Kasulas Emporium Exotica This quiet and tasteful shop is situated on a quiet and tasteful lane in a quiet and tasteful part of London. It is, at the moment, dark, lit only by the moonlight that drifts in through the fog and the panel windows on the front facade. From the outside, it looks like more of a bookshop than what it actually is - a storehouse of artifacts and items of power. They aren't in plain view of course, having been locked away in the assorted vaults of the storerooms behind the high wooden counter. A few trinkets meant to distract the idly curious line a series of low shelves, all of them most impressive looking and expensive: tribal masks, a soul drum, jade mah-jong tiles. No real practical magical application, but nice. There's a faint odor in the air of burnt parchment and dust. [Note] +View in use. Contents: John Constantine Obvious exits: Out John Constantine He's tall and he's disheveled and it's evident that he's maybe been in one brawl too many, what with that bruised look to his eyes and that crooked twist to his grin. His jaw is well-chiseled and stippled with a permanent five o'clock shadow, the sort that springs back mere moments after being shaved away. His blond hair, short-cropped and chaotic, rests around his head in a dirty halo. The most striking part of his attire has got to be the trenchcoat - a dark mustard color, it hangs about his body like a dead man's shroud, worn with age and wear. The rest of his clothing is fairly straight-forward; a once-white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, with a black tie knotted loosely around the neck. A pair of black slacks, wrinkled. Scuffed-up but much-treasured dress shoes. All in all, one might reckon it's been a long time since his last hot shower and change of clothes. The small bell above the door rings twice as John Constantine slips into the shop, and then rings again more furiously as he lets the door slap closed behind him. He's dressed in his standard outfit, with a silk cut clenched between his teeth as if he was ignorant of the many items in the room that probably shouldn't be subjected to cigarette smoke, much less firey ash. "Kas'?" John calls out around the cigarette, scratching at the nape of his neck with one hand. There is no answer from inside. John can make out the shapes of the shelves and the glimmer of some of the fastidiously arranged items on display therein. No sign of movement. John Constantine flicks some ash onto the ground, and steps over a large brass figurine as he walks further into the store. "Hah bloody hah, Kas," he says, pulling the Silk Cut from his lips. "So I'm late." He cranes his neck to either side, peering into the darkness. There's a sort of funny stuffiness to the air. A sense of cold closeness. Behind the counter, John can see the shapes of several books tossed onto the floor, some of their old spines split from the apparent lack of care they were treated with. A few yellowed pages lie scattered apart from the manhandled texts. Smaller, shiner rectangles indicate that a tarot deck has been laid out across the soft red carpet. One of the vault doors is ajar. John Constantine leisurely walks over to the tarot cards, his shoes making slight imprints in the carpet's texture. He places the cigarette back between his lips and squats in front of the reading, his trenchcoat bunching up as he bends down. For a moment his gaze lingers on the vault door, then slips back to the cards. Steadying himself with his left hand, he lays one finger curiously on the signifying card of the layout, doing a quick read of the outcome. The card depicts an old German engraving of a man dangling by upside down at the end of a rope, shadowy figures gathered around him in the background. The legend: The Hanged Man. John feels a prickling sensation along his neck and realizes there's something or someone in the vault behind him. John Constantine doesn't much like that card. Never has, really, since it generally ends up signifying himself, and god knows his card has never been a symbol of good tidings. That, combined with the knowledge that he may not be alone, makes him a bit cautious. He stands and turns, taking a deep drag from the fag before pulling it from his lips. "Why do I've a feeling you're not Kas?" he murmurs, loud enough to be heard, and steps towards the vault, casually wary. Its Kasulas alright. The dim bulb sputtering away inside the vault casts him in relief against the orange shadows of a ransacked metal cabinet. He's seated in a sturdy old chair that he once used to greet customers in, his head tilted forwards and down, as if he were staring at some mark on his right ankle or bowing his head in prayer. Red welts on his wrists show that he struggled - blue contusions indicate he may have broken a wrist in the process. There's a silent drip from his bulbous nose to his lap of blood. His face is cast in shadow. John Constantine leans against the frame of the door, placing the weight of his body on his right foot and shoulder. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and flicks it onto the ground, then rubs the bridge of his nose. "Well, fuck," he says, and walks towards the body. He glances around for a hankerchief, finding one in the corner of the desk, and places it around his hands to mask any prints. He lifts the corpse's wrist, inspecting it closely, before letting go. The arm swings against the body a few times, before settling back to a dead still. John starts gazing around the room, letting his eyes drift over the scene. A few broken Minoan pottery shards lie scattered on the vault's wooden floor. In a corner by the inside of the door, there's a sort of haphazard pile of Chinese puzzle boxes, French secreting boxes once used by monks with something to hide, boxes with jeweled lids; a lot of boxes. All apparently discarded. None of the ones with clasps of any sort, locked or otherwise, have been opened. "I don't get it," John remarks, fishing in his pocket for his pack of silk cuts. His brows furrows - wrong pocket. He reaches into another one and pulls out the skull-design box. Placing a fag into his lips, he continues speaking aloud, from the corner of his mouth. He nudges one of the boxes with a shoe, as if expecting some hidden key to tumble out. He looks over his shoulder at the corpse, then scratches his chin. One hand drifts into his pockets again for a lighter, as his gaze moves back to the boxes, paying specil attention to the untouched, locked ones. Kasulas gives no advice, simply staring sightlessly down at the floor. John Constantine pulls from his cigarette as he walks towards the vault door, making one final check over the corpse and the desk in case