Issue #3

The taste of burnt copper resides in the mouth. There's a hot smell of rust and dead
grass in the air. Then, through the reverb of one's own breathing, the chirping of
crickets. The blackness becomes a dark blur of an unshifting scene.  Tan wood slats
with hinges glaring in the moonlight. A squeaking sound of something metals hanging
nearby. Shadows hovering all around, formless and unseen, but pressing in. Gradually,
Sandy and John begin to also feel plastic digging into their wrists and ankles. John
has a crystal clear vision of Kasulas seated in his chair back in England; bloody and
bloated.

A low, guttural moan is heard from John, as he slowly blinks open his eyes. He
swallows, dry and hard, his throat a sore, dusty canyon.

Not a groan, but a muffled Tibetan curse can be heard from Sandy as his consciousness
surfaces and he tries his bonds. Then quietly, "That you, Constantine?"

The thatched black cubes of hay bales sit in the darkness near the steel, auditorium
style chairs John and Sanderson are bound to. Here and there, pegboard, tools. A
toolshed or a barn. Rustic...but broken, disused. A hanging awl squeaks on its hook
next to a row of threshing equipment.

Another dry swallow; the thought of food has caused John to salivate a bit, and he
smacks his lips dryly before speaking. "For me sins against a cruel and unforgiving
god, yeah. You remember anything since the bar?"

"Not a thing - but since we're still alive, I doubt they're gonna try and kill us right
off the bat," says Sandy remarkably calmly. He squints into the darkness, then twists
as far as possible in his chair to try and make out what's behind them.

Voices echo softly outside on the night or early morning air. Concerned, intent voices.
And they're getting closer. German voices.

Behind Sandy rests the gleaming curved bones of a skull of an animal of some kind. Its
horns imply a steer of some sort.

Clear German can be heard coming through the faint cracks in the door to Sand and
John's left. A padlock rattles noisily. More German, disgruntled.

"C'mon, you're a superhero," Constantine says, leaning his head backwards so that Sandy
can more clearly hear his words. "Thought your kind untied bonds like they was
shoelaces."

Not even bothering to answer John - those guys are getting too damn close - Sandy
twists his arms so that the plastic bindings around his wrists are over one of the
horns of the cattle-skull. He immediately sets to work trying to pierce through.

The plastic bindings slip over the points of the skull. As Sanderson presses down, he
can feel the rings dig into his skin and bite hard. A raw whiteness forms around his
palms then grows redder.

The padlock is removed. The chain rattles against the door. The door opens, showing a
blue black sky, green lawn, and two men - Glasses and the 'bartender'.  The bartender
carries a snubnosed silver pistol of Warsaw Pact manufacture and design. Glasses
follows, glances outside, and closes the door.

Concentrating only on breaking the plastic, Sandy ignores the (comparatively small)
pain in his wrists...and slackens immediately as the Germans enter. Makes it look like
there's absolutely nothing wrong with his bonds.

John Constantine's face is a mix of expressions, some weird cross between pain and
pleasure, fury and mirth. "'ey squire," he nods in the bartender's direction, "fix me a
whiskey sour, will you?"

The man with the gun reaches into a pocket. He removes some change and a crumpled pack
of Silk Cuts before taking out a metal cylinder. A silencer. He nods to Glasses
perfunctorily.

Glasses looks down at the two with a somewhat depressed expression - the face of an
existentialist. A sympathetic realist. "I'm afraid you're neither of you in any
condition to drink."

"How about a last cigarette, buddy?" asks Sandy quietly, moving his arms ever so
slightly, face not betraying the fact that he's getting close.

Glasses rests a hand in a jacket pocket, head tilted faintly. The moonlight flares up
his lenses, obscuring his eyes. "We have not come to last requests.  Not yet. I've
simply come to check in on you both." He speaks to his compatriot as he screws the
silencer on. "I'm afraid Jordan here has little sense of tact.  Do you, Jordan?"

Jordan smiles briefly, shrugging, abashed.

Glasses says "Mr. VonZell wished for me to tell you both how very sorry were that
things turned out this way. Had things been different, who knows? Perhaps there could
have been diplomatic consideration. But, this is not the world for such things and we
are not such men."

"You're not men at all," Constantine spits, eyeing the gun in Glasses' hands like a
heroin addict eyeing a hypodermic needle; it's all lust and fire. He's been here
before, and maybe he lives for these moments. Then again, maybe he's just a sick fuck.
It's disputable. "So you've got your precious little box. What will you do with it
now?"

Chris Chance scratches his cheek. "The box and the key. As for what's to be done with
it, that's not my concern. My concern at the moment is what to do with the two of you."
He turns away for a moment.

Jordan looks Sandy over carefully - apparently he's been warned. He rests a hand in a
pocket now. Waiting.

Glasses removes his glasses for a moment. "For what its worth, Mr. Hawkins - I assure
you that I will not use lethal force unless another person's life is in danger or I
have no other recourse."

Sandy Hawkins would definitely go for 'sick fuck'. And since the ante isn't apparently
upped, he relaxes his efforts on the bonds for a moment. No need to immediately jump up
and kick ass. "You know as well as I that there's no way /Blitzkreig/," he stresses
this with obvious disgust, "would have been diplomatic with us."

John Constantine winces a bit, as if in no small amount of pain. Maybe he's feeling the
hangover that the drugs left in his system, or maybe he's just wincing at the thought
of wasting away his day in some small shack straight out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He
bites his lip, though, saying nothing to provoke either Sandy or Glasses.

Glasses nods succinctly, back still turned. "I suppose I'll just have to bloody my
hands, then." He turns, hand with the pistol rising in one smooth motion. It coughs
twice, ejecting a pair of brass casings.

CHUFF CHUFF

Jordan's head catches both 9mm rounds and then carries them through his cerebellum and
into a bale of hay, along with a good part of his skull. The man's body tilts, the hand
in the pocket trying to pull whatever it had out, itching, twitching, and then
sticking.

Momentarily, Sandy stares at Glasses. Then he looks away, starting to work on the
plastic again. When Glasses shoots Jordan, he grins, still looking away.

John Constantine stares, dumbfounded, at the body crumpled on the ground.  "Well," he
finally manages, nearly speechless, "that was certainly a surprise."

