, as the doors of the building slowly slide open ever so slightly.

The boards that had been there over the doorway to the theater even one day prior have been completely torn down, revealing the friendly and inviting wooden door. Slight light comes from the crack in the theaters door, the sounds of music wafting on from the other side.

Did…that poster just blink? Even if her eyes are hidden away, she's blinking a few times herself. Warmth, music, curiosity peaking. A few steps closer to the theatre are taken, but she doesn't enter, at least not yet. Her hand raises and hesitates, but at length, it rests on the door. By flirting with opening the door, she gets something else in return.

Her fingers tense, flexing at sharp angles as her head snaps back like she were hit with lightning. A bullet to the brain, she staggers back and rests against a wall. Her breathing is heavy and sweat visibly glosses across her mocha skin. "W-what was dat…" She mutters to no one in particular.

John eyes Lyn from the nook of a building, blending in like he's part of the architecture. He ducks his head down and produces his cigarette wallet, then lights it with a snap-hiss of his zippo. The golden igniter is tucked away and he looks up in time to spot Lyn recoiling from the theatre. His eyes widen, then narrow, and with a quick glance left and right for traffic he starts across the street at an oblique angle, trying to stay out of her immediate path of vision.

Laughter comes from further inside the building along with the sounds of music playing in the background. The doors open themselves wider creaking open from the touch to reveal the entrance. Bright red carpet has faded to a sickly brown, cigarette burns and unmentionable stains an all too common sight along the ground. The wooden walls themselves lined with old posters for films like Zoro, Footlight Frenzy, The Clown Who cried, and largest of all at the end of the hall that picture of the faded vaudeville clown, titled The Killing Joke.

The entire place smells of rot and mildew not exactly the most inviting of aromas. Numerous boxes are pilled high in the corners of this theater some looking to have been lived in as homes for the disenfranchised. Spiders webs hang in every corner a number of the walls smashed open in order to store away drugs and other goods out of sight and out of mind. A number of news papers litter the floor from dates ranging near and far. At the top of each posters frame a single monarch butterfly, akin to that of the Monarch trading card company.

"Com'on now, chere. I know dat smell." She murmurs back, her head turning to find the man who was her protective shadow for the evening. Should he not answer, she'll look just as crazy as any other hobo that calls this section of the city 'home'. As the passage way opens all the more, she is quick to cover her mouth (more so than her nose), trying to block the sicking aroma from sinking deep within her senses.

Swallowing, hard, she girl shuffles away from the steps and turns, facing the people around her and darting her eyes about, looking for John. "Dey's somet'ing in dere." She comments toward the man, but anyone who was listening could have heard her.

John mutters a grumbled curse and steps out of the light and into the shadows, scowling at Lynette. "Yer pretty sharp, luv," he concedes, grudgingly. He slows to a stop next to the woman, eyeing her critically, then exhales cigarette smoke through his nose in twin jets.

"What's going on with the theatre? Thought they closed this place down," John says, peering into lobby. He nudges the door open with the pointed toe of his Oxfords, silhoutted against the shadows by the light pouring out from within. He looks nonplussed, then regards Lyn quizzically. "What's got your knickers in a bunch?" he says, picking up on her tension. "Just a moldy old cinema."

Outside the building traffic carries on like normal, a few odd looks from some of the homeless wandering about and a bit of a stink eye from a little old German lady with a large handbag and a moo-moo, and grey hair down to her waste, but not too much attention. Even if the theater were burning down in this part of town there'd likely not be much heed. A lone pimp in the background dressed in all lime green, with platform shoes discussing business with one of the watch dealers.

Inside the theater there's a rocus roar of laughter from the audience. One of the boxes in the hall falling over without warning to show a bunch of molded over things of popcorn from when the theater had still been open, along with more then a few overpriced buckets for the stuff. The majority of equipment and the like seemingly just left behind to rot when the place had shut down.

"Non, deys somet'ing else dere. Felt it, seen it." She explains, not answering to the man's compliment, if that's what it was. Giving John's sleeve a soft tug, she follows up toward the door, but keeps her hand over her mouth. Then, the laughter comes from a collection of bodies that probably shouldn't still be there. Mechanical, staged like that sound you hear on a laugh track, Lyn glances sidelong toward John.

