Issue #2

The door to the Hanged Man is wooden, and squeaks when opened. John bobs his head in
time to the door's whine as he walks into the bar, muttering something beneath his
breath about their perpetual need to work on the hinges. He squints, his eyes
momentarily adjusting to the dark light. The place certainly isn't packed tonight, but
it's got the fair share of regular customers and the odd college student. Constantine
scans the room before his gaze falls on the counter. "Birdy!" he shouts above the
chatter and television screens. He strides towards the bar, his hand already extended
towards one of the two men tending drinks.

Ah, lord, a transplanted pub. Amazingly, one that's never registered on Sand before -
which is no mean feat, considering his history and familiarity with the City That Never
Sleeps. He's left his suit jacket and tie in the car to be rained on, and grouchily
worn the tattered old fedora he inherited from Wes; as John displays his bar-mojo, the
younger-looking man tosses the hat to the stand next to the door. Naturally, it makes
it, and Sand shoves his hands in his pockets, following everyone's favorite Urban Mage
to the counter.

A slouching middle-aged man in rather casual attire pauses in his discussion with the
other, younger, hipper-looking man behind the bar. His eyes widen at the voice,
presumably in recognition. Then they narrow a little as he picks out the source of the
sound amidst the tavern's patronage. He takes makes a gesture over a shoulder towards
the register then moves down the counter to where Constantine is headed. His smiles,
almost disbelieving. "Constantine?"

Sanderson Hawkins

	The tall, blue-eyed man before you stands carelessly, his mop of bright yellow
curls spilling over his brow and shading his eyes. The hair is cut very short in the
back, almost buzzed, but it fades up to longer locks on top. His face is clean-shaven
and angular, with a straight nose and a mouth that looks like it's quite used to
reacting in wry amusement. The man's skin is tanned, but not obscenely so: it looks
like he's just gotten a good lot of sun in his apparently short life. Yes, short - he
doesn't seem to be any more than twenty-four.
	From the bottom up, Sandy's wearing a pair of Birkenstocks - sure, toeless
leather sandals no matter what the temperature is outside; a pair of olive drab cargo
pants with just as many pockets and loops as the most 'with it' skateboarder or
irritated ex-Marine; a leather gunbelt with rather nonstandard weaponry residing in the
holsters; a white sleeveless undershirt made from thin, ribbed fabric, serving nicely
to outline his musculature; an unbuttoned, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. And oh, this
shirt is bright enough to drive any stealth-lover crazy: it's colored on a quite
touristy gradient, sunshine yellow at the bottom to citrus orange in the middle, ending
at blood red up at the shoulders and collar. A pattern of tropical fish and stylized
flowers covers it, leaving big gaps of color in between.

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.

"Birdy, you ol' cunt!" Constantine smirks, smacking the other man on the shoulder with
a rough hand. "It's been a few years. Sorry about your sister, 'n all that. I swear I
thought she was 'f age." The tone of his voice is sarcastic but tinged with honest
apology; perhaps for some unspoken old grudge Birdy might still be holding.

There's a quietly astonished sound from the man coming up behind John Constantine.
Boyola, those old school heroes - pathetically easy to shock. Sand recovers quickly,
though, smiling ever so slightly and touching his fingers to the invisible brim of his
absent hat. Only, of course, when Birdy glances his way.

Birdy says "A few years ago I would have broken your head with a chair. But I've
mellowed in my old age." He smiles blandly, placidly. A bit too placidly really.
Stroking his gray beard and lowering his beetle black eyebrows, he regards Sand and
nods to him almost sympathetically. A compatriot of the East End Magus - Poor bastard.

John Constantine places one hand atop the bar counter, steadying himself, while the
other carefully cradles what looks to be a bundled package. "Look, Birdy, do us a
favor? Procure me n' me mate a corner booth, will you? Look't those college kids,
what're they doin' here?" He jerks the package towards the nearby corner, in the
direction of a table situated with young men, all intently watching a soccer game on an
overhead television.

Birdy snorts. "What the fuck does it look like they're doing?" He shrugs a little,
reaching over to flip up a hinged part of the bar and walk out around to the other side
by Sandy and John. He glowers a little at Constantine, as if he's going to give him
some debate. "You can have the other corner, right?" He jerks his head in the said
booth's direction.

Stifling his own response - Birdy's was better - Sandy idly lights up and starts for
the booth. You honestly can't blame him for being tense. Really. He glances over his
shoulder once to see if John's on his way or arguing, then secures the seat facing the
door. Nya-ha.

A slightly muffled TV announcer can be announcing 'Goooaal!'. The collegiate crowd
observing the football match emits a few yips and a short cheer.

John Constantine hefts the package closer to his body, regarding Birdy with raised
eyebrows and a crooked grin. "Look, mate, you owe me one, and that's me favorite booth"
he says, though his words trail off when Sandy heads towards the table. John glances in
that direction fishing one hand through trenchcoat pockets for his cigarettes.
"Nevermind, I'll collect later," he mumbles, walking towards the corner.

Birdy watches John and Sandy go to the booth, his glowering fading to a sort of tired
and resigned expression. He shoots a look across the way to the barkeep and then walks
back to take a place behind the counter once more.

The booth is good and smokey. There's nicks and marks all over the wood finish, a pair
of well used ashtrays, ringlets from previous patrons glasses, and a few Hanged Man
coasters scattered across it.

Sandy Hawkins looks up at John, sliding the ashtray to the center of the table. "I
hope," he starts in a low voice, "you have a clue what to do with that thing." He
gestures toward the box a little vaguely, a little uncomfortably. "I also hope it
hasn't got anything to do with beating Jack about the head, though he certainly
deserves it."

John Constantine gently places the box down on the table, making a half-serious gesture
of brushing cigarette ash off the table. Having done this, he settles into the booth
with the grace of a gazelle; smooth and fluid, like he's slid into a thousand similar
booths before. He props his feet up on the table, careful not to knock the box. "I have
a clue or three," he says, pulling his lighter from a pocket. "But they're just
guesses."

"Way to inspire confidence," mutters Sand, leaning back and slouching somewhat. He
keeps a preoccupied half-gaze on the crowd, and especially on the door of the bar.
After a second, he taps ash into the tray and snaps his look back to Constantine. "They
all involve getting rid of it, right? Just checking."

John Constantine finishes lighting the cigarette and shakes his head vigorously, the
burning red tip darting back and forth. "Hhhheehhhhhh no," he says, inhaling deeply and
then speaking while exhaling smoke. "No, none of them do." He pauses. "Well, one does,
but I'm not really sure -what- side of the game the Spectre's on, these days. So, no,
none of them involve getting rid of it. I am almost completely confident right now that
we are the best people to hold onto this, at least until we find out who exactly is
after it."

Raising his eyebrows and crossing one arm over his stomach, resting the elbow of his
cigarette-arm in the opposing palm, Sandy shakes his head. "Spectre's the same guy he's
always been, if a hell of a lot creepier and more dead." He pauses. "If it's possible
to get more dead." His expression metamorphoses to a frown and he shuts his eyes,
scratching his forehead with his thumbnail. "Okay. So you don't trust ol' Jimbo." Yes.
Self-amused. "Next question. Any ideas who the fake Kasulas is with?"

Somewhere through the haze of spent nicotine a quarter rattles and a jukebox begins
playing a folksy sounding song in which an Irish baladeer comments on his desire to
drink away the memories of the woman he lost in 'the Troubles'. The song is low and
almost lost in the minor hubbub of the bar's noisier patrons.

John Constantine shrugs his shoulders at Sandy's comments, pulling again from his
cigarette. "The thing is, the guy's just too damn objective," he says, summing up his
feelings on the Spectre in one quick phrase. He pauses for a moment, and then answers
Sandy's other question. "Two options here: the good guys or the bad guys. I'm tempted
to say the bad guys, but I'm a cynical fellow."

"Gosh," says Sandy in wide-eyed, blatantly sarcastic amazement. He puts his free hand
to the side of his face and lets his jaw drop momentarily. "Ya think?" Sitting back
again, he glances sourly at the door again. "-Obviously- it's the bad guys. Generally
the good guys don't make it so damn obvious they'll send their goons to kill you if you
don't cooperate." A beat, then a thoughtful, "Well, they wouldn't tend to do it in the
first place, either..."

John Constantine shakes his head. "Sometimes it's not that easy," John says, and begins
regretting his sober state. "Good, bad .. in occult circles, these things 're generally
a bit more blurred. Just 'cause they want to kill us doesn't -necessarily- make 'em
evil." He pauses. "But it sure is likely! Buy us a drink?"

"You saw my apartment and my car, and you just what, flew in? And you're asking -me- to
get you a drink," recaps Sandy bemusedly. He doesn't move, just continuing to lean back
and let his cigarette gradually burn away, grinning rather lopsidedly. Finally he sighs
and scratches his nose, then conspicuously waves down whoever's closest and on duty.
"Straight whisky and whatever the guy with the broken razor wants."