Sandy Hawkins looks back up at Glasses Guy and inclines his head. "You got a knife or
somethin'? This'll take me forever." He glances at John, unable to hold back a smirk.

Chris Chance glances down, the gun smoking in front of his shadow obscured features.
Straw settles beneath the dead man and a pool forms around the dirty floor of the shed.
He idly brings the gun up. "Hawkins, you bastard. You forced my hand."

With a light shrug, Sandy shakes his head. "Sorry, creepsville, if you'd've let me know
earlier, I would've kept my trap shut." He relaxes back into his chair, giving his arms
a rest.

There's a long, drawn-out pause from John Constantine, who currently is bloodying up
his wrists in an attempt to slip from his entrapment. The pause goes on for quite a
while, actually, as John just sits, slackjawed, staring at Glasses. Disbelief registers
across his worn face. Finally, he straightens his back and says, "Hullo, name's John
Constantine. Who the hell are you?"

Chris Chance tosses the formerly namesake glasses into a corner and then reaches up
with his free hand to push at something at the nape of his neck. He continues speaking
as the skin around his cheeks ripples, wrinkles, and then begins to tear away with a
soft sticky sound. "...and how the Hell would I have done that?  You and your friends
have been under constant surveillance by this VonZell and the Indians. If you idiots
had just brought the box that night none of this would have happened. Now a month's
worth of work is destroyed and they've got the fucking thing." He ignores John for the
moment, working on tearing off his face.

"Well, you can just fuck off, then," says the adventurer irately, shifting in his seat.
"After you cut us loose. How were we supposed to know it was your pet project? And
besides, how'd they get the box?" Sandy pauses, eyes widening, and he stares at John.
"You didn't hide the thing in the basement or something, did you?"

John Constantine suddenly jerks one hand free from behind him, his wrist a map of welts
and marks. "Godfuckit!" he exclaims, shaking his hand as if in pain. He raises the
tender skin to his lips and kisses his wounds, before working on his other hand,
simultaneously speaking to Sandy. "Ahhh, yeah, Sandy .. the box. I'd been meaning to
tell you..."

Chris Chance squints curiously at Sandy as he idly puts the gun down on a work counter
and snaps out a hand. A small punch dagger appears in his fist and he walks over, his
real features clear in the moonlight now. He walks around behind Sanderson, preparing
to free his hands. "What do you mean? In the basement. You gave them the real box."

John Constantine manages to quickly untie himself, and stumbles forward out of the
chair with the unsteady walk of a weak-legged man. "Whoa," he mutters softly, getting
his balance back. He straightens up, bending backwards until his back cracks audibly.
Patting his pockets for cigarettes, he turns around to face Sandy with a guilty smile
worn on his face.

"You've been meaning to tell me /what/, John?" asks Sandy suspiciously, eyeing John. He
glances at Chris, raising his eyebrows. "England here said he'd had a fake box, going
into the hotel. Hey, don't stop now, cut!"

"Meaning to tell you I was lyin'," John says, placing the fag in between his lips. He
leans his head forward and cups his left hand around his lighter, then pulls back once
the cig starts glowing. He inhales, and grins like a bastard.  "Didn't want you gettin'
all nervous on me, did I?"

Chris Chance pauses, glancing up at John. There's a moment of wariness. Judging.  He
gives a sort of half-smile, keeps it plastered on his face, then cuts the plastic
around the ankles and wrists of the Golden Ager free. He then returns the dagger to a
pocket, walking back to retrieve the pistol and look at it critically. He makes no
comment as Hawkins and Constantine have their discussion, working quietly in the
background to drag the body over to a corner and clean up some of the mess with the
hay.

"You..." starts Sandy incredulously, staring at John. As he gets up and rubs his
wrists, he continues, eyes wide. "Stupid...condescending, conceited, manipulative son
of a bitch! What the -HELL- is the /matter/ with you?!" he finally explodes, taking a
swing at John's face.

John Constantine pulls back just in time, though his cigarette almost falls out of his
lips in the process. He pulls it from his mouth and, still grinning that devil's grin,
replies, "If it's any consolation, I thought you would've figured it out by now!"

The only thing keeping Sandy from actually going after John is his realization that
that would be even more stupid than what's already taken place. "Listen,"  he snarls,
holding his fist up in front of the occultist, "From here on in, you god damn well
better tell me the truth. That was...that was the /dumbest/ thing I think anyone's ever
done around me. Now -- if I didn't know any better, I'd say we were well and truly
/fucked/." He turns in anger, and starts looking at the walls for anything he can use
as a weapon.

Chris Chance takes a matted, gory clump of hay and drops it into a convenient bucket.
He then looks frowningly at his hands. Still seemingly heedless of the row, he walks
over to grab a ragged piece of rag and wipe his hands on it. He then takes a key from a
pocket and tries it on a row of cabinets under the workbench area. One creaks open.
"Here. You'll need this." He tosses Sand his shoulder rig.

"We're not well and truly fucked 'till we're dead," John Constantine notes in response
to Sandy's troubled words, though his grin has faded a bit into a content but focused
smirk. "And I don't know about you, but I can stil feel my heart beating like a fucking
drum machine, so I figure I'm still among the living."

It's doubtful that Constantine realizes exactly what he's done to Sandy - but it's also
doubtful he'd care if he did. The Golden Ager wordlessly takes the rig from Chris and
buckles it on, making sure his guns are secure in their holsters, making sure the
refills are unbroken.

Chris Chance takes the little silenced pistol and stuffs it into his waistband at the
small of his back. He looks between the two men as Sanderson simmers down, expression a
mask of calm decision. "I'm getting out of here. You'd better do the same."

"I'm going after the box," mutters Sandy, heading for the door. On the way, he suddenly
reaches over and steals John's cigarette, then pauses by the door, smoking it.
"Where're we at, Chance?"

John Constantine takes another long drag from his cigarette, and looks Chris up and
down. "Whoa there, cowboy. You know what they've got, right? You've been here all
along." He glances at Sandy, nodding.

Chris Chance takes a moment to adjust his cuffs and collar. "We're in the toolshed
behind a Texas farm belonging to Oswald Klemperer. You recall; the happy German. He and
his mercenary associates have been positioned here with orders to wait on VonZell's
signal. Apparently he's setting something up overseas. You two were kept here as bait
for your pal Knight." He glances at a crack in the shed wall. "I'm guessing he's dead
by now." He looks back at you both. "I've got a car parked a little ways off. Should be
able to make it before they find the body. After that, I'm leaving you two fuckups to
your own devices."