"Deys madness in dere. Misery, too." She pauses, peaking in all the more, her floof reaching in before her eyes make it over the threshold. "N'a bomb. I seen a bomb."

John swears under his breath. "Bloody mambos and their visions," he grouses. But he doesn't fight Lynette, moving into the light. He pauses once more before entering the threshold and takes a quick look inside the lobby before walking all the way in, just in case, his head swivelling this way and that while he absorbs all the details he can. His keen eye notices the mold and rot that indicates the theater isn't precisely back up to code yet. He sniffs a few times and licks his lip, trying to puzzle out what's got Lynette so sickened.

He looks back at Lynette. "Where's the bomb?" he asks her, hands still in his pockets. The lanky Brit steps a few paces deeper into the lobby, lazily, yet his alert eyes searching for dinner.

Once inside of the lobby proper the doors slam shut behind. A loud latching click on the door as the thing manages to bar itself. The lobby has an old style concessions stand with all manner of chocolates and the like left on display. Vintage candy long forgotten, brands which had stopped being sold even before the place had shut down fully simply left there and forgotten, thankfully little more then display pieces covered over in a layer of dust.

Propped up into a stand, hands tied at either side is a man with an inhumanly large grin, his eyes glossed over and dead inside. He's dressed head to toe in an old style ushers uniform, and looks to have been propped there for some time a large speaker in the center of his neck. That white skin of his makes it look almost like he'd simply laughed himself to death then been propped up there like a mannequin.

A low quality recording plays when the movement is sensed by the ghoulish display. The voice clearly that of the joker putting on an impression of the pock ridden teen whose corpse is 'speaking with them.' "Hello and welcome to the Monarch theater we're just dieing to show you our new movie, it's going to be a blast." The hat on his head off to one side as if it'd simply been thrown on without much effort. A number of mannequins arranged in line waiting for their turn at the other registers. The smell of death and decay hangs heavily in this room even over that of the mildew and mold, all these mannequins dressed in period appropriate garb.

The dim flicker of old style light bulbs fills the room with that drab sort of eery inescapable dread. The warm and welcoming music slown down to the point where it's become almost terrifying. One of the many bulbs flickers a few times more before exploding, and showering the maniquins with a rain of glass and sparks.

Lyn turns on her heels as the door slams shut behind the pair. Reaching out for it, she tugs, and tugs, but to no avail. Her lips frown, deeply, and to the question of said boom-boom, she can only shrug. "I don' know, chere. Didn' see dat part. C'n' control it, y'know. Jus'…t'ings appear when dey wanna." Her voice is soft, a mumble of sorts, as she tries mostly talking through her teeth, not daring to allow much air to touch her tongue. Not the rank air in this place anyway.

Going back to John's side, she watches the 'boy' speak to them, and obvious puns and all. Her head cants, brow quirking, but before she can roll her eyes, something else catches her attention. Her tiny pinch like grip on Constantine's jacket sleeve releases itself, as Lyn makes way toward the dolls all standing in a que. Reaching out, she timidly touches one, her fingers brushing against plastic and wood, but snapping back quickly as if she had felt something else.

"Dey livin'? Y'see'em livin', right?" Comes her next question, as she reaches up and removes her glasses, finally allowing herself clearer, more light friendly vision. Solid eyes of jade with serpent like slits are exposed, smoothly rolling from side to side as she 'watches' events flicker before her. "Dis place…it alive n'dead at dey same time. Jus'…swollen wit memories."

John doesn't look alarmed when the door slams itself shut. "Three out of ten," he says aloud, to no one in particular. "They pull that trick at the Haunted House in Bristol every year." He seems overwhelmingly unimpressed by the theatrics, eyes flickering left and right, and he rolls his lips inwards to pull heavily on the cigarette, stoking the cherry ember. A silver cigarette wallet comes out and he touches a new cig to the stub of the old one, transferring life, and makes the old cigarette butt vanish into the air with a flicker of his fingertips. The new cigarette smells strongly of menthol with subtle herbal undercurrents. A bracelet jangles on his left wrist, where there had not been one before.