his earlier, casual glances had missed anything. The bruised and battered features of the Greek collector indicate that Kasulas met his end at the end of a blunt implement, more likely than not. There are no signs of the murder weapon in the debris left in the ransacker's wake. As John steps around, he notes a corner of torn paper curling up from under Kasula's right shoe. John Constantine, who obviously has no inhibitions about removing evidence from the scene of the crime, stoops down to snatch the piece of paper. In doing so he rips it slightly, underestimating the weight of Kasula's dead foot. "Fuck," he coughs, and lifts the shoe this time. Fortunately, nothing of interest was lost with the minute rip. He rises to a stand and pulls the cigarette from his lips before inspecting the paper. The scrap seems to have stuck to a little dried blood on the bottom of Kasula's shoe, tracked into the vault when he was dragged to the chair by his murderer if John's intuition is correct. It's from an old book that Constantine recognizes almost instantly - Bullfinch's Mythology. There's a little writing in Kasula's hand, written in trailing Greek script. There's a portion of a name, another word with a number, then a series of numbers. "You grotty little Greek," Constantine grumbles, twisting the paper in his fingers. "Why'd you have to keep notes in your indecipherable moon language?" Glancing around the vault and back out into the main area of the room, he tries to conjure up some available book that might shine light on this cryptic note. He reads the passage (or what remains of it) from the text, then scans the name and numbers. Numerology? Cryptology? Football spreads? Kasuras, you arcane fuck! Behind the counter and lying near the Celtic Cross formation of Tarot cards, John notes an early edition of Bullfinch's lying on the soft red carpet. Its cover has been half torn off. It lies face up. Consulting the scrap and recalling what he can of of the text's contents, Constantine finds a page with a torn corner that corresponds to that on the torn shred. More of the Greek's scrawl is scribbled in the margins on the page, facing an inlaid plate image that's covered by a loosened sheaf of soft tissue. John Constantine scoops the rather hefty book (first edition, previously mint, quite the nice find) up into the bend of his left arm. Opening it to the proper spread, he places the torn corner up against its ripped parent, and reads it across as a full page. Of course, the Greek still means jack and shit to our boy Conj, but this is a start. The black and white plate shows a Victorian representation of an idealized Grecian woman in toga, her hands thrown back in melodramatic surprise. A gathering of figures watch in shock and horror as swirling curls rise from a vase in her posession. Snarling, feral, phantasmic faces form from the curling smoke. Pandora's Box. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Chris Chance Subject: The Blackguards: More Of What John Constantine Knows To: John Constantine --------------------------------------------------------------------------- 1) The Greek you can make out indicates that the first portion of those notes in the book appear to have been an address. New York city. Some place called 'Knights Past'. 2) The second portion crosses over the pages related to Pandora's legend and appears to be Kasulas' notations to himself. There's lists of dates, meetings, locations John can recognize; Sicily, Crete, Paris. Names of a few major occult collectors and mystics crop up here and there. 3) The note on the inset plate reads: John, 3:16. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- There's something Kasulas scribbled in a neater writing in english in the lower right hand corner of the image. John Constantine hefts the book in his left hand, then quickly shrugs his shoulders and rips the page clean out of the binding. He tosses the book onto the ground behind him. Holding the page and torn corner in one hand, and his lit cigarette in the other, he contemplates the information so far. "Kas, you sad bastard. What'd you ever do to get killed, save being a complete and utter asshole?" He pauses another moment, taking a pull from his fag. "What were you after at the .. Knight's Past?" his voice trails off as he squints at the page, "Knight's Past? The fuck kind of name is that? Sounds like one of those medieval-themed restaurants." He looks up and realizes that the only person in earshot is very, very dead. There's a steady buzz of the light in the vault and the barely audible drip, drip of drying blood. --- Two days later. Sandy and Jack's apartment, New York City. Noon. The front room is nowhere near silent - the downpour from outside raps at the windows and the door, warping and swelling the wooden glass-seperators and the door itself. That'll be a bitch to open. Inside, Sandy sits in the corner of the couch, wearing a suit and tie and no shoes; he leans back with his head against the wall and his feet up on the couch in front of him, radio sitting on the table beside him, volume moderate. The news is peppered with music; both are liberally spattered with static, and Sandy couldn't be bothered to tune it. He's scowling deeply and his eyes are shut. Coming up from the basement, storage area, Jack hums a little tune to himself, seemingly heedless of Sand's dour disposition until he enters the living room proper. Clapping his hands together, and wiping them on his jeans, he looks a little puzzled. Hmmm. More moodiness. What's been eating that guy lately? Of course, Jack himself has been a little more than odd. He's been spending a lot of time moving crates into storage, and decidedly /not/ talking about them. When asked directly, he just mutters something about it being 'his stuff'. Looks like he might be moving in to stay. The only thing that's puzzling is that most of Jack's stuff had to have been destroyed in the fire, right? Yeah - right. Wonder where those crates were dug up from? Especially the weird one that arrived this morning. But - uncharacteristically, as well - Sand hasn't been asking all that many questions. The fellow's been positively anti-social as of late. Okay, so maybe he isn't always the best conversationalist, but he hasn't even wanted to go drinking lately. No card games, no nothin'. And today's really the worst. Without opening his eyes, Sandy says abruptly, "I'm coming with you to meet Kasulas." Wait. How the fuck did he know? And why does he sound so adamant...and /concerned/? Jack freezes in his tracks on the way to the kitchen. Literally. He stops in mid-step, turning. "Um. Who?" The young Starman is almost used to these little quirks he keeps finding