"The only thing that could kill Jack would be if goatees went out of style,"  
Constantine chuckles around his cigarette at the idea, then glances towards the door.
"Fine. So the box isn't here in the compound, eh?"

"You just keep underestimating Jack, buster, it'll make you feel better. Maybe you
won't remember you're not exactly tops yourself, huh? You just go on home and -die-
when the Nazis release the rest of whatever the hell's in that box, and you can die
happy thinking, 'Gosh, well, it's not /my/ fault,'" shoots back Sandy, glaring at
Chris. He has no idea how John got another cigarette, but doesn't really want to know.
"Where -is- the box?"

Chris Chance purses his lips and shakes his head. "VonZell split up with some of his
own men once they got the box and that bottle off of you. We had to lose some Thugee.
I'm guessing either they caught up with the old man or he's back in Bavaria consulting
his astrologer." He squints a little at Sandy, hand on the shed door handle. "And I'm
getting the box. People in high places are paying me quite a bit to get it back where
it belongs."

John Constantine takes a pull from his new cigarette, exhaling plumes of smoke out
through his nose. "And where -does- it belong?" He mutters, stepping towards the door.
"Who're your employers, huh?"

Moving back from the door, himself, Sandy crosses his arms and speaks around (John's!)
his cigarette. "And you could definitely," he says matter of factly, decisively,
indicating that he's leaving no room for argument, "use our help. No matter what kind
of fuckups you think we are." He eyes John as if daring him to argue.

Chris Chance looks between Sanderson and John with a somewhat tired and bemused
expression. "Need to know basis, Constantine. My eyes only. Classified. Now shut up and
follow me." He opens the door and steps out into the cool Texas night. Outside, you can
see the broad expanse of a slightly overgrown lawn, a fenced in field, and a western
style manor house sitting high up on a hill, a twisting dust road leading up to it. All
around, there is the chirping of crickets. The moon hangs high in the sky, a half disc
of white light.

Chance crosses the lawn with practiced silence, ducking as a shadow of a man can be
seen rounding a corner of the house. He waits a moment, holding a hand up. John
Constantine, not much of a patient man to begin with, skulks about in the darkness, the
glow of his cigarette the only bit of light to his figure. "This is absolutely
ridiculous," he says, placing one hand on the dewy grass to steady himself. "Need to
know basis me arse."

Who's Chris holding a hand up to? Constantine - because when he turns, Sandy's nowhere
to be seen. Amazingly, he has the restraint to keep himself from making a really
wiseassed comment about John's perfect straight line.

The sentry yawns, the silhouettes arms rising slowly, then lowering. The figure
disappears back behind the corner of the rambling house.

Chance nods faintly, then heads across the fields, down an incline, and to a battered
pasture. A rickety old barn sits on this abandoned property, looking faintly sinister
in the moonlight. Chance wheels back one of the creaking doors and the light coming
through the slats shines on the glossy curved surface of a black Stingray sportscar.

John Constantine follows Chris, his hunched, trenchcoated outline fairly ridiculous.
"My bloody back!" he finally mutters, coming up close behind Chance on the barn.
Placing one palm against his lower spine, he straightens up with a wince; which is
right when he sees the Stingray. "Going in class, are we?" Oh great - now Sandy's got
Car Inadequacy Syndrome on top of everything else.  But naturally, he takes it out on
John. "Not used to class, then, are you?" he asks, quite suddenly behind the occultist.

Chris Chance pops open the passenger side door and then walks around to the driver's
side. "Expense accounts have their privileges. Should be some space in the backseat.
Not much." He puts the key in the ignition and revs the engine, which responds with
testosterone-satiating power.

"Hell no," Constantine replies, coughing up a bit of lung, which he promptly spits
against the barn's wall. He walks around to the side of the car, opening the passenger
seat. "Sod all, I'm ridin' shotgun." He grins that cocky Cockney grin, and opens the
front side door. "B'lieve that's the slang, yeah?"

Flashing Constantine a sour pair of thumbs-up, Sanderson overdoes approval. "My god,
you're about the smoothest cat with the heppest lingo, you're really hittin' on all
eight. Now shut up and move over so I can get in the back." There's a small cloud of
skyborne dust and gravel and suddenly the 'Vette is rocketing out of the barn, cutting
across a shabby road, then pulling out into the open highway. Chance's hands dance over
the gearshift and steering wheel with casual aplomb. He squints up at the rear view
mirror, speaking to his passengers. "I've got a friend waiting with a jet at a local
airfield ready to take me to my next destination. Only problem is, now that the plan
has changed, I'm going to have to rearrange my itinerary. I don't suppose either of you
have any insight into where VonZell might have gone, specifically?"

John Constantine keeps his window down low, letting his hand rest out of the car, the
cigarette he holds pulled by the wind rushing past. He says nothing, his eyes narrowed
slightly in consideration.

"Germany would be too easy a guess, wouldn't it," says Sandy, hunched over in the back.
"It's where I'd immediately figure, though. Listen -- when we get to your jet, I'm
giving Bulletman a call. He ought to know where VonZell's haunts are."

There is a snicker from up front. "Bulletman?" Constantine nearly giggles. "Yes, let's!
Also, Laser-Sight Lad owes me a couple faves..."

"Fuck off, Constantine," mutters Sandy irately, slouching down further, arms crossed.

Chris Chance makes a face as he shifts gears again...

An hour later.

The landscape has flattened, becoming hotter with the early signs of the sun on the
horizon. The plains have died off to become shrubs and dust. The Stingray purrs lower
as Chance pulls into a gas station out on the lonely highway. The station sign has been
broken and has likely remained thus for quite some time, judging by the condition of it
and the rest of the place. A small island with three pumps sits in front of the
squarish glass fronted station building. The attendant's blue pickup truck is the only
other vehicle at the place.

Chance pulls the parking break and turns off the ignition. "Have to pick up something I
left here. You may want to stretch your legs. Have another half hour before we get to
the airfield." With this, he gets out of the car and heads into the station.