"I don't have the touch for that," John tells Lyn, sliding his eyes towards her curiously. "This whole place, though, it's making my jock itch act up," he tells Lyn, fingering his cigarette and ashing it near his feet. "Keep focusing on the bomb, we can come back and deal with corpses later," John says with blunt practicality.

"Please head on in and have a seat, tickets are on the house." The cracking voice calls out as the door to screen 2 slowly opens itself, the sounds of canned laughter ringing out louder then ever when the door is opened. The jaunty tune coming from deep within, even as the various mannequins block the way leaning up against walls, posed in all to human positions.

A few of them are actually just more of those corpses posed for effect with those broad smiles a telltale sign of the use of Joker Toxin. Along the walls more posters for long cancelled, or already out of theater movies. The sort of treasuretrove of cinema that could make a fortune on the open market, simply left laying along the walls for decoration.

"I-I don' know if I c'n find it. Don' work dat way…" Keeping that frown, her lower lip pouts slightly as she faces John directly. As the door opens, she steps back as laughter pours out, louder than before. Then, there's the smell. Her hand covers her mouth once more, and even her nose at this point. Looking to John, she inches closer to him and then kneels on the ground.

"Stay wit me. I'll try." Shaking her hands out as if working out any 'old' kinks, she lowers her touch and brushes it into the faded, worn carpet. Then, she starts to focus. Her lips move without sound, and allowing her head to rest back, her eyes roll into her skull and become half lidded.

John nods at Lynette and puts his back to the closest wall, his calf resting against her bent knee. Not for support— so she has a tactile sense of where he is in relation to her. He puffs on his cigarette a few more times until whorling smoke surrounds his head, and holds the cigarette carefully aside and flicks sparkling ash to the carpet underfoot. He keeps his left wrist loose and ready, light glinting oddly from the threads that make the steel bracelet up, and his right hand stays jammed firmly in his coat pocket.

Suddenly the lights go dark, the music stops, and the whole world feels quiet, or rather more quiet. The silence is broken by a sudden pounding of fist on metal. "Oh come on." More Pounding. "Damn fuse." A slight pause in the silence as a dense fog slowly begins to flow into the room. "Jingles, check that circuit, we have guests!" The fog growing heavier. "I don't care it's going to ruin the surprise."

So, there was nothing. Her eyes return to normal as her hands pull away from the carpet. "M'sorry, chere. Told ya, don' work dat way. Least not yet." Standing, she's met with the flick-click of sudden darkness and even as one voice commands another, the girl sounds a gentle whimper. "John…" she whispers then, one arm out and giving a soft wave, trying to find him in the abyss.

Her tongue flicks out, another gloss of her lips that allows her two sensations: one, a ping of sorts to where the lanky Brit is, and two, the overwhelmingly sickening sensation caused by the smell of rot and decay.

John touches Lyn's temple in the dark. "This is gonna feel weird," he informs her. "Lalin de," he mutters. Lyn's vision flickers and then the light returns to the room— except the overheads are still dead. It seems illuminated by moonlight, now, greys and soft blues, with harsh yellow leaking in from gaps in the taped-over windows.

"Should last about an hour. C'mon. I don't like this," John says. He taps his chin, thoughtfully, then points at an access door that's built as part of the wall. "C'mon luv. If I were a bomb, I'd either be in the projection room or the basement," he mutters in a low voice. "Let's start upstairs and work down." He fishes in his pocket and comes up with a small, antique Browning pistol. "You know how to shoot one of these?"

Footsteps in the walls, movement between the boards, someone is trying very hard to be sneaky. With everything so quiet you could hear a pin drop it seems that things are not quite so easy to sneak around. "I said get it working, don't you know how this works? I come up with an overly complicated plan, they show up, and try to stop us. I can't do that without POWER." The voice sounding rather a bit more then angry, as he slams his fist again on the projector.

The fog grows thicker still, almost working as if by magic. The mannequins beginning to move and walk as if they were alive again. A thick black shadow coating everything highlighting it as everything begins to look fresh and new. Genuine children's laughter fills the air, everything returning to its former glory. A man in a simple ushers uniform walking through a spot on the wall as if he were simply walking through an open door way motioning for the two to follow him.