in his roommate, but that doesn't mean they don't surprise him from time to time. I mean, he doesn't really have the 'gypsy seer' look to him, so when he says stuff that he shouldn't.../can't/ know, it still tends to take Jack by surprise. Sand Hawkins opens an eye, and uses it to look Jack over skeptically. "If you don't want me to overhear your telephone conversations, you should be a little less ecstatically loud," he says dryly, moving slowly forward, dropping his legs to the floor and sitting up a little creakily. "And don't let me answer the phone or anything." The man coughs, then runs a hand through his hair (making it stand on end, wild curls slowly falling back into place). He reaches over and turns the radio down, then looks at the window distastefully. It's like he's stirring from hibernation. Then, insistently, calmly, "I'm coming with you." "Oh." Jack's stunned look subsides after a moment. He looks down to the ground, and off to one side, as if thinking. "So...you, uh...you heard that?" Scratching one cheek absent-mindedly, he grins. Not like he's been /trying/ to keep this from Sand...he just...wanted to surprise him. Yeah, that it! The young Starman shrugs. "Sure! That'd be great! I think it'll look more official if we both go along, anyway." Nothing's going to bust up his enthusiasm, not even a blip on his Sandy's-being-wierd-o-meter. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he proceeds to whistle again, and starts heading back toward the kitchen, oblivious to any sense of foreboding Sand might be feeling. Well, good. Frankly, Sandy expected much more of an argument than that. He glances down at his feet, finally, finally coming out of his preoccupation enough to notice that, well, they're -cold-. Irate once more, he stalks into the baack room to find socks. Out of the blue, and out of the air, the guy calls shortly, "You're not planning on visiting any deserts, are you?" --- Opal City Observatory. 8:27 pm, same day. Welcome to Opal City's longest standing functonal observatory and Starman museum. Once inside, the first things that strike you about the structure are the smooth, octagonal, marble walls, which stretch widely around the mechanical structures in the center. The floor too, is marble, and somewhat shiny, making echoing footsteps a reality as whenever one walks inside. Most of the room is empty, except for the aforementioned machinery, and some computers in the distance in one corner. A couple of doorways lead to other wings of the observatory, including teh world famous Starman Museum, where one can find authentic items owned or used by the many men who've held the mantle of the cosmic crusader. In the center of the room, an expansive chrome Telescope, with a long and winding movable stepladder leading up to it. The sky is visible overhead through the open observatory roof, a clear yet chilly night which makes the stars all the more visible. [Note] +View in use. Contents: Sand Hawkins(#621PXJwnc) Jack Knight(#617PXIJfc) John Constantine Obvious exits: Out Sandy Hawkins Reasonably tall, but nonthreatening at first and second glances, this young blond man with touseled curls has an easygoing demeanor about him. His - Sand's - eyes are a bright cornflower blue, guarded yet friendly; his nose is straight and his clean-shaven jaw a bit pointed. The man's build is that of an adventurer, with powerful shoulders tapering down to a fit waist and stomach; for those that look more than twice, you can see that for all his apparent relaxation, he's extremely alert and aware of his surroundings. Sanderson's wearing a plain, standard navy blue heavy cotton suit and a black tie. The suit jacket is unbuttoned, exposing a spotless button-down shirt and loose black tie; his oxford collar is ironed straight, but also loose - it looks like the top button isn't even there. If he turns suddenly, you can see a leather gun harness under his jacket. On his feet are worn black dress shoes. The guy's not gonna get there sooner if Sandy stares out the door, but that doesn't stop the man - he leans on the frame, watching the rain drench the steps and make them positively hazardous. Both he and Jack have been waiting for a while, but the older do-gooder's been unusually terse and distant. It's not like he's normally a barrel of laughs...but you can usually at least get more than a yes or no out of him. If you didn't know better, you'd swear the blond was brooding. Jack Knight The young man before you is 20-something, with dark wavy hair, a little mussed by the wide, thick black goggles he is currently wearing on top of his head. His eyes are dark, and they are framed by the early appearance of laugh-lines, giving the impression of a somewhat wry personality. His sideburns are a little longer, and seem carefully manicured, the guy obviously cares about his personal appearance. His day or two growth of goatee stubble also give the impression that he's a busy individual and might be prone for long nights out enjoying himself. He is very handsome, and must be popular with the ladies. Both ears are pierced, with silver hoops, as is one eyebrow. He is currently wearing a well-pressed and dapper black suit jacket and pants, a white button down collar, and tie. The pattern on the tie is familiar, not too busy. It seems to have sploteches of golden on a lighter blue background. Ah. It's a reproduction of Van Gogh's "Starry Starry Night." All in all, Jack looks pretty respectable in his current outfit, inspired, no doubt, by his need to appear somewhat business-like. But the seeds of Jack's actual life still shine through, as on his feet, his Doctor Marten's are still present. It's dark outside, and the scenery is hard to make out. The rain doesn't help, of course, as light tends to illuminate the precipitation rather than the ground. But at some short distance away from the observatory, the darkness seems to part and a man can be seen, walking quickly towards the building. He pauses, momentarily, and kneels for a moment to catch his breath before continuing his trek. "So...I'm excited." It's an ice-breaker...not a particularly good one...but still an attempt. So, Sand's been pretty terse. That's usually a given, right, but then Jack can't help but get the feeling it's somehow directed toward him...Maybe the two of them have lived together for too long. It tends to happen, between roommates, that after a time things get a little weird. He /has/ been spending a lot of time with his bud...maybe it's time for one of them to take a vacation from the other. Jack /could/ always move back to the Tower. Heh. And then eventually get arrested again, this time for smearing one Roy Harper from one end of the Island