Sandy Hawkins immediately starts kicking the back of John's seat. "Up. Up! Go!"  As
soon as he's able, he gets out of the car and stalks off. Disappears behind the
building.

John Constantine leans against the perfectly black car and lights another cigarette,
looking dastardly. "So tell me more about Bulletman, Sandy. Was he an average scientist
working for the government, developing special bullets? And one day he was cooking up
some bloody odd chemical for faster bullet travel, when lightning struck! and he was
transformed into the INIMITABLE BULLETMAN!"

When Sandy returns, he just gives John a tired look, lighting his own cigarette.  He
doesn't lean - he paces. "He's someone I've known since the War. Have a little respect,
will you?"

John Constantine flicks his ash against the body of the car. It sparks, momentarily,
and floats downwards. "Since the war? More like a skirmish, wasn't it? Slide in, kill a
few Arabs like you were playing video games, slide on out again nice and easy? Not
much'f a war, ask me."

Sandy Hawkins looks blankly at the Englishman for a moment, repeating, "Arabs...?" He
pauses, then his face clears. "Oh, you thought I...oh. No. The War - you know, World
War II."

John Constantine, who has most certainly seen some Weird Shit, just kind of blinks.
"Oh," he says, drawing from his fag again. "So how old're you?" "Seventy-two," replies
the adventurer, a trifle challenging in tone. He eyes John, flicking ash to the ground.

The dim pre-dawn gives way to the first bright glare of the sun rising over a series of
mountains to the west.

"For fuck's sake, gran'pa!" John chuckles, glancing in the direction of the sun.  
"Don't tell me, Jack's eighty fi'?"

"I think Jack's twenty-five," replies Sandy, staring at the ground and taking a drag of
his cigarette. Zones out a little - amends absently, "I could be a couple years off. He
was eighteen when we met."

"Eighteen, huh?" Constantine replies, tilting his head downwards. He pulls the
cigarette from his lips, rolling it between his fingers, and looks back up at Sandy.
"Hey, listen; sorry I lied to you back there. It was for the best."

Sandy Hawkins's face tightens and his attention returns to the present; he looks at
John. "You're obviously delusional if you think the situation we're in now is the best.
And no, you're not sorry." He raises his cigarette to his lips again, then pauses. "I'd
appreciate it if you trusted me to know what I'm doing. Don't humor me, don't
condescend, don't decide something that involves the fate of humanity without telling
me because 'you don't want to upset me'. You got it?"  He pauses. "Now where the hell
is Chance?"

John Constantine, although tempted to say something quintessentially American action
hero like You'd Be Dead Now If It Wasn't For Me, but bites his tongue and takes a drag
from his cigarette and smiles and generally keeps his obnoxiously confident demeanor.
"Probably inside on the shitter, lookin' pretty."

Chris Chance exits the gas station, carrying an attaché case. He approaches the car and
glances at his watch.

Silently dropping his cigarette, then crushing it underfoot, Sandy watches Chris for a
moment then gets back in the car.

"Time to go?" John Constantine questions, the cigarette hanging from his lower lip as
he speaks. In the distance, smoke is kicked up, as if by the shuffling feet of
invisible gods.

Chris Chance nods. "Time to go." He opens the driver's side car door and drops the
attach case in the back seat. He gets in and starts the engine.

Sandy Hawkins glances out the back window, shifting in his seat so he takes up the
entire back -- what little space there is, anyway. "Either've you know anything about a
road rally coming through here? Dust storm, maybe?"

John Constantine, unwilling to dispose of his cigarette, climbs into the back of the
car. Hunched over in the oddly shaped bucket seat, he props one elbow up on the inside
frame and leaves his other arm crooked over the seat next to him.

Chris Chance pulls out of the gas station and onto the highway's eastbound lane.  He
peers up in the rear view as he works the clutch and shifter, the rising sun shining a
rectangular reflection over his eyes. "Dust storm's are further west...." He trails
off, then turns his head briefly to check behind the car via the driver side window.
"You see something?"

Black forms, shifting, can be seen now. Distorted by the heat, the fact that the forms
are cars can only be made out after a minute, or so. And although exact details of the
make and model of the vehicles is still unclear, it's quite obvious that they're moving
at intense speeds. Fast enough to kick up clouds like a locomotive; fast enough to grow
larger with each passing heartbeat.

"Yeah. Cars. Fast," replies Sand, squinting into the distance. "I, uh, would step on
it."

Chris Chance nods. "Yeah," he mutters. "I think you may be right." His designer shoe
presses down on the accelerator and the V-8 is soon being pushed towards its upper
limit. He tries to gauge the distance and speed of the pursuers.

John Constantine straightens up and leans back, glancing over his shoulder and out the
window. "Bollocks t'this," John grumbles, coughing up a mouthfull. He leans forward and
spits out the window, jerked to the side by the acceleration.

The cars (and there are three of them, all silver) are low and slung to the ground,
like weird automotive bastard offspring of a Cadillac and a Ferrari.  They weave back
and forth, shooting like bullets out of the hot dust.

Chris Chance glances over a shoulder, at Sanderson, then sidelong with a half- smirk at
Constantine. Leans back in his seat and reaches across silently to strap his seatbelt
in. "Safety first." He looks ahead at the onrushing white lines and black asphalt,
checking the horizon for convenient scenery or

landmarks. The car accelerates a bit more, Chance risking redlining to test the upper
limits of the chasers' resolve and automotive speed.

Sandy Hawkins starts laughing. "They can't be serious...we don't even have the damn
thing anymore." He sighs, pursing his lips. "You don't have any , uh, shuriken or
anything under your seats, do you? Their tires are begging for it."

Chris Chance speaks out of the side of his mouth to John, his eyes still moving from
highway to rear view and back in a cycle. "What do I look like? James Bond?" He
grimaces a little at a flare of sunlight in his eye reflecting off of a silver hood.
"Open the glove compartment, Constantine. Black one's got full metal jacket loaded.
Should take out a tire, even at this range." Two guesses what he means by 'black one'
and the first guess doesn't count.

Their manner of approach, like fighter pilot moving in unison, demonstrates that there
are professionals behind the wheels. They begin to catch up on the Stingray, close
enough for Chris to notice that their windshields are mirrored, close enough to see the
black trim along the doors. As if on cue, the trio splits apart, and one driver moves
forward from the pack.