An underage looking woman who looks rather frazzled takes out her notepad and walks
over. She looks like she's perfectly willing to let a few tips slide - probably late
into her shift.

"Gin and tonic," John says absentmindedly, and drums his fingers across the top of the
box. He quickly jerks his hand back, the moment he recalls what's actually inside that
little package. "The question right now," he pulls the fag from his lips, "is where the
hell's the key?"

The woman nods and scrawls in the pad, then heads over to the bartender, who's
currently in the middle of hearing a funny anecdote told by one of the regulars.

Sandy Hawkins holds his hand out. "Gimme the paper again. Don't quite remember what it
said, but it mentioned the key." He finishes his cigarette and stubs the last
centimeter out in the ashtray.

John Constantine tilts his head down, cigarette ash fluttering towards hell as he peers
into the inner reaches of his trenchcoat. "Uhn," he grunts in acknowledgement, pulling
the note out. He tosses it onto the table and taps it with one nicotine-stained
fingertip.

Spreading the note out on the table, separating the paperclipped pieces and laying them
next to each other, Sandy stares briefly. He points to a scrawled phrase in the middle
of the Greek scribblings and re-reads it. "'...he persists in pressuring for formulae
for opening the box. A key. I have the key.'" Sand glances up. "Not a physical key, I'm
assuming." Looking down again, his finger skips a couple of lines and he repeats,
"'Constantine. The key. Grand Central.'"

John Constantine looks to the other way as Sandy speaks, as if attempting to read fate
in the perfect swirls of cigarette smoke. "Grand Central again," he says around the
cigarette in his mouth and the grimace on his face. "But why?" He turns back to Sandy,
and gestures towards the note. "Nothin' else?"

The server returns with a tray with the two drinks and a pitcher of beer. The latter's
presumably a refill for the college boys, and she's having a little trouble balancing
it. She looks plaintively down at the table and tries to find a spot to put the glasses
down.

John Constantine quickly pulls the box out of the way, and cradles it beneath his arm
once more.

Sandy Hawkins pulls the notes toward him, making still more space in the middle of the
table. "Sorry 'bout that, kiddo," he addresses the girl absently, then returns his full
attention to the papers. "Well, there's the ever-so-mysterious inclusion of a bible
verse, and his constant references to an old man."

The woman smiles haggardly and sets the gin and tonic and whiskey on the space. She
then wobbles off towards the frat types.

John Constantine leans back in the booth, while his right hand wraps around his glass
as if he were a man dying of thirst. He brings the drink to his lips and takes a
swallow, closing his eyes as if in deep contemplation. With his head still tilted back,
he places the glass back down on the table. "John 3:16. Believeth in me blah blah blah.
Kas was a dead goddamn atheist, what the hell was he doing writing out - oh. Oh, fuck
me!" John grins, his head swinging back up, a crooked grin to his face. "Fuck fuck
fuck, of course."

"'Druther not, if at all possible. I doubt my girl'd appreciate it," mutters Sandy,
gathering up the papers again, clipping them together, and folding them up. He swallows
about half his whisky in one mighty metaphoric inhalation, then sets his glass down and
flips the packet across the table. "Don't tell me something to do with Christianity's
the cure to a magic lock on an ancient Greek mythical construct..."

John Constantine hunches over the table, carefully guarding both the box and the drink
with a set jaw and a stupid grin. "No, that's the point - it's not a biblical reference
at all. It's .." he stops for a moment, unsure of how to phrase it. One hand rises a
bit in the air, gesturing. "It's, you know, it's a code. Maybe an address or a
combination, or something. And how much you want t'lay down that it's for Grand
Central?"

The old duffer of a boy looks blank. "A key to Grand Central Station? Or something
arcane having to do with the layout of the place? I donno how all that pentagram stuff
works. Or Feng Shui." Sandy stops himself, sighs, and finishes the rest of his whisky.
He holds up a hand, closing his eyes for a second, then sets the glass down and looks
up again. "Sorry. Please...tell me like I'm seventy. Explain."

"Comparing you to a seventy year old would be an insult to the elderly community of the
greater New York area," John says with a smirk, tilting his glass to his lips once
more. "Okay. The (we'll assume) Bad Guys want the box. We have the box. They also want
some kind of key, which I guess is for the box. We don't have the key - yet. I think
Kas stashed the key away somewhere for the time being, and his scrawled note is a hint
on where to find it. In Grand Central station." He slows his .. voice .. down. "Got.
All. That?"

Sandy Hawkins is smiling. Like he's got some kind of hilarious private joke that he's
not gonna tell, like he knows something, like he's laughing at John on the /inside/.
The smile turns into a smirk and he nods. "Sure thing, boyo," says the young man
cheerfully. "Wanna go now? Collect Jack, be on our way?"

John Constantine downs the glass and rises to a stand. "Sounds good to me," he says,
eyeing Sandy's all-too-cheerful grin with a look of uncertainty. "He's probably come to
his senses now, though it'd be best for the time bein' if he rode in the back seat of
the car, y'know what I'm saying?"

Sandy Hawkins stands as well, digging in his pocket and leaving enough for the bill and
a hefty tip. He cracks his back and shakes his arms out, then looks wry. "You just
don't wanna sit next to the box of crap in the back seat." He starts for the door.

John Constantine swipes a couple dollars from the tip while Sandy's got his back
turned, then hurries after the man. "C'mon, let's go wake up the kid and get to work."
He looks around for Birdy, but apparently the bar owner has gone out for a spell.
Shrugging, he heads for the heavy wooden doors and opens them up to the slowly fading
daylight.


Some time later...


Fishing for the right key only takes a second - and the door gets unlocked. Sandy
braces himself, opening it, wondering what the hell he's gonna find on the other side.
A greed-filled psycho? A sobbing wreck of a man? A drunk? A reasonable adventurer ready
to take on the world? He glances at John as the door swings open.

John Constantine, almost subconsciously, tightens his grip on the box as he enters the
room. Aside from this slight defensive action, though, he seems confident. "Jack!" he
calls out, closing the door behind him. "Put your pants on, mate, we're goin' to the
train station."

The room is completely dark when the two enter. Pitch black. Not a sound. If Jack is
still in the pad, he's not anywhere in sight.

Sandy Hawkins glances back at John. "This ain't good," he says quietly, then heads
deeper in. "You check the upstairs, I'll check the basement. Neh?"

John Constantine gives a long, soft sigh. "Daft fucker," he mutters, setting one foot
on the first step of the stairs. "Jack?" he calls up to the second floors, "Jack, you
up there? Don't make me walk up a flight'f stairs for nothing, I'm a smoker, you
bastard." He begins to ascend.

Death from above! Dropping down from the ceiling, a figure opens it's arms wide in an
effort to send both Sandy and John to the ground. In the darkness, it's difficult to
tell who or what might be assaulting our heroes, although the grunt as it falls might
sound slightly familiar. It's humanoid at least. Two arms, two legs, one head. No
multi-armed netherbeings today, at least.

"Fuck!" John cries, falling back from the stairs. He's not high up, only a few steps,
but it's enough to send him sprawling on his ass, cigarette flying into a corner. The
box, fortunately, just ended up thumbing into John's belly. Constantine shakes his head
quickly, as if to get rid of the stars, and rises to a stand.

Sandy Hawkins spins as soon as he hears John yell, immediately grabbing for the guy
while John gets up. "What the fuck are you doing!" he yells, irate, taking a smack at
where he's pretty sure the back of the head of the person he's fairly certain is Jack
is.

"Oh, it's yo-...eow!" After disentangling himself from the British Bulldog, Jack
finally understood that the duos entry into the house wasn't a break in. Or rather, he
was about to make that conclusion...until Sand'd hand clips him in the noggin.
Careening forward, Jack does a nasty faceplant on the carpet. The kind that leave teeth
rattling. Jaw still clenched, the Starman mutters. "Hrm. Welcome home."

John Constantine steps next to Jack, still rubbing his crown. "You moron," he mutters,
drawing his leg back to kick the man in half-jest.

"Yeh, a key in the fuckin' lock doesn't give a clue it's one've the two people with a
key," mutters Sandy, glaring at Jack for a moment. Finally, he sighs and offers a hand
up. "C'mon, we're goin' to Grand Central. And I've got a feeling we don't have a whole
lot've time. You up to it? You need some painkiller first?"

Shaking his head, Jack blinks his eyes a few times. "Nah. I've taken worse." Although
the slight wince as he stands seems to tell exactly how good Sand's hit was. Rubbing
the sore spot on his head, he looks to his co-conspirators, somewhat uncertain. "Did
you guys find anything? The home front was safe, at least while I was here..." He
squints slightly at Sandy. "You /could/ have been picking the lock, you know." His
expression is a little guilty. Okay, he feels at least a little dumb.

John Constantine hefts the box in his left hand, nodding as Jack speaks. "Yeah, we
found peace and love within ourselves, n' we're leaving for a fuckin' commune. -C'mon-
you fuckin' wanker, we realized we've been lookin' at this all wrong. The message was a
hint, not a biblical reference."