to the other. Shaking his head, Jack muses. Then again, it could be the fact that Sand hasn't been getting much sleep lately. What the hell is eating him? "This is gonna be /great/." Fortunately for him (and unfortunately for Sand) Jack's own mood is somewhat manic. He's been nearly slavering ever since he received the first call from this guy Kasulas. The young Starman has the feeling that the mother lode is just around the corner. When he notices the stranger approach, he stands up from his seat on the porch. Looking like a kid in a toy store the night before Christmas, Jack grins over to the Sand-man, clapping his hands together. "Hot damn." Jack's comment is punctuated by a rumble of thunder and a crash of lightning. "Oh yeah?" says Sand in response to the ice-breaker, failing to elaborate. He proceeds to wince at Jack's choice of words, and the oh-so-coincidental thunder and lightning accompanying them. He doesn't grin back - doesn't even look mildly entertained - and he steps out of the doorway, standing next to Jack on the porch. This has to be Kasulas, yeah, because who else would be driven to walk through weather like this but someone intent on making a lot of money? Or...well. Maybe it's not a deal he's after. But Sandy keeps this all to himself - just stands there casually, watching; he lights a cigarette. Too bad if the porch is too confined in the rain. The man walks with a hurried step until he's but fifteen feet away, at which points he slows his pace. At ten feet, his features can be made out - blonde, weathered. Not the sort you'd peg for having a Greek last name, but who can tell these days? At five feet you see the cigarette in his mouth, unlit and sogging wet, hanging limp from equally wet lips. At three feet you can see the anger in his eyes. He stops at about two feet, pulls the cigarette from his lips, and uses it to point at the both of you. "Right, then," he says in a very British accent, "which one of you is Jack Knight?" A look over to Sandy, and then back to the newcomer. "Er. Yeah." He looks pretty uncertain. This is definitely not who he had in mind. "Hi. That's me." The young Starman steps forward to offer a hand. "Jack Knight. Pleased to meet ya." Something about the other guy is giving Jack the willies. And that's not a good thing, as he's recently started to learn to trust his instincts. Thumbing over his shoulder to the door behind him, Jack tries to seem as friendly as possible. "We can step inside...but, you know, you'll have to..." indicating the cigarrette "put that out. My dad hates 'em." Way to sound like a businessman Jacko. You're admitting that your choice of business venue is Daddy's house. Real Smooth. "He's...uh...staying with me for the Winter." Jack hopes his lie isn't /that/ transparent. Nice try, Jack - but it's cool. It's okay. Sand's eyes narrow as he looks the Brit over: the newcomer's voice is what's giving /him/ the heebie-jeebies. "Or," he says a tad forcefully, "we can speak out here." The anger smouldering along with the cigarette, three feet away, is the freedom-fighter's excuse for reacting like this. He can usually get away with being...socially lacking, but he generally has a better reason than 'he *could* be someone in this dream I had...' And the depth of his brash American rudeness can be seen in his failure to offer the Englishman a fresh dose of tobacco. John Constantine accepts the hand with the casual indifference that only a true Londoner can summon, his eyes glancing past John into the interior of the observatory. Proceeding to ignore both Sand and Jack's request, he maneuvers around the two into the large room, and fishes for a dry silk cut. He slips it into his mouth and lights it in one smooth gesture, then pulls it from his lips with two fingers. "Right," he finally says in response to Jack. "Starman the elder. Well, apologize to 'im for me, yeah?" he lifts his cigarette to clarify, then nods at Sand. "Who's this?" The rain pours apace outside, the occasional distance flash of something in the clouds or the muffled rolls of thunder continuing. The interior of the observatory is quiet, clean, and expansive. The voices of the gathering echo slightly. Short, sharp, shocks. Jack can roll with the punches...he's just not used to so many in so short a time. First he's looking over at Sandy, kind of dismayed by the surly one's attempt at a first impression, and it shows on his face. It's that 'what the hell?' look he's been cultivating for so long. But of course, Jack doesn't have much time to ponder the first odd reaction when John slip spast him and into the observatory, lighting up. Wow. Ted'll kill him. I mean, /he's/ smoked in there before, but he's /never/ gotten away with it. The old guy seems to think the smoke does something terrible to the optics of the telescope. But Jack's got to play it cool. This guy's Jack's key to a lovely horde of items he's only dreamed about. And no matter how quirky he might seem now, he really did seem rather pleasant over the phone. Maybe he'll understand. "Er...would you...uh..." He waves a little finger toward the cig, not quite sure how to broach the subject further without being insulting. Then, a distraction. "This is my...er...business partner. Sanderson Hawkins." You paged Sand Hawkins with 'No doubt about it now - this asshole's the one from your nightmare.'. Right, Sanderson Hawkins, who remains outside to finish his Lucky Strike. "I'm his muscle. You're not Kasulas, so who the hell -are- you?" he asks through the doorway, eyes hard, shifting his weight so he's fairly obviously in a defensive position. Then - even more abruptly and irately, "And what the hell do you think I'm gonna break?" There's a pause from John, then a shrug, as if in answer to all the questions and gestures that he's choosing to ignore. "John Constantine," he says, as he mulls over the situation. So they're still unaware of Kas's fate, eh? "Kasuras, he's dead. Used to be a mate'f mine. I want to know who killed 'im, and why." "Wh-what?" I am Jack's bitter disappointment. That explains why this guy was hitting the Spidey sense pretty hard. "What do you mean, dead?" The look on Jack's face alternates between discouragement, and confusion. Suddenly the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. Acid indigestion, here we come. Oh, and smoking...lots of smoking. Something about the guy's name rings some bells, as well. "What do I mean, dead?" John replies, his famous eyebrows mimicking the twist of his barely-masked smirk, "I mean dead dead. No longer breathing, blood from the nose, smells of old hooker dead. Somebody killed him." Rolling his eyes, Sand grimaces and takes one last drag of his Lucky before