John Constantine pops open the compartment, and a chrome-plated gun bobbles out into
his lap. "Fuck!" he exclaims, holding it in one hand while he pulls the other pistol
out, and replaces it with the chrome one. He twists his body halfway out the window,
switching the gun into his left hand. The wind yanks his cigarette away; it flies into
the mirrored windshield of the car close behind, giving off a quick spark before
darting away.

Sandy Hawkins winces. "Stick your head out and it's got a fat red target painted on
it." A beat. "And yeah, Mr. Bond, you damn well do. How far are we from the nearest
city?"

Chris Chance is distracted by John's fumbling with the pistols long enough to say "For
crissakes, Constantine...don't....just...give it to Hawkins." He starts to drift the
Stingray towards the right lane, getting close to the edge of the highway. "Hour. Hour
and fifteen minutes. Airfield's a half hour, though, that's driving sane. We might make
it in twenty at this rate - assuming of course, we can deal with our tailgaters."

There is a gunshot, and Constantine can feel the bullet dart by his cheek, hot in the
air. "Yeah," he says, pulling his body back into the vehicle. He turns in his seat, and
holds the gun out towards Sandy. "Here. I'm switching my goddamn seat with you," and
proceeds to climb into the back.

"Yeh - I'm not making any comments about riding shotgun," says Sand with a self-
satisfied smirk, climbing over and falling into the bucket seat. He wrenches around and
rolls down the window the rest of the way, sticking his arm out the window flush with
the body of the car. He tries to judge where the closest car's gonna swerve next,
carefully aims for the wheel to his left, and fires.

Chris Chance keeps the car steady, peering at the mirror again for a long moment,
observing the timing and maneuvering skill of the three silver roadsters. He mutters
"...its always something."

The camera swings back to the car en chase, and the Stingray's reflection in its
windshield, a reflection that slowly grows larger until it dominates the lower half of
the windshield altogether. Suddenly, the reflection jerks to the side, and the camera
pulls back in time to witness the pursuit vehicle spinning towards the right, tires
biting the road hard, audibly disagreeing with their fate.

The chase car on the right brakes hard, and swings to the left to avoid its
incapacitated companion, although the third silver machine inches forward, unafraid.
Someone in the passenger seat of said vehicle lowers the window; out slides an arm and
a semi-auto.

Sandy Hawkins's eyes widen. "Fuck!" He squints at the third car, aiming for its front
left tire, firing quickly.

The driver of the third car is one step ahead of Sandy, and has already slid to the
side to allow his gunman better aim. Hawkins's bullet nails the ground beneath the car
just as the semi-auto lets loose with a burst of lead.

Chris Chance jerks the steering wheel to the left at the last moment, attempting to
avoid having his car catch too much of the lead. He grits his teeth as he guides the
wheel back to settle. "We're dead meat out on the highway like this."

The bullets tear past the side of the car like rocks, although two find themselves
firmly rooted in the Stingray's trunk. The neglected chase car has caught up, now, and
swings to the other side. Both cars pause momentarily, as if in silent communication,
debating the next course of action as they flank the Stingray.

Sand doesn't flinch as the other car attempts to put them off the road - he just works
on making -them- inoperable. He's still aiming for their tires, attempting to get a
step ahead of their swerves. So he goes for the one on his side first, firing into the
pause. "Yeah," he says distractedly, "but you're not in an offroader. Least bit of rock
in the underside of this thing, I dunno, we'd be deader meat out there."

Chris Chance's mouth twitches at the metallic thud of the slugs. "Ah, shit.  Bruno's
not going to be happy," he says, voice low and regretful. He glances at the rear view
and sees a car coming up on either side of the 'Vette. "Boxing us." Chewing on his lip
for a millisecond, he says "Hawkins, you might want to get your arm back inside the
car. Going to try something." He reaches meaningfully down towards the emergency brake.

Sandy's shots don't hit their mark, instead slamming into the lower side trim of the
silver and black car. It seems to be enough to momentarily startle the driver, though,
who jerks the vehicle to the side, driving with two wheels off the road. The car
returns to the pavement and steadies itself, and (as if in angry retribution) suddenly
swings to the left, attempting to slam into the Stingray.

Glancing back at Chris, detecting that 'meaningful tone' in his voice, Sandy nods and
quickly withdraws his arm, rolling the window back up most of the way.

Chance yanks the emergency lever up and hits the brakes, attempting to drastically drop
speed and let the swerving silver cruiser and its adjacent companion race far ahead.
Almost immediately after the jerking, shuddering squeals of the stop, he shifts back
into gear and hits the accelerator, an angry gleam in his eye.

Sandy Hawkins grins. "Ohh, yeah," he laughs, bracing himself, then finally buckling up.
"Don't need it yet, but've you got another clip for this?" he asks, momentarily holding
the gun up, distractedly watching the other cars.

The silver car on the right slams into the left, somehow providing so much leverage to
the underbelly of the second vehicle that the left car flips on its side, wheels
churning into the air. This car continues to slide forward on its side, falling
completely over as it runs off the road and into the dusty, rocky terrain. The Stingray
shoots past, even as the third car somehow steadies itself and returns to the chase
without pausing to give help to its companion.

Chris Chance smiles a tad unpleasantly at the result of his little stunt. "Glove
compartment. Blue tape on base." He pushes the car once more, straining the engine and
his foot with the pressure applied.

The sole surviving car is sleek, and it's fast, and a professional is driving it. This
much is clear. Tight on the road, it inches up slowly on the Stingray, unwilling to
make another stupid mistake.

Chris Chance casts a leery gaze over a shoulder at the advancing machine. He looks
ahead, checking the highway for the remotest sign of an offramp, pit stop, or other
mark on the otherwise clear and dusty Texas landscape.

Nodding, Sand leans forward and pops the glove compartment, fishing for a second.
Doesn't take long to come up with the described object. He glances out the window,
frowns, and turns around to see it out the back. "Constantine - don't suppose you can,
I don't know, put the guy to sleep? I can't get at him from here."