Sandy Hawkins sighs and rolls his eyes. "Shut up, John, 'r I'll sock you one too. I'm
not gonna fuckin' play mommy with my best friend and some British schmuck when we gotta
worry about Pandora's fucking Box." He puts his hat back on and starts out the door.
Over his shoulder he notes, "You wouldn't -hear- me if I were picking the lock, Jack."

John Constantine gives Jack one last look of frustration, and turns towards the door.
"Where're my fucking fags when I need 'em," he grumbles, patting down his pockets as he
steps out into the night.

Following Sand, Jack makes mimicky faces behind the other guys back, and shakes a fist
behind the brit. So far, this experience hasn't been the greatest for Jack's ego. He
shoves one hand into the pocket of his jeans, and the other reaches behind him,
catching the Rod which has floated gently over toward him. Closing the door and
listening to it latch behind him, he grumbles and shuffles his feet as he moves to join
the other two.

By the time the door's locked behind Jack and the two get to the car, Sandy's already
turning the key in the ignition. And as soon as they're -in- the car, there's a nasty
screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber.


Grand Central Station


Grand Central Station lives up to its name any hour of the day, and even now, even in
the pre-dawn hours in the midst of some of the worst weather Manhattan's seen in
months, its an impressive scene: Carts being pushed, clusters of every form of human
being bustling around, the broad expanses of its main terminal, the echo of broadcast
announcements and the murmur of walking, running, chatting, arguing people. The trio
make their way towards one niche of the station, wherein several rows of lockers and
deposit boxes are housed.

Coming to a halt at the wall of lock boxes, Sand shoves his hands in his pockets and
eyes John. "So, bright eyes, you got any clues left?" He doesn't shuffle. He doesn't
crack his knuckles. He doesn't work his jaw. No, no, he's far too annoyed.

"Nothing up my sleeves, if that's what you're asking," John grins that cocky grin,
tossing Sandy a sidelong glance. He steps up to the side of his companion, running his
fingers along the small metal plaque that is imprinted with the numerical
identification. "3-16 is what we're looking for, boys," he says, and begins to walk
along the rows of lockers.

As John begins his search for 316 amidst the dozens of storage units, Sandy feels a
sort of tugging at the corner of his eye as something out of place catches his
attention. Two men. Redcap uniforms. They've just stepped off behind a kiosk across the
way. Now one's moving from that kiosk to a vending counter. Old school lessons in this
sort of thing scream one thing to Sanderson Hawkins; our boys are being shadowed in
tandem...and probably by more than he just noticed.

Following John's lead, Jack takes the opposite row of lockers and begins trailing a
finger down each set of plaques himself. "So...we're..." He looks around
conspiratorially. "Looking for a key?" Glancing over at Sandy and John as he follows
the row, Jack doesn't notice one of the station's patrons loitering in front of him,
nearly bumping directly into the man. With a polite nod, the Starman tries to
apologize, and can't help but step away quickly as the man begins to leer suggestively
at him. Damn fruitcakes.

"280...285...290..." John, getting closer, begins counting off by fives. His pace is
still deliberate, though, relatively calm.

Shaking his head at Jack, preoccupied, Sandy answers, "Lookin' for a box. Remember what
I said about picking locks?" Finally, he quits surreptitiously taking stock of the
situation and lowers his voice, speaking quickly. "Guys? We've got company." The blond
man's hands leave his pockets, thumbs hooking loosely on his belt, not far from his
weapons.

Sandy notes a pair of large men who have mysteriously decided to lounge by a candy
counter and pretend to review their options. They barely fit into their well tailored
European suits and ties.

John Constantine doesn't even bat an eye at Sandy's warning. "Yeah, I figured they'd be
keeping a watch," he says as he continues walking. "Just keep an eye on them, and tell
me if they pull any guns. Doubt they will, this being Grand Central 'n all, but watch
just the same." He slows his pace, his gaze locked on one particular locker. When he
reaches this destination, he stops altogether. 316. Unremarkable. Metal. A sticker
half-peeling off. Just like all the others. John places his hands on the lock, brushing
his fingers against it. "Well, here we are."

Unfortunately, Jack's not packing the Rod. It was simply too conspicuous. He follows
Sands gaze to the two men, and looks back at the man he recently 'bumped into'
suspiciously. Of course, the guy seems to take Jack's glance backward as being
something entirely different from what it was intended to be. Hoo boy. Jack makes new
friends far too easily. He grits his teeth and keeps looking for the lockbox, only
stopping when he hears Constantine's success. Quickly stepping over to the other man,
he looks over his shoulder again, a little nervously. "Hurry up, man."

Sandy Hawkins eyes Jack. "You know jujitsu, right? Or was it aikido you picked up? No
matter - back me up? Gonna need to." He pays -far- more attention to the gathering
mooks than to John's success. The two redcaps, the two gigantors, the possibility over
next to where Jack was...and probably a hell of a lot more. "Yeah, hurry," he echoes
under his breath.

John Constantine jerks on the small metal handle. It catches quickly - locked, one of
those deposit lockers that require the small orange key to open. John rubs the stubble
on his chin, pauses for a moment, then pulls on the handle again, this time opening the
locker. No sweat.

Inside the locker sits a small manila envelope. And on top of it, a stoppered glass
bottle; small, squat, archaic looking.

"Please let it be gin," John mutters 'neath his breath as he reaches in, grabbing the
bottle and the envelope.

"Let me guess. When you're not busy being a fulltime English prick, you're a locksmith,
right?" Jack gives John a nervous grin, again looking over his shoulder at the grouping
nogoodniks. He cracks knuckles on both hands and nods his head to Sand. "Jujitsu. I'm a
little out of practice lately, though. Hopefully we can grab and go."

There's a concerted but casual move by the Redcaps and the larger pair to get closer.

"Nah," John mutters, turning from the locker and giving the found items the once-over.
He looks up at Jack and says, "Magic."

"Right. Grabbed. Let's try for 'gone' now," says Sandy, starting for the main entrance
and keeping track of the known thugs in peripheral and 'glance back to simulate eyes in
back of head' vision. He manages to keep his pace moderate without being obvious and
attracting the attention of security. Yeah.

With a slight cock of his head, Jack grins again, and shrugs. "Oh. Cool." He looks
nonplussed even a little impressed, by the 'M' word. While he hasn't always had the
best experiences with it, growing up in Opal has helped him to be used to the idea.
Even with a scientist father, Jack's not one to have a closed mind. He nudges John
toward following Sand, and then tries to bring up the ring. "Come on, rock star. You've
got an escort now."

A man with a red mustache in a security uniform stands across the way, talking to a
woman at a yogurt stand. Making time, looks like. The big men in the Armanti suits form
a fleshy wall to the left of the row. The Redcaps stand on the right.

The bottle contains...air? There's a curling smoke trail within, small, somewhat
indistinct. The envelope is addressed 'To Whom It May Concern'.

John Constantine glances from the items in his hand to his companions then back again.
He slides the items into a jacket pocket. When his hand emerges from the depths of his
trenchcoat, it's carrying a lit cigarette - don't ask, it just is. "Right then," he
says, placing the smoke between his teeth and grinning a desperate smile. "Off we go."

As Sandy leads the way, he sees a movement in the crowd ahead near the entrance to the
station. A few figures in the pedestrian traffic by the doors break off and begin to
move at the same pace towards him. Three men and a woman, all dressed in tasteful,
subdued attire, looking rather like they're on their way to a business meeting. A man
with a black goatee sucks on his cigarette as he walks, flicking it aside into a
collection tin being held out by a young homeless man. Freeing up his right hand.

They're roughly 20 feet away now and closing. The Gigantor twins and Redcaps are
standing around 10 feet behind Jack and John and aren't advancing.

John Constantine cracks his knuckles and then places a hand against his jaw and cracks
that too, some nervous habit he does when he knows he's in for something rough. His
light jog slows to a steady pace. "No need to rush things," he mutters around the lit
cig in his mouth.

"I don't /need/ this right now," mutters Sandy, hands hovering by his sides, then
dropping, as he decides to take this with fists for now. He keeps walking (but no
longer quickly), -fairly- certain the people in front are /not/ gonna move. . o O (On
the other hand...yeah, I do. Maybe I won't have to sock Constantine now.)

Taking a completely different approach, Jack slaps Constantine on the back, and acts as
if they're unruly chums, who haven't seen each other in quite a while. It's a transit
station, right? Who's to say that they weren't just...in transit? Doubtful it's going
to work, the young Starman hopes to hell it will. "So, you loony limey, what the hell
/have/ you been up to lately?" His brash attitude gives the impression that he's either
drunk, or stoned, or both. "Can't wait to paint the town red!" The goofy grin is
convincing, at least. Might make 'em think twice.