putting it out on his sole and tossing it in the bin by the door. He, at least, doesn't want to irritate Ted. Bad form. Stepping fully into the large room, he runs a hand through his hair then crosses his arms. "Constantine. Just swanky - just when I thought this could've been -normal-." The blond man suddenly looks very, very old; he turns to Jack and asks tiredly, "It'd probably be a good idea if you told me -now- what it was this guy was gonna sell you, Jack." * [Ed. Note: Missing some poses, possibly] * Sandy eyes John skeptically, glancing back at the text. "Well...hell. Not much else I can make of this. It talks about an old man, and about a great profit. That's money-wise, not fortune-teller-wise. The whole thing is pretty tense." Leaning against one of the museum cases, Sandy reaches up to scratch his chin, then continues. "Fairly directly translated, the important parts say something like: '...The Old Man has not told all. All evidence points towards deeper powers at work, yet he persists in pressuring for formulae for opening the Box. A key. I have the key. But now that I perceive the power inherent in the Box - what could I not do with Hope...'" He pauses.. "Lost a word in the blood. '...And what could he not do? What WOULD he not do, if I know him, and I do.'" Looking up from the note again, Sand raises his eyebrows. "Then it says his agents are in the city - I can only assume he meant the old man - and it says Jack doesn't know what it is he has. Then it mentions you," he nods to John, "and this key again, and Grand Central." Taking another drag from his cigarette, Jack looks out the window and sighs lightly. "I can't believe this...." It's muttered, under his breath, and barely perceptable. It seems this whole experience is making the young Starman begin to want to curse his namesake. Why does fate keep pushing this crap his direction? "Okay. So I send it all back." He doesn't say the words to anyone in particular, just musing, it seems. Sand Hawkins watches Jack. "You can't send it back now. There's noplace to send it back -to-, is there? And even if there were, they have your name. Whoever the hell 'they' are. I don't think we can get out of this one." He glances at the note again, then adds, "Oh, and it quotes a Bible verse, too. John 3:16." A pause. He glances up. "Anyone know it offhand?" "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life," quotes the ever-so-god-fearing John. He flicks what remains of his fag onto the ground with a gusto generally reserved for angry gestures, then pauses for a moment to gather himself before speaking. "So, what, Jack - you have something Kas wanted? Gonna make a trade?" His face turns back into the light, the shadows passing away. His features, framed in the light, are weary. "What's it look like?" "Welll...I'm sure it's in one of the crates you've so secretively been hoarding in the storage bins in the basement," says Sandy just a -little- dryly. He folds the note up again and offers it to John. "Which means we're probably headed back for New York, right?" John Constantine takes the note back, not even flinching as his fingers brush over dried blood. "Grand Central station," he mutters softly, more to himself than anyone else. His voice lifts a bit, directed towards Jack. "Did he say whether or not anyone else was interested in this trade 'f yours?" "I've barely even talked to the guy. Only a few brief phone conversations. Listen, why are we waiting around here?" The question is directed at Sand specifically. My, how Jack's mood has soured. Seems he has a lot less to be happy about. He stands, frowning, and looks annoyed at the remains of Constantine's cig on the ground. "Thanks for the warning pal. See you around." Grabbing his leather and the Rod from off one of the nearby chairs, and heads toward the door. "I'll need to lock up before we go." John Constantine, aware of Jack's mopey glance at the remains of John's cigarette, pulls his pack of silk cuts from his pocket. One tap, then two, and the last remaining smoke slides out and into his hand. "Well, you're fortunate," he says, with a wry grin curling across his face, "cause I'll be headin' to New York as well." He places the cigarette in his lips and looks up, his eyes all twinkling with self-satisfied delight. Jack more irate than Sandy? Heavens. Raising his eyebrows, the golden ager shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. "Got me," he says. Takes his keys out and heads for the door as well. Oh, that's it. Sandy glances at John and scowls. "Like my car isn't fated to crash -anyway-. If you can dig a spot free in the back, you're welcome to wedge yourself in." "We won't crash," John assures the both of you, pulling a lighter from his pocket. He walks as he lights his cigarette, stepping around Sandy and pausing for a moment next to the door in order for the flame to catch. As John steps out into the shelter of the covered entrance, he can't help but notice a figure with square shoulders and a hat silhouetted against the chirascuro blue and black horizon. It's watching from a point lower on the hill that the Observatory rests on - a vantage point that puts it squarely in the middle of the pouring sheets of rain. It does not move. John's lighter flares and the shadow disappears. John Constantine wrinkles his nose and, deciding to let the others rest in blissful ignorance for the moment, keeps silent. The only thing that might show him to be slightly disturbed by the whole incident is a slight shaking of the head, as if in resigned acknowledgement of his fate. Sand Hawkins slouches down the steps of the observatory, not even attempting to stay dry this time, and slides into his car. He was right - MAYBE there's enough room for a grown man amid all the stuff in the back seat. And the stuff? Clothes, books, expedition equipment...? Right. --- Later that evening. New York: Bachelor Flat The front room isn't particularly tidy, but it's also not a hellhole. As soon as you walk in the door, you're there - immediately to your left is a coatrack nailed to the wall, and immediately to your right is a fairly dirty window. There's a ratty armchair in the corner next to the window, and next to it is a long, tall bookshelf with two dingy windows above. The shelves are filled with texts: history, chemistry, biology, psychology, linguistics. Across from the shelves and the windows is a long, equally ratty-looking couch; in front of this is a wooden coffee table held up by crates (thanks, Jack) and covered with beverage-ringed papers. There's an end table next to the couch which holds an ancient tube radio and an equally old lamp, held together in the middle with electrical tape. Beneath the