John Constantine, who has up until now been content to slouch forward in his seat, lips
clamped around his cigarette, turns around and looks out the rear view mirror. Holding
his hands out in front of him, he wiggles his fingers and says "raC gnisahc su, nrut
otni a gum fo reeb!" A pause. Nothing happens.  Turning back in his seat, John mutters
through a slight smirk, "Worth a try."

The silver vehicle moves to the left, and increases its speed until its starting to
crawl along the side. So far, no effort is made by the car to attack or otherwise
impede the travel of the Stingray. The passenger side window begins to roll down; the
top of a man's head is seen.

Chris Chance flicks a glance to the left as the mystery guest begins to make his
presence known. He mutters "Hawkins..." He holds out his right hand in a fashion not
unlike a doctor requesting an implement during surgery. The left hand continues to
steer.

Rolling his eyes, Sand fails to comment -- he just watches the car as it approaches,
and frowns when they start opening the window. Leaning forward so Chris's head is
nowhere near being in the way, he's about to lift and aim the gun - then Chris asks for
it. Wow, much better idea. Sandy hands it over wordlessly.

Dark brown eyes are deep set in an even darker face; the Indian gentleman slowly
unveiled as the mirrored window sinks into the car's body is dressed in a sleek,
India-ink suit. Hair combed neatly. Goatee slicked into a point. As if in slow motion,
the man draws a wicked looking pistol from somewhere unseen, leveling it at Chris.
"SPARE YOURSELF AN ETERNITY OF TORMENT!!" he says, voice breaking apart in the wind.

Chris Chance looks out of the driver's side window, brow crinkling as if he's trying to
place the face or understand what is being said. He rolls down the window with the
gunhand, squinting. "Lets make a deal." Then, with a somewhat sad smile, he sneaks the
pistol up and crossing under his left arm and jacket armpit as he steers one-handed.
There's a rapid series of cracks as he empties the pistol's clip out of the window and
at the goateed killer.

The head of the goateed assassin snaps back, revealing the bloodied face of the driver,
who has a particularly ugly bullet wound in his neck. The car swerves;  first to the
right, then to the left, as the driver's eyes roll back in his head and he collapses
over the steering wheel. The horn begins blaring. Decelerating, the car runs off the
road, eventually coming to a stop a good twenty-five feet from the pavement, horn still
sounding.

Sitting back and closing his eyes for a second, Sandy asks, "We about at the airfield
yet?" A beat. "D'you have a plane?"

Chris Chance brings the gun from under his armpit, muttering "Send Kali my regards." He
passes the gun back to Sanderson, frowning a little as the hole in his jacket smolders
with a fabric crackle. He nods slowly, glancing in the rear view for a moment. "Yes.
Only a few minutes now. With any luck the Indians won't have a reception waiting for
us."

Sandy Hawkins takes the gun back, checking the ammo almost idly. "Kali, huh? We got
cultists after us in addition to Nazis?" He glances back at John. "You got any enemies
up your sleeves might want what everyone still seems to think we have?"

John Constantine yawns, as if waking up from a long and particularly satisfying nap. He
wrinkles his nose, and pats his pockets down for a smoke. "'Course not,"  he mumbles,
and finds his cigarettes. Two left. "Unless you count everybody."

Chris Chance cruises towards the airfield, resting an elbow on the window sill.  He
smiles grimly at Constantine's reflection. "Popular, aren't you?" He looks ahead again,
expression thoughtful. "Well, the Nazis aren't quite Nazis.  VonZell's apparently a war
criminal of some kind, but he's always talking about how he's reformed. How this box is
supposed to help him absolve his sins."

"Everybody's a fucking saint," Constantine replies, turning to look out the window.

"Complete bullshit," says Sand calmly, after turning back around and pocketing the
extra ammunition. "VonZell went by the name of Baron Blitzkreig in the war.  
Apparently, someone related to the Marvels met up with Spy Smasher at one point, in the
sixties I think, and fought with VonZell over yet another All-Powerful Artifact. Big
Ugly got his face half burnt off and fused to the mask, and, heh heh, I guess what we
saw is the best the surgeons could do for him." He looks positively smug.

Chris Chance's eyebrows rise. "Baron Blitzkrieg? Huh." His lips narrow a bit,
expression clearly displaying the fact that this is news to him. And its troubling
news. "Certainly has a lot of men working for him. Supposedly has a horde of artifacts
like this box in storage somewhere that he was using for 'research'. Even if he's full
of it, all my intel indicates he's been looking for this thing for a long time. About
half a year ago, he got a hold of this English guy. Kasulas."

"Dead," Constantine chimes in, leaning forward in the car to light a fag.  Mission
accomplished, he swings his body sideways and props his feet up on the slick
upholstered seats. "Probably at the hands of the Baron." Constantine says this with
little spite; apparently he and Kasulas weren't -that- close.

Either they weren't that close or John is used to adding ghosts to his entourage.
"Well, it's likely he has been. Probably ever since the archaeologist and Spy Smasher
prevented his acquiring of that other artifact," replies Sandy, becoming fairly well
aware of his lack of extra holster. He shoves the gun in his belt. "So anyway - Kasulas
had an idea where it was. You have any idea why Jack ended up with the thing?"

Chris Chance nods a little, making a face. He notes a large fenced in field with a
runway and hangars appearing in the middle distance. Shaking his head in response to
Sandy's question, he says "All I know is that Kasulas was trying to make a deal with my
employers and VonZell or that bastard Klemperer caught up with him. I'm guessing he
knew about the box being in Knight's possession before anybody else; including, as I
gathered from our phone conversations, Knight." He nods towards the shape of a gleaming
Lear jet on the dusty tarmac. "On time."

"Christ," Constantine slurs, leaning forward. He looks to either side in mock concern,
"Can't let anybody see me travelling like this, it'll ruin me rep' as a labor man."

"If it makes you feel better you can ride on the wing," offers Sand, getting out of the
car and buttoning his suit jacket to cover the gun. As he does so, he eyes the jet
warily and glances around, looking for anything moving.

Chris Chance steps out, grabs the attaché, then walks a little ahead. His torn jacket
whipping around slightly in the morning breeze, he strides towards the waiting jet.
"Morning, Bruno."

A thickish man with ponytail and an outfit akin to the Hollywood agent stands by a
white BMW sedan, arms resting on the roof of the car, expression tired. He shakes his
head a little as Chance approaches. "Chris, what the hell happened?" "Long story.
Bruno, these are Messrs. Constantine and Hawkins. You remember Mr.  Hawkins. They're
coming with me."