The man with the black goatee begins to smile a little as he and the other three
nattily dressed suspicious types walk casually closer. 10 feet or so. He then stops and
makes a gesture with a raised hand for the ones following to stop. He then speaks in a
clear but low voice over the hubub of passersby and train announcements. "Mr. Hawkins.
Mr. Constantine. Mr. Knight." He studies the trio's faces with an empty smile, his blue
eyes flat and cold. There's a lilt to his speech. Austrian or German, perhaps. He rests
his right hand in a jacket pocket. "Before we get down to business, I should let you
know that an associate of mine is currently targeting Mr. Constantine's head with a
very efficient and very quiet 5.56 millimeter firearm. If you would be so kind as to
pass over the items in Mr. Constantine's possession, he will not have to take the
safety off of his weapon. If you fail to do so in the next few moments, he will. If you
resist, Mr. Constantine's skull will be penetrated by a metal jacketed round, pushing
his brains out onto this nice, polished tile floor." He points vaguely down with his
free hand.

Sand Hawkins grins rakishly. "And this is a problem how, exactly?" This said, and
hoping to GOD Jack knows him well enough to follow what he's doing, he glances back at
the young Starman and cocks his head toward the speaker. Jujitsu mastah, here is your
day. He waits a split second, then steps back into John and shoves him into a group of
passers-by with everything he's got.

John Constantine sighs, glancing at Jack. "Nice try, Knight," he mutters honestly,
before looking back at the man with the goatee. There is a pause as Constantine sums up
his opposition, although it's not too long of one. Finally, he pulls the cigarette from
between his lips and moves to gesture with some amount of fury at the man in front of
him. Before he has the chance of signing his death warrant with this gesture, however,
he finds himself stumbling into three young French tourists.

"Que n'pais t'aime je qui!" cries one, startled.

"Ladies," says John, looking up at one with a smile.

There's an indistinct hiss to the right of John's ear like a fat and very fast bee. The
silenced rifle bullet removes a piece of the kiosk to the left of the tourists.

The goatee sporting man shouts "Scheiss!" his smile twisting into a snarl. The woman
behind him pushes a hari krishna down and advances on Sand, her high heels clicking as
she drops into a fighting stance. The other two figures move sidelong in a brisk canter
towards John, hands reaching inside of their jackets. There's sound of movement to the
rear of our heroes as well as the Redcaps and bricks-with-ties hustle over to try and
subdue Jack.

Oh sure. Give Jack the fun job. Taking the cue from Sand with barely a moment's
hesitation, Jack steps forward smoothly as Constantine is tossed aside, ducking low to
guard his head from any errant fire. The ducking motion serves to help his next move,
as his hand is firmly planted on the ground in front of him. Completely silent, Jack
tenses for impact, and sweeps his foot in a circular motion on front of him, toward the
legs of those blocking their way to the exit. The strike is swift, and fluid, it's
evident that Jack has been practicing some moves recently...probably because of some
sort of trouble he's had.

The apparent leader of the little goon squad is knocked off of his feet before he can
bring whatever is hiding in his jacket pocket to bear. He falls with a "Unf!" onto the
nicely polished tile floor. A Redcap advancing on Jack from behind is tripped up by the
return trip of the young Starman's sweeping foot and falls sideways, shoulder hitting
one of the rows of safety deposit boxes.

"Fightin' in high heels - who d'ya think you are, Phantom Lady?" sneers Sandy, striking
out as soon as he sees her adopt that familiar stance. It's very likely a good thing
he's gotten over his 'not hitting women' deal, and he doesn't underestimate even though
he mocks. Faking a jab to her abdomen, he reaches swiftly up with an uppercut to her
jaw.

The karateka in heels is caught off guard by the feint, her hand moving in a circular
parry to block the perceived attack and opening herself up to take a knuckle sandwich.
She emits a short yipe and stumbles backwards, reeling and then collapsing against a
surprised looking commuter. She looks very very unconscious.

John Constantine picks himself up. Cigarette still in his hand, he runs his thumb
across the ridges of his front teeth and lets his arms fall to his sides, all clenched
fists and attitude.

The two Eurotrash advancing on Constantine clutch unseen weapons under their armpits
and hustle over towards the confused gaggle of tourists near Constantine. A large woman
pushing a baggage rack comes between them and John and they knock her and her cart
over. One takes out a small snubnosed automatic out, flipping it around in his hand to
use as a blunt instrument. His buddy moves around the pile of obstacles in his path,
circling around towards John's right.

Sand Hawkins winces as it only requires one blow to take her out. Maybe he
-overestimated- her. Well, if they get outta this alive...but there's other stuff to
worry about. Quickly taking stock of his surroundings, Sandy spies John's predicament
and only hesitates in his head. Okay, it's not a real hesitation, really. He well-nigh
instantly sprints and lunges for the guy on Constantine's right, aiming to crack his
head against the floor.

Sanderson's diving grab brings himself and his target crashing to the ground,
scattering a few pieces of the screaming woman's luggage. The goon's chin clips the
ground with an audible snap. He begins emitting a string of German epithets and
expletives that no doubt bring recollections to Hawkin's mind. He turns and trys to
grab Sand's face with a palm while another hand feels around on the floor.

Waiting until the last moment before the Redcap reaches him, Jack stands, still
somewhat crouched, and faces forward, trying to appear to concentrate on the people in
front of them. The beautiful thing about jujitsu is the use of leverage, and the guy in
the funny hat behind him might be bigger, but as he charges, he gives the smaller
Starguy everything he needs to take him down. With uncharacteristic smoothness, Jack
turns just before the man can take hold of his back, and grabs both arms of his
assailant. "Upsy daisy." Dropping and rolling backwards, he tries to place a foot in
the man's gut and pull/throw him forward, hopefully to crash on the disarrayed men
people on the floor in front of where he was facing. Jack's not /always/ a jerkoff.
When people start firing guns, things get a little more serious. Silently, he starts
willing the Rod toward him. Too bad it's locked in the car...

John Constantine watches Sandy fly past him with an almost bemused attachment. "My
fairy godmother," he says, momentarily distracted from the other goon near him.
Suddenly he turned his head, as if re-realizing his predicament, and brings his fists
up into a boxing stance. In his left fist, mind you, his cigarette is still held
between two knuckles. "This is absurd," he mutters to no one in particular.

The red-mustached security man turns away from one of the yogurt stand girl's
attentions, blinking at the sounds of tussling and fumbles for his walkie talkie.

The Redcap is sent in a arc overhead to land painfully on his side, cap left far behind
as he rolls around clutching his torso. Jack notes the advancing hulks of the two large
scale thugs. One of them pauses to turn on his heel and move on the startled security
guard.

The hired gun facing Constantine sneers. "Yes, it is." He turns the gun around again
after one failed swipe of the gunbutt, pointing the small black and dangerous hole of
the weapon's mouth towards the Britisher. "Give me the key."

Things've /been/ fairly serious, yeah. With a disgusted obscenity muttered in Tibetan,
Sanderson reaches back and attempts to slam the mook's face into the beautifully
polished tiles with a vicious blow to the back of his head. "Stay down, you German
bastard..!"

The man struggling with Sanderson emits a short cry of pain and slumps, his fingers
still a few inches short of the little black gun that had fallen out of his grasp. He
lies still. Then, suddenly, a hole is punched in the tile next to Sanderson's leg - the
sniper.

"Dammit!" cries Sandy in surprise, scooping up the gun that the newly-flattened guy had
dropped, giving the hole in the tile a cursory glance to attempt to determine
trajectory. Maybe. Mostly he moves really fast, away from his stationary position. He
scans the area he thinks the bullet came from, trying to see if there's anything he can
shoot and not kill. Anything exposed and incapacitating.

John Constantine, almost as if in an involuntary action, quickly darts to the side, as
if to get on the other side of the nearby good, anything to put someone between him and
the sniper. Hey, he saw "Ronin." Grudgingly.

Sandy's check on the bullethole tells him that the gunman is likely high up somewhere
and towards the direction of the escalators and stairwells leading down to the train
terminals. His quick scan of the surroundings also indicates that the crowds are
starting to flee in a panic and the police on duty in the station are occupied for the
most part trying to get to the scene through the outgoing rush and find out just what's
going on. He also catches a glimpse of the red-mustached security guard being thrown
bodily into the display case of the yogurt stand by one of the massive thugs nearby.

Stepping backward, Jack begins to doubt himself. He's okay...well...he's good. Maybe.
But not that good. The two large guidos advancing on him now are threatening...they
could pulp him pretty bad. "I hate pain." Jack mutters to himself, and looks over to
Sand, flinching slightly at the sniper's near miss. "You'll have to forgive me." The
words are said quietly, Jack doesn't have time to get in a conversation. He squints,
and tries to feel the Rod from a distance. His control is slight, but it might be
enough to make it fire and fly closer...he might need the thing, sad to say...
Triggering the idea in his mind, he wishes there were another way to get the Rod free
without mangling the car. With any luck, the Rod might be in hand soon.

There's a sharp crack as the German fires his pistol at Constantine's sidewinding form.
The bullet grazes John's left calf with a momentary flash of hot searing pain. There
are screams from quite a few bystanders at this sound and the area around the
combatants becomes quite active with fleeing tourists, staff, and travelers.