lamp is a faded black and white snapshot in a frame. Hanging on the walls, also framed, are several yellowed newspaper articles and some more photographs, interspersed with Weird Art and memorabilia. To the back of the front room are two doorways - one with a door, one without. The one without is on the right and leads to the kitchen; the other opens on a short hallway, where two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom, and a linen closet can be found. Between the two doors are a black-and-white television and a shiny new VCR (there's no cable. You had to ask?), sitting on a beaten-looking cabinet with the doors shut. The ceiling is a dingy yellow color. Contents: John Constantine Sand Hawkins Obvious exits: Street Sandy, Jack, and John walk up to the door to the apartment block. No rain anymore. Just an odd sort of cold silence. The door jangles open as the locks are undone. The front room is dark. Sand Hawkins tosses his jacket on the couch and collapses into the armchair, rubbing his temples. "I could really use a drink. Jack - how much stuff do you need to sift through to get to the Weird Shit?" "It's all weird shit. None of it really stands out. You know, it's like the stuff I used to have in the store. Random junk." Jack crosses the room, tossing his own jacket where Sand's landed. Yes, he's headed right to the kitchen. Yes, he's headed straight for a drink. "Gin and tonic," John announces before he's even asked, and steps into the room with the casual acceptance of a man used to bachelor pads. He brushes his fingers across the texture of one lamp, then lifts his gaze up in Jack's direction. Hmn. Decent taste. Glaring daggers at John's back, Sand sits forward, then wearily pulls himself out of the chair. "And would you like a little fucking umbrella to go in it, your highness?" The phone rings. "If you've got one, it'd be nice," Constantine replies, still eyeing the ornaments in the room. He grins cheerfully, though with his back turned his facial expressions can't be seen. "Nicer still would be some cheese and crackers. 've you got any?" "No," says Sand shortly, pausing by the phone. He glances into the kitchen, squinting slightly, then picks it up. "This is Sandy," he answers it, bringing his other hand up to hold the top of his nose as he listens. After a few moments, Jack returns from the kitchen, drink in hand. It sure /looks/ like a Gin and Tonic. Coming to stand next to John, it /almost/ looks like he's about to give it to him too, when he suddenly downs the entire thing, in jerk of his head and a flick of his rest. Wincing, his voice takes that "I've just swallowed molten lava" quality. "Help yourself." He pounds on his chest as the phone begins to ring. "You get it Sand, I'm not here." He can't be bothered now. Too much on his mind. Besides, it might be Donna, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's wrapped up in more secret hush hush 'past catching up with me' bullshit. Like she needs more reason to think he's bad news. "No," says Sand shortly, pausing by the phone. He glances into the kitchen, squinting slightly, then picks it up. "This is Sandy," he answers it, bringing his other hand up to hold the top of his nose as he listens. The phone signal is scratchy and sounds as if the person on the other end is talking through gauze. "Kasulas here. Tell Mr. Knight that I must apologize for not appearing earlier. I'm afraid I was unexpectedly detained." Without bothering to wait for a response, he presses on, his voice taking on a slightly excited aspect. John Constantine looks chagrined for a moment, the way his jaw tenses and his eyes narrow. But he drops that suddenly, and what sounds like a grumble slips into a chuckle, his mouth widening ino a crooked grin. "You're not so bad, for a fuckin' asshole," he says, and walks past Jack into the kitchen. Sand Hawkins's eyes widen. "Kas-" he starts, then shuts up as the fellow on the other end keeps speaking. He glances up at Jack and the kitchen-headed John, quite obviously stunned. "I must clarify my earlier desire for a meeting. Crystalize if you will. There is an item in Mr. Knight's possession that I desire to have. An item I can pay handsomely for," the voice on the phone says. "This item is a music box - roughly 17 inches by 10 inches. Brass fittings. It belonged once to a...well. It is very valuable. I have been seeking it for several years and would like to acquire it in exchange for five hundred thousand dollars or the equivalent in goods traded from my own emporium. Am I clear?" He doesn't wait for a response again. Sand Hawkins curses his lack of presence of mind, and puts the speakerphone on mid-exposition. What a mighty frown. "-am at the Hotel Belvedere now. Room 213. Is Mr. Knight there? May I speak to him?" The voice is friendly, but veering towards the edge of panic. "This is a rare opportunity for us both and I think as we are both collectors of rare items, we can see eye to eye in this matter. I am quite willing to negotiate...could your relay this to Mr. Knight?" Taking a cue from Sand's reaction, Jack can guess it's not Donna. He steps closer, suddenly quiet, forcing himself to bite his tongue and waste the witty rejoinder he was saving for John. He searches his friend's face for clues. "Could I? I could," says Sandy, staring at the telephone. "And how about to Mr. Constantine? He's quite certain you're as dead as a doornail. I'm sure he'd be quite pleased to see you alive and well." There is a brief but pointed pause from the speakerphone. It crackles noisily before the voice speaks again. "Mr. Constantine is there? Did he get my message?" Taking a few quick steps to the kitchen, Jack motions hurriedly at Her Majesty's Secret Bastard and then leaves as if he expects him to follow. Finally, he's back at the speakerphone, and giving Sand the body language which seems to suggest that he's /not/ in the room, still. Maybe he figures if he's around, Kasulas might want to meet before they get a chance to locate and examine the box. John Constantine returns from the kitchen with a drink and a wry look to his face. He walks up to the phone and, shifting his weight, leans against one wall, the drink in his hand. "Only caught the last bit of it, but this isn' him. Obviously." he whispers out of earshot of the phone, then raises his voice. "So, Kas', ol' boy! It's lovely hearing from you again, what with you dead and all. How much does a long-distance call from hell cost, anyway?" Another dead stop. Crackling static. Then; "Listen," the voice says. "very carefully." It pauses dramatically. John Constantine takes a sip from his drink. "You've got my attention, but I bore easily. Out with it." Placing the