Lyn freezes in place as John's hand touches her face. He was right, it did feel odd, but after a few blinks, she sees the world in soft silver and can't help the grin that grows on her lips. "Dis is beautiful…" She murmurs, only to notice that John is moving. In a soft jog to catch up with him, she then walks by his side, but at the question, she gives a shake of her head. "Non, can't say I do." Nibbling her lower lip, she considers something. "Y'got a knife or somet'ing sharp? Dat I can use."

Even in darkness, the world shifts, causing her brows to slope in confusion. "Tell me y'seein' dis dis time, Constontine."

John eyes Lyn and puts the gun back in his pocket, then pats his coat thoughtfully. He reaches into the same pocket and unable to hide a sly grin, draws a sugarcane machete with a glitteringly sharp blade out of the pocket. "Something like this?" John says, examining the sharp edge. He flips the machete over and passes it to Lyn, handle first.

At the thump against the wall, he narrows his eyes, peering, and grumbles under his breath. "I don't like this," he says, with a disturbing prescience.

Sure enough, moments later, that fog starts to breathe fresh life into the buildin, and John promptly puts his back against Lyn's, holding his left hand up at mid-chest level defensively. When he spots the usher, his eyes narrow again, and he taps Lyn's side with his elbow and starts moving towards piece of wall. He reachs into the pocket once more, but this time comes up with a slam-action sawed-off shotgun with a pistol grip that looks like it belongs in a gangster film.

He eyes Lynette. "What? Think wizards can't use guns? I'm a progressive," he tells her. He pokes the wall with the gun's barrel experimentally, then moves to follow the usher through the empty space.

That thick black fog continues to cover over everything giving it that new life. The sounds of people laughing and enjoying the movie now not just something faked for the moment but sounding truly genuine, even in the pitck black. A winding staircase leads down through the building the walls pulsating and moving almost breathing with each and every moment.

The moonlight continues to shine through, even as a man in a clowns mask comes into view. Dressed head to toe in a simple clowns costume this oversized goon looks like he's been hitting the venom a bit harder then he should have. Reaching for the circuit breaker he turns around at the sounds of footsteps from behind holding a small orange tipped pistol.

"I…guess dis'll work. Bet y'never heard a girl say dis, but…y'got anyt'ing smaller? Dis jus'…I can't easily use it on m'self. Not quickly." She doesn't explain what she means, but she keeps the weapon in hand regardless. Still sticking to John's side like glue, she eyes the usher all the while, along with the black smoke that swallows the memories, offering them new life.

"Don' know y'world yet, Constontine. Ain't gon' judge, neither." She promises, even offering the man a playful, dimple cheeked smirk. Then, there stands a massive clown. Her lips thin, as she gives the Brit a soft nudge with her elbow. Her head motions toward the large man, the simple actions causing her floof to give a light bounce and sway.

John grins at Lyn. The expression's tight, fierce, even— a fellow enjoying the shock of adrenalinte from imminent danger. "I can safely say, no woman's ever said that," John assures Lyn, inagreement. A smaller knife comes out— a classic three-inch switchblade. Illegal as hell in New York, much like the much chopped-down shotgun in his hands.

At the sharp intake of Lyn's breath, his head snaps around to spot the fellow in the strange mix of chromed magical vision and natural lighting. He spots the pistol coming around from behind. John doesn't stand around debating the merits of defense— his shotgun comes up and he lets fly a blast of buckshot, thunderingly, painfully loud in the confines of the stairwell. The gun goes *chakchak* as he pumps a new round into the chamber, ready to keep hammering shot at the fellow if he gets back up.

Traveling through the usher as if it weren't even there the shot hits its target. With that shattering bang the clown is sent flying back into the panel. The shock causing him to convulse and twitch for a few moments lights dimming and flickering for a few moments before he stands back up. Except in the place where he'd fallen his body still remains smoking on the ground.

The clown charges for the two at full speed threatening to bowl them over with his immense weight. Even as the rooms lighting begins to grow brighter once again. Another two of the clones come running out from round the corner with weapons drawn firing out nerf bullets tipped with razor blades. The blades themselves sticking into the walls as they try to fire and run at the same time.