Large guido #2 smiles unpleasantly, then scowls as a cluster of panicking
schoolchildren cut into the path between him and Jack. He plods forwards, his shoulders
hunched menacingly, large hands clutching air anxiously.

Jack notes a familiar flare of light outside and the sound of shattering glass. The
glow grows closer as it moves over the heads of the egressing crowds.

"BUGGER N' SIN!" Constantine says, stumbling as his leg bends at the knee. He trips
forward, leaning his hand against the nearby corner of a wall. He smacks his right hand
against his thigh, lifting his gaze to spot the sniper. "DO EITHER 'F YOU FUCKS HAVE A
GUN??"

The German gunman advancing on John levels the smoking firearm again. It speaks once
more, missing John but hitting a gumball machine around the corner of the wall he's
using for cover. Multicolored balls of candy sputter out in a stream and roll across
the floor. "The key, Constantine!" Blam. A chip forms on the corner of the wall.

There's a reason Sandy always buys $300 cars. In this line of work, they don't tend to
last very long. However, he has absolutely no idea what Jack's up to, so he can't tell
him to go for it. Right! thinks the Man formerly of Silicoid Stuff, Cops are coming,
time to act. He grudgingly eyes the area surrounding the escalators, then scowls at
John's screech. "Where -IS- the guy, Constantine?" he yells back.

Sanderson starts to turn to look in another direction when he sees a long black
silencer being withdrawn from one of the vents above the escalator that faces the
entrance of the station.

"Yeah! Haha," laughs Sandy, not smiling, immediately taking aim at the vent. He flicks
the safety off and hopes to God he's aiming at something non-vital. Death would be bad.
He's no cop. Less than a second of making sure, and he fires...praying.

Looking slightly frightened and still stepping backward slowly as the Guido advances,
Jack hears Sand's car window breaking out, and it's like music to his ears. Suddenly,
his fear of the man coming to crunch him becomes slightly mocking. "I got something
better!" With a yell toward Constantine, Jack leaps into the air with his hand
outstretched. "Come to poppa, baby." Finally. Jack feels the cool metal against his
hand and his heart skips a beat, like it always does when he's using his Father's
creation. Landing on the ground, he twirls the Rod in front of him, slightly cocky.
"You want some of this, buddy?" The brightness of the Rod is slightly disorienting to
behold, if glanced at directly. Jack takes the chance to check on Sand and John's
current position relative to him. They really should boogie out of this place soon
before it gets even more ugly.

A small round hole appears in the vent. Due to the distance and noise all around,
Sanderson can't hear any sound to indicate if he struck flesh. The silencer is
withdrawn completely, however.

"I DON'T HAVE THE BLOODY KEY!" Constantine exclaims, before slowly rising to a stand.
He places his weight on his good leg, and turns towards Jack. "You're the goddamn
superhero." Constantine grins something wicky as the light of Jack's rod burns.
"Goddamn beautiful."

The two meaty goons encroaching together on Jack are startled by the sudden flash of
light and halt to both flinch and raise hands to shield their faces.

John sees the goatee sporting German skulking away into the escaping crowd, face pale
and scowling bitterly as he makes to fade away. Then, he suddenly notes that the man
who shot him is getting very close. And is aiming carefully. "The key, schwinehound."

Not much chance of it getting more ugly, to Sand's mind. He inhales sharply, then turns
back to check on John and his problems. "And you're the goddamn sorcerer," he mutters,
flicking the safety back on and stuffing the gun through his belt, in the back. Drawing
his gasgun at the same time, he aims for the guy who'd been shooting at John from the
ground floor and holds his breath, firing a thin and potent plume of
knockout/hallucinogenic gas.

The gas fills the nostrils of the would-be assassin and he drops to a knee, clutching
his face and emitting a rather pathetic cry as inner demons begin clawing away at his
mind. He tips over, tries to raise his gun, then slumps in a fetal position.

The two large henchmen look at one another, then back at Jack. They then turn on their
size 11 shoes and make for the stairs leading down as fast as they can manage.

"Let's get the hell outta here," says Sandy, just loud enough for Jack and John to
hear, scowling. One last thing he does, though - leans over the German and grins.
"Pleasant dreams," he hisses. Done? Yes. He glances at the other two, and heads for the
exit.

Looking at the fleeing thugs in shock, Jack stops spinning the Rod and scratches the
back of his head, taking another moment to be completely oblivious to the happenings
around him. "First time that's happened." With a grin and a shrug, Jack walks over to
the other two, making sure they're okay, and looking around for anyone who might need a
reminder that you just don't mess aroun' with bastards like he and his pals.

In the confusion, there's a clear chance for making it away with relatively little
hassle. The station is still emptying out as the first few patrolmen begin to get
within sight, but the people pleading for help and trying to explain what's happening
keep all at bay.

John Constantine stands still for a few moments, glaring down at his leg in anger. He
puts the cigarette back into his mouth, takes a long drag, and starts following Sandy,
walking with an awkward limp in the direction of the exit.


On the road --


The inside of the deathtrap of an ancient Monte Carlo smells of burnt vinyl and seat
stuffing, and charred wood. Both back windows are out, now, yes - and the pile of crap
shoved to one side in the back is probably what's causing the charred wood smell,
whatever's in that pile. Sanderson's utterly wordless as he turns the key in the
ignition and slams his door shut, both at the same time. He's wordless as he lights his
cigarette and swerves out into morning Manhattan traffic, a cacophony of car horns
blaring behind him, regardless of the three-hundred-dollar fine the city imposes on
those who honk. He's wordless as he takes a drag and turns on the car stereo - joyola,
only AM for you. Obsolete ballads and classical music, staticky and pretty fairly
drowned out by the sounds from outside. "Getting cold yet, Constantine?" he finally
yells over the ambient ruckus.

John Constantine, unbuckled and sideways in the backseat of the metal boat, looks
faintly queasy but nonetheless says "Doin' fine, squire," and raps his shoe against the
car door in an emphasizing gesture. "So we all straight on what's about to go down?"

"I have to admit..." Jack pipes up, trying not to sound too dense "...that I'm a little
confused. I mean, you guys were taking care of stuff while I was still trying to shake
whatever grip that thing had on me." His hands in front of him, bracing his body, Jack
looks to be an experienced passenger to Sand's driving. Not that he's any less nervous
for it. "I mean, where did this key come in, anyway? Wouldn't it be a good idea to
/prevent/ the box from being opened?" He looks sideways at Sandy, and then swivels his
head around the seat to look directly at Constantine lounging in the back.

"I have no idea what in God's name is goin' on," says Sandy reasonably cheerfully, very
straightforwardly. He jerks the car down a sidestreet. "But someone better tell me
where this hotel is, or we're leaving town." Gunning the motor, he books it until he
hits (metaphorically speaking) traffic again and muscles the car into a less aggressive
car's place in the road. "And I think we're trying to prevent the other side from using
the key, right?"

John Constantine whistles softly, and slowly. "Good questions," he acknowledges,
spinning to the side to face the front of the car. His hair is roughed up a bit by the
wind, and his voice fluctuates higher whenever he remembers how hard it must be to hear
his words. "At the moment, we're not sure what these fellows want with the box. For all
I know, they may be some sort of mumbo jumbo Guardians Of The Box who will Stop At
Nothing to protect The One True Artifact." He pauses. "On the other hand, they could
just be a bunch of fuckwits trying to bring about the end of the world. We're not sure.
Right, Sandy .. RIGHT!" he says quickly as the turn approaches.

John Constantine continues, saying "So our only choice right now is to meet 'em face to
face." He tightens his grip on the box as he speaks. "Let me do the talkin', right? And
remember, we're in no position to bluff .. but we're gonna do it anyway." He turns to
watch the landscape fly by, momentarily silent.

Making the turn without slowing down (he wasn't really going -that- fast...really...)
Sandy looks a little dubious. "Meet them while you're holding the box right there in
front of them?" He glances back at John in the rearview, squinting slightly. "I'm
flattered you think we can bail your ass outta a situation involving a large number of
huge men with big guns - which I'm taking a wild guess that this'll be - but I'm not
ready to die tonight. Can I suggest you stash that thing somewhere?"

"Bluffing. Okay. /That/, I can do." a mirthful grin comes across Jack's face as he
considers their plan of attack. Very familiar. In fact, one could say that he's bluffed
his way through his entire career as a superfriend. Of course, this is the first
real...'high stakes' adventure he's been on. Saving the world. The chuckle that escapes
him might seem kind of out of place and odd, but he tries not to downplay it. Most
likely, the Brit's already reading his mind. Or something. "So. This guy who was
impersonating Kassie, have we got him figured out yet?"

"I'm sure you're a pro, squire," John mutters in Jack's ear, more friendly than
anything else, before leaning back in his seat. He runs a hand through his thinning
hair, and turns to look out the window again. "Stash the box, Sandy?" he says, his
words slipping out the window, rendered almost inaudible for his companions in the
front seat. "I'm a step ahead of you. This isn't even the same box."