John Constantine walks up to Bruno at a brisk pace, and pats the man on the shoulder.
"Constantine. John Constantine," he says, dropping his Cockney accent for an
upper-class erudite one. "Most pleased, most pleased. Say, you've any whiskey?"

Bruno looks at Constantine with a wary, almost flighty expression. Heard stories or
read top secret dossiers on him, probably. "Ah. Yeah. Wetbar in the plane."  He smiles,
trying to appear at ease with the prospect of being pally with the Britisher.

John Constantine's eyebrows rise dramatically, and he smiles a tight-lipped grin around
his cigarette. "Cheers!" he exclaims, and heads for the Leer.

"Ohforgodsake," mutters Sand, shoving his hands in his pockets as he approaches, then
retrieving one to toss off a salute to Bruno. "Wasn't my fault this time,"  he says
pleasantly. "Not even what happened to the back of the car."

Bruno glances at Sandy. "Back of the car?" He looks towards Chris with a disapproving
shake of his head. "You know how they are about damage to their loaners, Chris.
And...look, they've been phoning me all day trying to find out what the hell happened
to the Klemperer deal."

Chris heads up the steps to the insides of the jet. He glances down at Bruno as he goes
up. "Tell them I'm changing the contract. If they have a problem with it, they can
cancel it. I've put my neck out too many times already." He sticks a finger through the
blasted hole in his jacket. "Indians are onto me. Ask them about their security."

John Constantine disappears into the jet ahead of Chris.

Sandy Hawkins offers a slightly too cheerful grin toward Bruno, then follows Chris up
into the jet. His voice trails off on the way, "Don't let the pilot get shot..."


A Day Later... New York


In contrast to the last time our protagonists graced the Hanged Man, the bar is loud
and flush with patrons. The televisions are tuned to three different soccer matches,
one of which is a taped version of last night's big Manchester/Arsenal match.

Birdy is found behind the bar, too distracted by an argument with a drunk regular to
notice Constantine walk through the doors. Which is fine by the Brit;  the element of
surprise is still on his side. "BIRDY!" he calls out, lifting his hand in greeting. The
bartender turns, slowly, his face breaking into a grimace at the sight of John.

Chris Chance walks in a few feet behind John, a pair of raybans over his eyes and a
somewhat aloof manner about him. He glances around the pub interior and mutters to
Sandy "I don't get it. Its just a bar." He makes a slight grimace at the decor and
smell of beer assaulting his pop and folk sensibilities. "A cheap, lowlife bar.""

Mumbling something obscene about soccer, Sand finally comments audibly as he also
follows John in: "The hell kind of bar doesn't play /baseball/?" At Chris' question, he
smiles slightly, "Yeah, well, you associate with lowlifes, you end up where they're
comfortable. This place is entirely his, though; mine lacks frat boys." His smile turns
into a highly entertained grin as he tries to imagine John in Bruno's place.

Chris Chance nods, clearly still not quite grasping the validity or necessity of
visiting the place. He removes his raybans and slips them into his breast pocket.

John Constantine has since slipped away from his partners, and is currently leaning
over the bar, both hands on the glass counter as he props himself up.  His words are
drowned out by the football matches, although Birdy's responses can be read in the
large man's body language; first careful distance, then anger, then resigned agreement.
Constantine, satisfied, slips back. "He'll meet us in the back," he says, gesturing
towards a rear hallway with his thumb.  "C'mon."

Chris Chance heads to the hall, neatly edging his way through the rowdy soccer fans. He
makes a play at trying to appear like he belongs within two blocks of the joint. He
takes a moment to check the front doorway, a brief concession to the paranoia and
mistrust that's ingrained into his persona. Observing nothing noteworthy other than a
drunken patron stumbling towards the exit, he mutters "Charming." Giving a tight smile
to no one in particular, he turns and heads into the recesses of the back corridor.

A minor fight breaks out between drunken fans of one match. It's quickly put down as
Birdy strides through the room towards the back hall, his presence a looming warning.

Glancing back at the door, Sanderson pauses at the entrance to the hallway. He's
checking it too, sure, but not out of paranoia: why they headed here first instead of
his apartment is a mystery to the Man of Gold. (Ha, ha.) Jack, he's certain, is there.
But - he turns back and follows John and Chris into the dark corridor, shoving his
hands in his pockets. "Look out, Chance, you might get your clothes dirty."

Birdy takes out a small ring of keys and, fishing for one in particular, tries the
brass doorknob. It's locked, which seems to satisfy the man, who nods to himself as he
finds a particular two-toothed key. A moment later the door is unlocked and pushed
open, leading to a dusty and oft-unused room lit by two hanging bulbs.

Chris Chance enters the room, looking up at the bare bulbs and the cracked and flaked
paint on the walls. He looks back at John disapprovingly for a brief moment, then looks
for a seat.

Chris Chance

	Lean and trim, this man has the fit build of an athlete. He has black hair
going prematurely gray at the temples, cropped in a slightly feathered style.  His eyes
are a steady olive brown shade, flinty and alert. Handsome in a traditional fashion, he
has a dimpled chin, high cheekbones, and a slightly upturned nose.
	He's clad in a simple white suit with a white vest, jacket, and pleated pants.
His tie is a black straight number that matches the jet black of his well polished
loafers. A round-rimmed pair of mirror shades dangle from his jacket's breast pocket. A
gold watch glitters at his wrist.
	He has a laid-back and quiet attitude - a demeanor at odds with the slight edge
of wariness in his eyes. Every motion and expression he makes has a certain grace,
economy, and stylishness about it. The whole look paints the image of a confident man
of taste and distinction...and a certain degree of roguishness.

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.

John Constantine steps into the room with the comfortable ease of a man familiar with
his surroundings. He slides a chair out from the one major piece of furniture in the
room: an ugly, water-stained wooden table in the shape of a warped rectangle. He kicks
another chair out in Chris's direction, noting the man's displeasure. "Take a seat, yeh
priss," he says with a slightly grin.