"Y'don' say? Tell y'what, John. We get outta dis, remind me t'ask 'bout dat otha blade y'got stashed in dere." A wink, the girl keeps both blades, just incase, though the smaller of the two is in her dominant hand. A mook falls, but something stands in its place, and with pause, the girl eyes John and comments, "We feedin' it. Dat a good idea?"

More shots bark out, sending deadly lil sharp things flying through the air. Giving a quick bounce, the girl takes after the pair, but only for a few moments. Blade up, she focuses on one of the two and shoves the blade down into her thigh. Blood doesn't well up and roll over her limb, nor does it stain her two-sizes-too-big pants. If anything, it only leaves a new rip in the tired denim. The actual wound, however, is like a sudden shock to the system to her target, splitting his flesh in the same spot as scarlet gushes in tiny spurts.

Cool as a damn cucumber, John watches the clown get up, smoke blasting from his nostrils. His breath is faster, but he's controlling it, turning adrenaline surges into an asset instead of a liability. The second that clown gets off the floor, John hammers another load of shot at him, to no effect. He backs up fast, chambering another round with a clatter of the shotgun's action.

Spotting what Lyn's doing, John almost flings himself over her shoulders as she rolls forward, throwing his left hand forward. A silvered half-sphere six feet across flickers into existence, the arrowed points of the improvised weapons encountering a magical barrier of formidable force.

"Luciferum!" John intones, rolling his shotgun back towards the charging clown. Energy courses down his hand and fingers and into the weapon, charging the chamber with crackling power. It's a dramatic pose, arms extended in both directions and his body poised in tension. He's not a second too soon, the barrel coming up and aiming at the apparition's chin. This time, when he fires, eight points of eye-searing light fly from the shotgun's barrel with a magical, purifying intensity. They do no damage to the walls, but the tiny shards of power crackle nonetheless as they fly through the air.

Managing to jump right at the perfect moment the clown is practically eating the barrel of the shotgun as that blast echoes off. It doesn't just shoot through the clowns spirit but through that darkness that covers and revitalizes the world a flash of bright pure white light showing for but a moment this place as it is in reality.

The stairway that they had come down is in fact a simple closet with a number of stone bricks covering up the exit all together. Ripped apart by the blast the clown warps and flickers before fading from reality. Even as the two other clowns try their best to fight a losing battle against the blind now given sight. Everything here is much more decrepit and falling apart. With what looks like the stash of a homeless man left where a few moments ago had looked to be rows of film kept for prosperity. A large series of canisters hooked together with wires.

John as his battle against a spirit, as she fights something she at least knows she can affect; people. That blade still in her thigh is given a twist, driving home the damage to her first target of the pair. Ripping it out, she looks for the second of the two and offers him the same treatment. Focusing, settling, she makes a soft noise of effort as the blade creates another 'wound' in her own leg.

Now, both clowns who were on the run should be feeling it, especially as their flesh parts and hot fluids flush outward. "Slowed'em down," she explains to John, removing the blade from her leg and making her way back to the Brit's side. "Y'wan' me t'make'em drop dere guns?"

"Might as well," John nods at Lyn, chambering another round in the shotgun. "Not keen to get hit in the back." He covers the gunmen until he's reasonably sure they're down and done, then eyes Lyn. "You let me know if they start causing trouble, sweet thing," John tells the Creole girl, hitching the shotgun to a loop inside his coat.

He moves to the canisters, eyeing them warily. "Bloody hell, I hate bombs," he mutters. He looks the thing up and down, left and right. "And I don't know a crashing thing about them." He glances up and around, then scuffs a foot on the floor.

"Hmm. Hey now," he murmurs, thinking. He kicks dust away, then stoops and knocks on the floor. "Concrete. I can work with this." He fishes in his pocket (what doesn't he have in there?!) and comes up with a small black book, barely pocket-reference sized, and licks his thumb to turn a few pages. "Trolls, trolls, trolls, T, T, here we go… Torrid… Tribbles… Trolls, geomancy…" He softly thumps the page with a fingertip and then starts muttering in a strange language, inhuman and full of grunts and glottal stops, tracing sigils on the concrete.