"-You- call me Sand, kid," says Sandy, looking at John in the rearview again. "Or
Sanderson. And good for you, you're not as dumb as you are irritating. Where's this
hotel, now?" Ah ah, better be careful, Sandy, getting mad at John because you perceive
a showing-up /while you're driving/ isn't the best. Another swerve and near miss.

John Constantine chuckles. Irritatingly. "That's it right there," he says, leaning
forward and pointing over Sandy's shoulder at a large, sickeningly baroque hotel
halfway down the block.

"Jesus H!" Jack reaches up and grabs the 'Oh shit' handle above his head to steady
himself as the car swerves, and ends up pulling it clean off of its mounting. A quick
straight arm in front of him, and one against Sandy's seat prevents him from ending up
in Sand's lap. "Don't drive angry, dear. Think of the children." At Constantine's
relayed information, Jack glances forward toward their destination. "Nice." He means
it. But then again, Jack's taste has always been a little outside the norm.

The Hotel Belvedere looms in the distance on one of the side streets of the Upper East
Side of Manhattan. It's a classy looking establishment, with a covered entranceway and
a doorman clad in a red uniform. The white bricks shine a little in the gleam of the
early sunrise, framed with slender windows, curling buttresses - the facade in a
Victorian style. There's a few parking spaces here and there, most of which lie between
luxury vehicles and tasteful European sports cars.

There's the faint angry sound of a muttered curse, and Sandy swings into a spot,
utterly ignoring Jack's comment. Magnificently calculated parallel parking, it is, or
just amazing luck. Or, god only knows, magic -- because as long as the car is and as
short as the spot was, they fit. "Right," he says, stepping out of the car, pocketing
his keys, and adjusting his jacket to cover his armament. "Let's r- let's go."

John Constantine steps out of the car with a kind of disheveled style, his trenchcoat
lifting a bit from the breeze before settling back down against his legs. He holds the
"trick" box clutched in one arm, and instantly uses his free hand to root for a
cigarette. Kicking the door closed behind him, he slides the fag between his lips and
swaps his Silk Cuts for a lighter. Ritual complete, he pulls long and hard on the
cancer stick, exhaling through his nose. "Hhhnnn," he sighs, the smoke rising a bit in
front of his eyes before dissipating. "Onwards we stumble towards our unknown fate," is
all he says before heading off towards the hotel.

"After you, Mr. Bond." Jack's door grunts to a close with some strain, and his heavy
boots clomp onto the cement. Good old Terra Firma. He'd lean down and give the sidewalk
a kiss...but this wouldn't be the first time he did so after his roomie's
driving...Best not to get under his skin right now. Contemplating what it would be like
to relieve himself with a wirepoon firmly lodged in his nether-regions, he falls into
step behind Constantine. "Still no idea whether this guy's going to be chummy or not?"
He looks back at the Rod, under a burlap covering in the floor on the back seat. At
least this time there'll be no need to bust a window...

The doorman regards the new arrivals with a polite smile and nod as he opens the glass
doors leading into the lobby of the place. And what a lobby; a bubbling fountain
decorated with curling flower designs sits in the middle of the expansive and
elaborately decorated room. An old fashioned elevator with a grated doorway rattles
upwards. There's a mahogany desk to the left and a series of phone booths and restroom
entrances to the right of the front door.

The sound of soft jazz can be heard coming from a hallway leading around to the back of
the elevators. A brass plate indicates that there's a bar on site by the name of the
'Sahara Room'. Unlikely to be terribly busy at this hour in the day.

Heading for the stairs (the elevator isn't anything close to an option), Sandy has to
wonder why the doormen let them in so politely. So enthusiastically. He eyes the
receptionist-types behind the mahogany front desk, wondering if they're calling up to
the fake Kasulas. And there's no signs that say no smoking, so Sandy lights up as well.
"Room 213, right?" he asks Jack in a low voice, glancing back.

John Constantine places his hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Tell them to come down here,
Sandy," he says, his gaze drifting towards the bar in the back. "We're not coming up.
They can meet us in the bar."

Sandy Hawkins frowns. "Yeah? What if they own the bellhops?" He pauses. "Haven't you
ever seen Grosse Pointe Blank?"

"Yeah, I think that was it." Glancing at the elevators and then the entrance behind
him, Jack tries his best to look casual while glancing around to see if anyone's taken
an undue interest in them. So far, so good. Of course, the front desk guy is probably
just glaring at them because of the smoking...but it's best not to take chances. Jack
keeps the guy in the corner of his vision. "I think the bar is best too. More
witnesses, right?"

A tired looking businessman enters the lobby, apparently having completed a tour of the
lowlights of New York. He runs a hand through his thinning gray hair and adjusts a tie.
Asking for messages at the desk, he looks gloomily at the trio before heading to the
elevator bank.

"No," John replies, leaning across the front desk. He lifts a hand in the general
direction of a clerk. "'ey, you'v.. ey!" Impatiently, he raps his knuckles on the
counter top. "You've got a courtesy phone I could use?"

The glowering man at the desk turns to mutter something to an asian woman in the same
official uniform as his. She nods to him and stays at the desk while he moves to go
shuffle papers in the background. Looking up to John, the asian woman smiles a
practiced and altogether facile smile. "Yes, sir. Just around there." She gestures to a
small booth to the side of the desk.

Sandy Hawkins leans against the counter, back to the nearest wall (behind the
receptionists), and watches the lobby. Eyes the New Yorker with a certain amount of
reserved suspicion. John can damn well make the call himself.

John Constantine will, indeed, be damn well making the call himself. Without further
consultation, he walks round the counter and into the booth. Propping the box, still
wrapped, on a ledge in front of him, he picks up the phone and dials the room in
question.

A man and a woman with Middle Eastern or perhaps Indian features and skin tone chat
noiselessly, sitting at one of the lobby's comfortable couches. The man points to an
article in the Times that causes the woman to chuckle throatily.

The phone rings twice. Then, a familiar voice answers. "Yes?"

"It's Constantine," John says, surveying the lobby out of habit. "The eagle flies at
midnight, 'r some bollocks like that."

Sandy Hawkins idly gives Jack a half-entertained smirk. "I'd like to see -your- driving
after almost sixty hours of no sleep at all," he says quietly, referring to Jack's
pronounced lack of practice of tradition about three minutes earlier. He doesn't really
listen to John - only peripherally.

Ding. The elevator returns to the lobby and rattles open. A woman dressed in white
designer business attire exits, carrying a thin valise. She's followed by two thick
looking young men with Nordic features and dressed in very hip suede and sunglasses.
Then an older woman with a stooped back and floral print dress exits, holding the hand
of a young girl of perhaps eight years of age.

"Constantine. You have the key. And the box?" the voice asks, its tone clipped and to
the point.

John Constantine follows the woman with his gaze, his head slowly turning as she walks
into the room. He almost misses the reply, so transfixed is he. "Sure, squire, I got
what you want," he says, cupping the phone in his hand. "C'mon down and let's have us a
drink in the bar. We'll talk business."

The fatigued businessman enters the elevator and the doors close after him.

There's a pause on the other end of the phone. "Very well. It will suffice, but you
will not mind if I have an associate or two with me? Security of course. And we both
know that security is of the utmost import now."

Sandy Hawkins pushes off of his counter-leaning spot and sort of nonchalantly makes his
way over to the little booth thingy. "If you don't mind," he says in a particularly low
voice, "one of us two oughtta hang back and shadow the transaction so you don't have
all your eggs in one basket."

The grandmother and the little girl go over to the restroom entrance and disappear
inside.

The elevator ascends with a hum, stopping on the fifth floor.

John Constantine listens to Sandy, then gestures to the box as if to say "Hey,
whatever!" You know, raised eyebrows, tight lips, and slight grin, that sort of thing.
He then tucks his head back down and says into the phone, "Sounds fair. Meet you in the
bar - you're buyin'," and hangs up immediately after.

The eastern couple glance up at the new arrivals idly. The woman leans over to whisper
something to the man. He smiles lazily at whatever comment she's made.

The lady in the white business suit walks over to the payphones. She idly rests the
valise on a nearby display table and picks up the receiver. She takes a card from a
pocket and studies it as she dials.

Sandy Hawkins is obviously getting really goddamn jumpy. The more normal this situation
seems, the more he feels like someone set plastique somewhere and it's gonna go off any
second. As soon as John hangs up, and he sees Jack sort of getting preoccupied with the
decor, he looks a little pissed, yeah, okay maybe more than a little. "Go have a drink
with a psychopath, go. Take Jack, and I'll be watching." He heads for the bar - for the
shadows in the bar somewhere.

"Jack m'lad," Constantine says, jerking his chin in the young Knight's direction.
"What's your poison?" Walking towards his companion, he extends one arm in the
direction of the bar, leading the way.

Sandy walks under the form of a real live palm tree, entering the cool, detached
elegance of the bar. The decor has a vague sort of Arabian Nights theme, with images of
magic carpets and djinns on the walls and smoked glass. Like any bar at early morning,
it looks positively deserted. A slender man with a pierced ear seems to be doing
inventory behind the counter, not even noticing Sandy enter.