reciever next to the phone, Sand leans against the wall and crosses his arms, smirking slightly at the comment. He ruins the pause as well, "You got it, brother. Ears like corn." "Mr. Constantine is correct, sadly. Kasulas is dead. You need to bring me this box. The offer stands - I'm not Kasulas, but the offer stands. Bring the box to room 213 at the Hotel Belvedere tonight and you get five hundred thousand dollars. Cash. A simple box for half a million dollars. I want you to think about that. I also would like you to think about the fact the people who killed Kasulas will almost certainly come after you next. If they're not waiting outside your apartment house already as we speak. They're waiting for you to reveal that you have the box. And, I imagine, the key. Constantine should know about the key by now. They want them both and will kill for them." Sand Hawkins scowls. "I have a feeling I know what's in that box, and there's no way in hell I'm letting some shadow bastard organization let it out," says he, abruptly. He glances up again to see if he's speaking just for himself, or if his high moral ground is lofty and alone. "So you can just fuck off. If you didn't work for them, you'd get killed, too." Sand Hawkins scowls. "I have a feeling I know what's in that box, and there's no way in hell I'm letting some shadow bastard organization let it out," says he, abruptly. He glances up again to see if he's speaking for them all, or if his high moral ground is lofty and alone. "So you can just fuck off. If you didn't work for them, you'd get killed, too." A sip of his drink and a brief pause later, as he waits for Sand to speak, Constantine talks again. "Yeah, figured it was gonna be a box of some sort." He sighs, then, and lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and looks up at Jack and Sand. He speaks to them as much as the man on the phone when he says, "More dangerous 'n we originally assumed. So're these your thugs that'll be after us? Who're you, anyway?" He seems a bit more worried than his previous tone implied, and a bit of his humor is gone. The voice grows agitated. "My name is irrelevant. You need only know that I must see to it that this box is kept hidden and safe - something I can accomplish and that you, I'm afraid, cannot. Whatever resources you may have will pale in comparison to those of the people who killed Julian Kasulas and a thousand better men than him." There's a pause, then the voice asks "Do you have the key yet?" John Constantine responds, quickly, "Maybe we do, and maybe we know how to use it." His eyes dart towards Jack, and he gives a quick shrug of his shoulders. "Maybe we don't." He shakes his head slowly, not willing to give up any information that would give this man the upper hand. Quietly, beneath his breath, he curses, "Bloody 'ell, Constantine, what mess is this?" Jack looks nervously at Constantine, and then over to Sand. He's shaken, it obvious. A cold sweat is beginning to form on his palm. Was /that/ why he had received all those crates? Are they going to be taken from him, just like everything else? The idea seems to make Jack more uncomfortable than the threat of death itself. Within him, the seed of a greedy idea begins to take shape. He fights the urge to run out of the room and check on the items right now. Instead he lights another cig. It's amazing how similar minor obsession and addiction can be when placed side-by-side. Glancing at Jack, Sandy looks a little worried, then quickly stifles it. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and starts digging for matches - still hasn't gotten his drink yet, but maybe that's not such a good idea after all. Not if he needs to be in fighting shape tonight. "And maybe you underestimate us, or overestimate yourself, hotshot. So tell us who's after it, if you're gonna stick to your good guy story." John Constantine rolls his eyes at Sandy's superhero-esque dialogue, but allows a slight smirk to cross his lips. Laugh in the face of danger, and all. Finally, Jack really can't contain his curiousity or the nagging feeling that something might be wrong in the storage room downstairs. After all, this phone call /could/ be a distraction, right? The guy did try to pull off Kasulas's accent and fool them all to begin with. Besides, the amount of worth in the items downstairs, both monetary and spiritual, to Jack, is...well...apparently very high. He snags the Rod from it's place floating nearby, and puts on his jacket again. Pointing down at the ground, signifying that he's going downstairs to check everything out, Jack tries to leave as silently as possible. The voice says "The faction who killed Kasulas are but one in an army of seekers who want the secret that the box contains. They hired Kasulas to find this thing for them. As it turned out, Mr. Knight already had it in his possession through some quirk of...of fate." The voice slows, growing a bit more guarded but no less annoyed. "IThey will bend the box to evil purposes. If you can even surmise the power it could unleash you know what this would mean." Fumbling slightly, Sandy finally comes up with his matches, and lights his cigarette. He rolls his eyes. "Look here, buddy, I'm sure we can handle it. It can't be any more powerful than some've the crazy shit the Third Reich was messing with in the war, and we managed to win, didn't we?" He takes a drag of his cigarette, and his eyes widen in mock chagrin. "Oh, -I'm- sorry, I didn't think to ask which side you were on..." "Down, boy," John says, out of the corner of his mouth, to Sandy. He grins, though, and holds out one hand, gesturing to the cigarette in Sandy's mouth. "Mind if I-?" he asks, before directing his words towards the speaker phone. "Right, then. We'll be there tonight." He pauses, then jams a thumb down on the phone, hanging it up. ".... Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." He quiets down, then continues. "Fucking fuck fuck." There's a faint sound in the background after Jack slinks out of the room. The chiming of a music box. playing some ethereal sad song of yearning and loss. Wordlessly handing John his Lucky Strike - dunno if those Silk Cuts have filters, but these things sure don't - Sandy grimaces. "Good word. What the hell're you thinking, we-" he stops, frowning deeply and listening hard. John Constantine takes the cigarette gratefully ("Thank god it's not menthol") and places the reciever back in the phone's hook. "We weren't going to find out anything else from -him-" he says, gesturing with a nod towards the phone. He begins to pat his pockets for a light, and finally finds his lighter. "Besides," and hear he lights the cigarette, "we'll find out more when we see him tonight." The lighter touches the cigarette, the nicotine hits John's lungs, and for a moment the world is a better place. He smiles that nasty little grin of his, and takes another pull from his smoke. "Yeah, we'll find out -far- fucking more than we ever wanted to know, I'm sure. Do you hear that?" asks Sandy, pocketing his deck and his matches and taking a drag of his own, then moving to lean through the hall door Jack slunk out. "What is that?" Jack Knight pages: Jack stops and stares in amazement at the box, creeping closer and closer to it, in an attempt to examine it further. He wills the Rod to light the rest of the room, and places his goggles over his eyes. With a precursory glance around the rest of the boxes, to make sure he's alone, he begins to reach out a hand to touch it. "What the hell...?" There's an odd glow coming from the basement storage room. You paged Jack Knight with 'The box is warm in your hand. Purified security containing the Hopes of mankind in etheral smokey glowing form. Locked securely by some unseen magical lock.'. Not waiting for John to answer, Sandy heads down the short hallway and starts down the steps. "Jack? ...hey, Jack? Jesus, this feels like the Blair Witch Project...where the hell are you?" he calls, squinting into the darkness. The music box's chimes start to wind down, plunking slowly entropically towards the unfinished tune's ending. John Constantine notices the glow. He wrinkles his nose, takes a pull from his cig, and puts two and two together. "Jack?" he asks, then raises his voice. "Jack, you fuckwit!" He chases after Sandy, the tail of his trenchcoat riding up a bit behind him as he bolts. The room is actually fairly well lit by the Rod. Jack's got his goggles on, and appears to be holding some sort of music box, which appears to be responsible for the haunting tunes that play across everyone's ears. He's staring down at it in fascination, turning it this way and that, trying to figure out how to open it. Within the box, where the mechanism should be, there is instead a crystalline squared box. It glows with some indefinite warmth of its own, colors swirling around within its tiny confines like swimming comets in minature. John Constantine nearly trips on his own feet as he tears across the small space, knocking over a small assortment of boxes along the way. Something shatters; he ignores it and continues. He crosses the ground in relatively little time, considering all the obstacles in his way, and reaches out to grab the box away. "You bleedin' goat raping cumguzzling moron, have you no mind??" He seems rather irritated. "Gloryosky, you -dumbass-, don't you -even- open...ah, *shit*," exclaims Sandy, reaching out - but - too late. "That's Pandora's Box! That's...shit. That's what the dream meant." As he says this, he punches the cement wall out of frustration and for emphasis. He pauses. "So who's the woman?" What? Swivelling the box behind him, and the Rod in front of him, Jack moves the tip of the glowing device only inches from Constantine's face. "Back off, Limey." The sneer on his face is so deadly serious, it looks almost lethal. Even Sandy's never seen Jack this grave before. Turning to look at his friend once he's convinced that John won't try anything, his face softens. "I can feel...my Mom. And David. It's like they're...inside." His voice is extremely soft, almost whispered. "I just want to look." "Jack...don't," says Sand quietly, holding his hand out. "You know the stories. You know the drill. You've seen what this mystic shit does, you know better. I know what it's like to miss people, and I know what it's like to feel as though they're only inches away and you can see them again." He takes a step closer, still holding his hand out. "But this isn't the way. Come on, give me the box." The Box glows softly, its light relatively dim compared to the brilliance of the Cosmic Rod that lights the basement room. The colors within the box pulse and swirl. John Constantine's face is underlit by the soft glow of the Box, casting his eyes in shadows. He reaches out one hand towards Jack, mirroring Sand's gesture, and intones in a serious voice. "Give me the fucking box, kid. You don't want to fuck with this." He barely pauses before speaking again, his open palm curling into a fist. "Gimme the goddamn box, Jack. You don't know what you're dealin' with, 'ere." The Rod fires up, casting a blinding glare around the room, especially toward Constantine, who's face is right next to it. "No, dammit. You don't get it." Jack takes a few steps backward, away from the other two, clutching the box like a football under his arm. "It's not e-...!" Vil. He would have said evil, if he hadn't tripped over one of the smaller boxes behind him. Pitching over backwards, Jack completely loses his balance. Needless to say, the box goes flying, soaring in almost slow motion through the air. And it's Flashback City for the guy with the prophetic dreams. Yeah - it looks like slow motion, all right - the only problem is, it's not, so as he dives for the box, Sandy moves equally slowly. Um. Well, they both move at normal speed, see. He's trying to catch it - my /god/, he's trying to catch it. Not a word. Just an extraordinary sense of deja vu. The Box lands neatly in Sandy's outstretched palm as he dives for it. John Constantine just ends up being outright blinded. He staggers backwards, the cigarette dropping from his lips onto the floor. His left hand rises to cover his eyes as he regains his balance. "Fuck!" he explains, while his inner monologue rages: 'I suppose this'll show you, Constantine. Should've knocked 'im out while you had the chance.' 'Oh, but John! He seemed like a harmless enough lad, who knew he'd go mad?' 'You did, you fuck.' 'Yeah. So I did.' Thank god it was just the light boxes. This is the mantra running through Jack's mind from underneath a pile of cubical cardboard which came bearing down on him after he impacted with one of the stacks. Still, it's kind of an uncomfortable position to be in. Dusty. Claustrophobic. The young Starman's just a little too confused about what just happened to try and do anything about it though. He's content to just stay buried for now. At least that way he doesn't have to face the other two. Sandy's eyes widen as he stares at the box in his hands, and carefully, he sits up. The expression on his face is...joyful, almost. Longing, certainly. He waves a hand over it briefly, watching it, contemplating...well, John almost certainly knows what he's thinking. "My god," he says, sounding ages younger. "You're right, Jack, I -didn't- understand. I...it might never have happened..." He makes as if to open the box.