Lyn glances over toward John as he gives his order and then studies their new threat. Laying the large blade down, she presses her foot over it, simply keeping it in place, as the switch blade gets a small twirl between her fingers. One-Two, she studies each of the wounded gunmen in patiently, shoving the weapon through her palm as fresh wounds slice through the clowns' hands. Guns drop, and a twist later, Lyn pulls the blade away from her hand, her own flesh not even showing a mark that anything had been there previously. Unless the goons were ambidextrous, they wouldn't be up to holding their firearms anytime soon.

John mutters the fel words under his breath and … nothing happens, not for several seconds. Abruptly, the concrete beneath the bomb becomes the consistency of pudding, and the heavy canisters start sinking smoothly into the subfloor. Eyes lidded, John keeps chanting and murmuring until the bomb's wholly underground and a perfectly round, perfectly clean three-foot patch of concrete is all that remains of the weapon.

"No idea how big a blast that'll make, but at most it'll likely just blast the sewer lines down there apart," John says to Lyn, opening his eyes finally. "Then again, I don't know bombs from Jack, so what say we scarper, discretion being the better part of valor and whatnot?"

The clowns cry out in pain as they fall back down to the ground their eyes looking up to the ceiling through pain ted masks. One of the two clowns gets a bright idea, even though it's not his main hand he reaches shakily up to the side of his own skull gun in hand. Without even a seconds hesitation he tries to blow his own brains out with the weapon in his grasp, his friend simply laying there clutching his own wounds.

Slowly the bomb sinks into the ground encased in its great tomb. Passing through the ground it falls into the sewer once more. There's a long pause before that sudden explosion beneath their feet which rocks the entire building. The world shakes and creaks a pained moan filling the air before everything begins to properly return to normal. Life returns to the lights and the sounds from upstairs resume.

"M'fine wit dat." Lyn agrees, offering both weapons back to the Brit. "Jus'…what 'bout de spirits here? We gon' help'm?" A beat, she continues, "Can we help'm?" With the world shaking, she glances toward the Clown with his gun against his head. "Don' t'ink dat gonna work, ami." She warns, as the bullets weren't exactly normal by any means. A glance to John, she then fesses up, "I didn' make'm do dat, by the way."

Moving toward the door way that leads out, or close enough to a window that could make for another exit, she slips her sunnies back on, hiding away her reptilian gaze.

John fumbles for his shotgun when the clown reaches for his gun, moving instinctively to get in front of Lyn. It doesn't matter— it's too late anyway, because he realizes he's not the intended target.

And the world shakes underfoot, and he grabs Lyn's arm to keep them both upright. The trembling stops fairly soon. "Blimey, that was a short fuse," John mutters. He looks to Lyn and releases her arm, then nods at the stairs. "C'mon. Let's get the hell out of here," he tells the woman. "I don't know if the mastermind is that barmy bastard screaming in the walls, but if he's got blokes who'll eat a bullet before getting taken in, then I don't think I -want- to meet him."

Five more gunshots are heard upstairs after some indistinct angry screaming, about things being ruined. There's a heavy thud from above, as the bodies hit the floor, before things go silent once again. Only for laughter to fill the air, broadcast through the speakers. A few more gunshots ringing out echoing as from the sounds he's killing his own henchmen…

The bodies of the two clowns now simply lay there lifeless, the third smoking even still as he lays there on the ground. There's an odd almost calm about this place as things seem to return to their proper order. The exit clearing itself for the two with little rhyme reason or ceremony to the matter.

John and Lyn slip out with a quick, quiet step, his shotgun in hand until they clear the front door. Constantine closes the door behind him, and then pulls a piece of chalk from his pocket and starts squiggling sigils on the door. To the untrained eye, they look like graffiti… until John touches a finger to them and mutters something. Abruptly, they twist into symbols that are somehow repulsive— even disgusting to look upon. It's the sort of thing someone literally wouldn't look twice at.

"Should deter the locals from going inside." John looks around the sidewalk and makes the gun disappear into his pocket again. "Okay. Let's go." He leads Lyn at a swift walk down the sidewalk, and in moments the vanish into the nighttime foot traffic.

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