The two athletic lads with blonde hair walk on out of the lobby, pausing to let a
cluster of Japanese businessmen enter ahead of them.

Right - this is good, this not seeing Sandy business. He takes up residence in the back
somewhere, then fails to move. At all. Well - he's there somewhere. In the shadows.
Somewhere.


<Jack is called away by IC business of some kind>


The slim man behind the bar counter glances up briefly at John as he enters the
establishment. He nods vaguely and continues polishing the inside of a row of glasses
of various sizes and shapes.

"Gin and tonic," Constantine says even before greeting the bartender. John glances
around the room, making a few quick mental notes about the layout; open spaces, dark
areas, back exits. That sort of thing. Tucking the box beneath one arm, he takes a seat
at a table towards the far wall of the room. Sitting with his back to the wall and his
eyes on the door, he waits for his drink and his .. patron.

Gin and tonic - feh. Sandy could actually use a Guinness about now. He leans against
the back wall, arms folded across his chest, vaguely wishing he hadn't gotten rid of
the gun. He watches the door, waiting for the 'client' as well.

With deft hands, the bartender fixes the drink, glancing curiously at John. "Starting a
bit early, aren't we?" His tone is in that blandly friendly tone that all barkeeps at
least make pretense of. He passes the glass over.

Outside, in the hotel lobby, there's the familiar ringing bell of the elevator reaching
the bottom floor. The doors can be heard sliding open. Then two pairs of designer
shoes. And a whirring, rolling sound. Voices can be made out, soft, low, cautious -
speaking in German.

"Bloody Germans," Constantine grumbles, setting the drink in front of him on the table,
next to the wrapped box. "Should've figured." He takes a good swallow from the glass,
winces, and settles back in his chair. Both wood and bones creak as he gets into a
comfortable position - no need to let them have the upper hand.

It's not starting early if you've been up the entire damn time - but there's no way the
bartender would know that. As a matter of fact, caffeine would be even better than
alcohol at this point, even if it's just for reflex enhancement. You know, better than
'molasses in january'. Sandy silently leans his head back against the wall, as well,
still watching.

Three figures come into the dimly lit bar - two walking, dressed in neatly maintained
suits. The one on the right is immediately recognizable as the man with the goatee who
greeted our heroes at Grand Central Station. He has a tired and bemused expression, as
if he's had to run an obstacle course to get here. The one on the left is unknown to
both John and Sanderson - he has a sourpuss, thinning blonde hair, and a pair of
somewhat outdated looking framed glasses. Between the two is a man who does not walk -
he rolls, cushioned in a very modern wheelchair with cantilevered wheels and a joystick
operated motor. He sits at a somewhat crooked angle, as if the cushion was sloping down
on one side. He is dressed in a beautiful tan colored suit, dark blue tie, and
exquisite loafers. His face is concealed beneath a combination of a black scarf and a
stylish fedora that matches his suit. The figures pause briefly in the door. More
German.

John Constantine lifts his glass towards the door, as if to indicate that he's the
guilty party who rang this wheelchaired gentleman out of his bed. "Right 'ere,
guv'nor," he says with a delightfully false grin. Admittedly, there's no one else
drinking in the room, but it's the gesture, right?

There's a vaguely irritated sigh from the shadows, a click, and Sandy steps forward. He
inclines his head at the bartender as he walks up behind John, and stops. "Can I get a
black coffee?" He remains standing.

John Constantine pauses, momentarily startled. "Sandy?" he mutters, tilting his head
around and glancing over his shoulder.

Sandy Hawkins glances down at John and shakes his head, shutting his eyes momentarily.
He returns his attention to the rats with the German accents.

The bartender is returning to his maintenance of his stocks when the Europeans enter.
He gives another courteous but distracted nod in their general direction.

The man with the goatee smiles a remarkably amiable smile back in his direction, then
looks towards Constantine's place. He walks ahead of the other two, glancing around
idly, as if admiring the finely polished and stained tabletops and the Middle Eastern
flavored light fixtures. The man in the wheelchair and the blonde in the glasses follow
at an even pace, neither looking amused, friendly, or interested in much of anything.
All three stop by the table.

The barkeep starts at the sound of Sand's voice, his hand leaping up from his dishrag
and apron. "Uh. Coffee. Right. Black. Sure." He seems to be slowly coming to the
realization that something odd is afoot. He gets to preparing the Golden Ager's hot
java.

The man with the goatee nods with another pseudo-smile as Sanderson makes his presence
known. Glasses scowls. The man in the wheelchair tilts his head a little. He mutters
something in a hoarse whisper to Glasses, who relaxes imperceptibly. Glasses speaks,
his voice immediately familiar to both John and Sanderson as the caller. "My employer
asks that Mr. Hawkins join us at the table for this discussion."

Never taking his eyes off the Germans, Sandy's posture stiffens almost imperceptibly.
"Does your employer mind if I get a cup've joe while the discussion starts? Don't let
me keep you waiting," he says with an almost painful politeness. Meanwhile - if the
other schmoes sit down, well, okay, he'll sit down too.

John Constantine, without taking his eyes off the Germans, kicks the chair next to him
back from the table. "Hawkins," he says, tapping the back of the chair with one hand,
the other kept close atop the trick box. "You too, boys," he says with a nod of his
head. "Feel free to sit down."

The man in the wheelchair looks up at Sanderson, his shadowed eyes glinting slightly
beneath his fedora. He waves a hand dismissively, muttering in his hoarse, pained
German once more.

Glasses nods to Sandy to indicate that there is no objection. He adjusts his jacket,
unbuttoning it, then slides into the chair, facing John at an angle, his back
grudgingly placed to the door.

Goatee sits as well, taking a moment to fish a pack of mints from his breast pocket. He
speaks before popping one in his mouth "My thanks," he says, his flat blue eyes showing
the same empty passivity he displayed back at the train station. A bit less forced now.
"I suppose introductions are in order."

The bartender hands Sandy his steaming mug. He does not ask what the other men'll have,
apparently deciding to keep his nose behind his bar.

Sandy Hawkins nods his thanks to the bartender, then makes his way back over and
sitting cautiously in the chair offered. He doesn't bring it any closer to the table,
but leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

"Well you know our names," Constantine responds, addressing Glasses with an overtly
overconfident tone. "So out with yours."

Glasses reaches up to adjust the frames on his nose, looking out of the corner of an
eye at Sandy. "My name is Werner Hauptmann. My associate is Oswald Klemperer." He folds
his dry hands neatly on the table in front of him. The man in the wheelchair wheezes
out some deutsche. "Mr. VonZell wishes to extend his compliments and I do so on his
behalf." Very formal, this guy. "You should know that he is most pleased that you've
agreed to do business and spare us all any more unpleasantness." More hoarse
whisperings; Glasses translates without looking back at the man. "We all have come
together in what he hopes will be a friendlier mood than our previous encounter. For
this he is sorely grieved."

"Cry me a bloody river," Constantine responds immediately. "I'm sure Mr. VonZell here
is a well of emotions, but let's not flog a dead horse, shall we? Out with it. Why are
you so interested in this little artifact of ours? Why should I hand it over to you,
and not to the -other- people who contacted me?"

Oswald sucks on his mint, his face perpetually on the verge of a grin. He emits a soft
snort at John's words.

Sandy Hawkins glances at John. "Mn...ah, they -were- the other people," he says under
his breath, leaning over to the other blond. He straightens in his seat and sips his
coffee, then asks of the Germans, "Would it be too much to ask what the motivations of
your organization are?" Like they would tell the truth, but hey.

Glasses's lips clamp consideringly. "You have been approached by another party, then?"
He halts then settles back into his chair, crossing a leg over a knee and adjusting a
cufflink. He tilts his head to mutter in his native tongue to VonZell.

VonZell nods, a surprisingly healthy looking hand coming up to gesture to Glasses.

Glasses returns his attention to John and Sandy. "Mr. VonZell would like to explain his
interest, but he must first be assured that you have the box here as well as its key."

"Look, squire, we've come here on good faith," Constantine says, lying through his
teeth, the wicked curl to his grin belying this fact. "Can't you show us a little bit'f
the same?" He leans his head forward in a patronizing manner, gesturing to the box
wrapped in brown paper next to his drink.

A horribly suspicious feeling (even moreso than before, yes) is growing in Sandy's gut,
as he looks at the man in the wheelchair. He tries not to stare, and John's line of
snow really helps. "Yeah - we're all businessmen here, right?"

The gesture towards the wrapped box prompts a slightly more active response from
VonZell - he tilts his head forwards, fedora concealing what is undoubtedly a very
curious and attentive look in his shadowed eyes. He raps the edge of the table with a
knuckle, as if in some sort of superstitious reflex. He glances pointedly across the
table at Oswald.

Oswald regards the box and you can almost hear him measuring it - estimating width,
length, depth. A practiced and careful glint in his blue eyes. He then nods twice to
Glasses and VonZell.

VonZell leans back in his wheelchair, his crooked body slouching in relaxation and
contentment. From beneath the folds of his scarf, hoarse whisperings can be heard.

Glasses takes a moment to remove his glasses and massage his face. He then nods to
VonZell, holding up a hand as a signal for patience. "Good faith. Yes. Mr.
VonZell...Mr. VonZell says that since we've overplayed our hand in his zest to acquire
the box and the key, he owes you at least that much. And the explanation you asked
for."

VonZell begins to speak steadily, voice seeming to grow stronger as he continues,
pausing at intervals as Glasses translates.

Sandy Hawkins listens intently to the German - and the German /voice/, concentrating
almost to the point of drowning everything else out. He sits back in his chair, setting
the coffee on the table, then crossing his arms.

John Constantine tilts back in his chair, leaning until the front legs lift a bit from
the ground. Crossing one ankle over his knee, he grabs his glass. If someone were to
take a picture of him at this very moment, it would sum up his life story: a drink in
one hand and a cigarette in his lips, the weariness in his eyes unable to overcome the
confidence in his smirk.

Glasses translates, "My employer wishes to make it clear that he has no desire for
abusing the power inherent in the box. What I spoke to you earlier was the truth - we
only want to keep this item safe from the wrong hands. To return it to its rightful
place. As you may have guessed, it has come quite a long way from its original resting
place."

VonZell casts a canny glance in Sandy's direction as he continues, his fingers
latticing over his lap.

"The box you have in your possession, here, this box is only the most recent form of
the Box spoken of in the Pandora myth and countless other tales. There are Indonesian
and Russian folktales comparable to the Greek story, all a bit different, all missing a
few valid points relating to the item's true nature. It predates those civilizations,
you see." Glasses pauses to lean forwards, glancing back at VonZell as if for
reference. "There are always many stories...shards of a kaleidoscope that focuses on
the same item. Each refracted and transformed by the bias and precepts of the culture
perceiving it. Such is the case with the box. As far as Mr. VonZell's research has
indicated, this box is an item of far greater lineage and power than simply a trinket
of one pantheon. It is -the- receptacle that Fate or chance deemed would contain and
protect a great many potent forces. Forces woven now into every man, woman and child."

John Constantine does his best to not let his gaze drop from VonZell, although his hand
(perhaps unnoticed by John himself) creeps over to the box and traces its outlines with
a fingertip.

Tossing a glance at the brown-wrapped box, Sandy doesn't let his gaze falter -that- far
from VonZell. "Sure, sure, we knew that," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "But
why do you think -you- can protect the box so well? We managed to kick your butts in
the airport."

Oswald's mouth does a brief but noticeable flip-flop, like a dying fish lying on a
sandbank.

VonZell ignores him, looking Sandy in the eye with a pair of dimly visible agate hard
blue flint eyes - worn, tired eyes, but ablaze with inner light. He says something in
German directly to Sanderson now. Glasses translates.

"You did at that. But such are the straits I...Mr. VonZell...is reduced to. He has been
seeking to find this item and serve a very, very old oath he made to a being of great
power; an oath to protect this item. If he seems to have stumbled..." Glasses pauses,
glances pointedly at Oswald, then says with a dry smile "...think this is not a measure
of Mr. VonZell's resources but rather that of the men he foolishly trusted. He does not
seek to suggest that you gentlemen could not be capable, but he would not lay such a
burden on you. Unbidden. He was...how to say...he was chosen. It is his
responsibility."

Glasses looks curiously at VonZell, who continues keeping his attention on Sandy. "It
is not fated for you to be the box's protectors. You may take this thing on yourselves,
but it will destroy you all. It or those who seek to open it and use what it contains
for their own ends. Time is running out."

"I've got this problem, see," Constantine says around his cigarette, before pulling it
from his lips in order to be heard more easily. "It's kind of a 'lack of trust' thing.
Y'know. 'Does not play well with others,'" he continues, taking another pull from his
smoke. He exhales through his nose, and resumes his response. "So, y'know. I'm glad
you're the responsible sort but (and I'll be honest) I don't trust you for fuck all,
right? And until shown otherwise, I'm going t'consider myself the Protector n' Keeper
'f the Box and Key." He draws the box a slight bit closer to his body, and leans
forward across the table. "But thanks for the warning." As a final gesture of
friendship, he takes another pull from his fag and lets the smoke blow out in the face
of the German.

Glasses emits a soft, gentle, polite cough. His jaw tightens as he restrains his first
impulse and instead looks to VonZell.

VonZell emits a long, pained sigh, as if he'd been holding in his breath for days. He
shakes his head with a morose expression and speaks, tugging down on his scarf to make
his voice clearer...and in a heavily accented English. You both get a glimpse of a
snarled mouth with puckered scars rimming the lips, one crossing both upper and bottom
lip and forming a strand of skin. "Your island breeds such stubborn fools. But, this is
no surprise. Ach, no. Your arrogance, Constantine, precedes you. As does your folly.
You do not think that I would simply take your word for truth either, do you? I have
too much experience with your kind. And yours, Sanderson Hawkins." He reaches up and
slowly removes his fedora. The light falls on his features.

Sanderson stands, finishing off the rest of his coffee, and never stops staring at
VonZell. He sets the coffee down and rests his hands on his belt, ready, as it were, to
make like Quick Draw McGraw. Or not. "And forgive me if I don't have the ultimate trust
in the...powerful being you made an oath to. Ich habe sin Gefuhl, das ich nicht mit
seiner Ethik..." He pauses, eyeing the burned face, history flashing back through his
mind. "...Baron."

John Constantine leans back in his chair, visibly unsettled by the German's appearance.
His features wrinkle, and he turns his head slightly to the side as if to put more
distance between him and VonZell. "So you're an ugly bloody bastard. What's your
point?"

The 'Baron', as Sandy calls him, is malformed in ways that would make even the
strongest heart take pause. His right eye twitches amidst a swirling mass of red,
ribbed scar tissue, seeming to not fit in the socket. The left is steadier, pointed,
daggerlike. "An old title from the days before. Days long ago. Unlike you, Sanderson
Hawkins, I have not cheated death or time or absolved myself of my many sins. Each one
is etched in my face and I am cursed to live them again with every pained breath." He
shifts in his wheelchair, his body slouched and hollow beneath his beautiful suit. "My
point, Mr. Constantine, is that I have, as you can see, nothing to hide anymore. You
see a man who has borne the secret of this item for years and has been broken by it. My
cynicism, my doubt, my hatred, my delusions of control; they have twisted me. I am
ready to give them up now. Do you wish to take my road, though? To have your sorrows
and weakness burn and mark you?"

John Constantine jerks the cigarette from his lips, holding it between his thumb and
index finger, and uses it to point at the fellow opposite him. "Look, you fucker," he
begins, but finds himself pausing mid-sentence as he momentarily loses focus. "you
can't even begin to know the shit I've been..." Again, his eyes blur, and he has to
place a hand on the table to steady himself. "Fuck," he mutters, squinting.

Oswald studies the faces of both John and Sand with a curious interest. A growing sense
of fascination and attention. He pops another mint into his mouth and chews on it. The
mint crunches between his molars with a hard enamel sound.

"Look here, VonZell, you're the one that made those choices, those sins, in the first
place. If you hadn't, maybe you wouldn't -have- to absolve yourself," retorts Sandy at
the same time as John, emphasizing his points by (yeah well) pointing at the old man.
"I..." A beat. He holds the back of his chair with one hand, suddenly, gripping it
tightly. "I...dammit..." The color drains from his face.

"You sonnnova..bitch.." John manages, steadying himself by his elbow, lifting his head
just enough to burn holes into VonZell with his eyes. "Couldn't you at least'f .. hit
me on the back of my .. oh my head with the butt of a gun?" There is a pause; John's
eyes are swimming, and his tongue feels so heavy each word is a battle. "Like a real..
man..." his elbow slips, and he collapses forward onto the table.

The Baron's hideous face contorts with slight distaste as John speaks. He says "Your
vulgarity. I had not expected it. But, ach, sic transit gloria." Shifting in his
wheelchair, he waves a hand towards Glasses.

Oswald smiles toothily and stands, leaning a little across the table. He brings his
hand across as if to slap Constantine while he's drowsy.

Glasses gives Oswald a reproachful look, clamping a hand around his wrist. "Nein." He
then looks over a shoulder towards the slim bartender, who is currently folding up his
apron and taking a holster from under the counter. He says something in clipped
Austrian to Glasses, who responds with a nod.

"I am sorry to resort to cliche, Mr. Hawkins, but I can't claim to not harbor a
nostalgic streak," the Baron says.

"I jus'...bet...you ugly Ratzi..." slurs Sandy, feeling for all the world like an
easily-duped sidekick. And...that'll be all for him; he slumps to the floor, all in a
heap, completely harmless now.

Sandy sees the palm tree sway overhead as things grow slow, slower, and then finally,
black out completely.