Chris Chance sits down, neatly folding a leg over a knee and fishing in a pocket. He
retrieves a cigar and a gold lighter - might as well try and add some class to this
hellhole, he seems to say. He plants the cigar between his lips and flips back the
cover on the lighter. "Somebody need to fetch the goat?" he asks, smirking behind the
first cloud of his super expensive stogie. "Or do you favor chickens. I'm afraid I've
not had much experience with these things."

Sandy Hawkins

	Reasonably tall, but nonthreatening at first and second glances, this young
blond man with tousled 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.

Eyeing Chris as he takes a seat, then standing and spinning the chair around to
straddle it, Sandy tries not to laugh. "No animal sacrifices necessary, I'm thinking.
This isn't a Robert Anton Wilson book. Now, you sure you're okay with your Cuban over
there, or do you want me to go get you some cloves?" He pulls out his Lucky Strikes and
grins lopsidedly, fishing for matches.

Birdy closes the door behind the trio, and locks it from within. "Well, first I shall
have to ask all of you to perform the BLOODLETTING RITUAL! You may use your own knife
if you prefer, although it of course helps for it to be as rusty as possible." He walks
over to the table and straddles a chair, pulling a particularly ugly looking blade from
his left boot.

Chris Chance sets his lighter down on the edge of the table where it balances
perfectly. He exhales a cloud of smoke, looking towards John without moving his head.
He apparently seeks confirmation on the necessity of this.

John Constantine seemingly unwilling to traumatize his newfound companions, leans over
and slaps Birdy on the back of the head. "Don't be a fuckwit, Birdy,"  he says, and
taps the table with his index finger. "A reading. C'mon, mate."

Sandy Hawkins wordlessly lights up, watching. Again with the 'fuckwit'. He leans his
elbows on the chairback in front of him and waits.

Birdy appears both amused and incensed at the reproach, but slides the knife away
nonetheless. "You used to be game for that, Johnny," he mutters, pulling a pack of
cigarettes from one pocket, and a battered collection of round-edged cards from the
other. He sets both down on the table, but quickly picks the cigarettes up. The tarot
cards, butter-colored with a creamy texture, are left in the spotlight.

Chris Chance observes stoically, expression frank in its skepticism. Birdy watches as
John takes the cards from the table and begins shuffling them, hypnotically, with his
left hand. "What kind'f reading, Johnny? Celtic Cross?"

John Constantine wrinkles his nose, and slides the cards back across the table.  
"Don't gimme any of that new age bullshit, Birdy. Just flip the bloody cards and tell
me what they say."

The corner of Sand's mouth twitches as he tries not to grin. He reaches out and pulls
the ashtray over his way, flicking his cigarette over it; he inclines his head toward
Birdy. "Johnny, huh?"

Chris Chance looks across the table at Sanderson, snorts a little behind his cigar,
then leans slowly back, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression dimming in
the intervening shadows thrown by the double bulb lighting. The red cigar end pulses
slightly.

Birdy's chair squeaks uncomfortably as he traces his fingers across the edges of the
cards. "Right, then," he mutters, and begins flipping them out onto the table. Slight
sliding noises are heard as the cards slip slip slip out, faces up. "Oh. Well, fuck,"
he says, leaning forward a bit, obstructing the light as he does so.

Sandy Hawkins coughs, masking a laugh. "Now, why did I expect that word just then?" He
squints slightly and reaches up to scratch his nose with his thumb, then takes a drag
of his cigarette and glances at John.

John Constantine, Man of the Occult, purses his lips. "Goddamn it, Birdy, why must you
start out every damn reading with the same bloody 'Oh fuck' warning? It gets tiresome;
yes, I know I'm doomed to a life of despair and tragedy. Yes, I know I'm gonna die poor
and unloved. Blah, blah, blah. You'd think this "fate"  thing would vary more."

Chris Chance looks languidly down at the upturned cards. He reaches across at an angle,
snicks ash into the ashtray, then replaces the cigar between his teeth. There is a
guttural noise that Birdy makes when nervous. He's making it now, and loudly. "Umn,
John, really. This is dead ugly. See this card here?" He places a finger on the tip of
one card, and flicks it across the table at John, who stops it mid-motion.

"Dead ugly? Fill us in, Birdy, we're not all masters of the occult here," notes Sandy
after a second of watching. He leans forward again, tapping one of his feet quietly and
rapidly. "And yeah, we know we're in over our heads. How much worse can it get than
what we already know?" The fatal words.

Chris Chance smiles a tight lipped smile. He says "Do tell," looking between the cards
and John's features.

"Oh, well bloody hell," John says, and lifts the card up in one hand. He tilts it in
Sandy's direction, then turns his head to face Chris. "The Tower. The ugly of uglies.
Like, right .. let's imagine all these cards," he says, spreading his hand over the
deck, "are descriptions of various deaths? The Tower card, well it .. it's like ..
having scorpions in your urinary tract." He pauses. "No, wait, that's far too mundane.
My describing it is pointless, it doesn't lend it enough wait."

John Constantine skips a beat. "Good thing I think this's all a load'f bollocks."

Chris Chance squints an eye. "Of course."

No response from the Sandy corner. He's seen too many weird or unaccountable things
both during his partnership with Wes and in the course of his dreams.  Wait, did I say
no response? White knuckles.

"There's more," Birdy says in that dry voice of his, sounding half amused and half
concerned. "Or, should I say, there's less. See, there're some other archetypal figures
at work here. The Stranger .. the Crossroads. That sort of thing, standard John Bloody
Constantine, King Among Mystics, Adventure Tale sort of deal. But then .. there's the
fact that this card," he says, with a tap of his finger for emphasis, "landed face
down."

"So it did," Constantine replies. "What card would that have been?"

"The World card," Birdy said, and John Constantine felt his heart skip three beats,
even though tarot reading was a hoax, even though Birdy was a con man and a pedophile.

Chris Chance arches his eyebrows at the look on John's face. "Okay - enlighten us;
what's that mean?"

It's kind of unnerving to see all the color drain from John Constantine's face.  You
know, he's, well, John /Constantine/, and he sees crazy frightening bizarre occult
stuff all the time. "What he said," adds Sand, mouth suddenly parchment- dry.

"Wellll.." John says, swallowing hard and dry. "Alright. Normally it wouldn't mean
anything. I mean, you know, everything bloody well means -something,- but .. right.
Okay. For it land upside down, and for it to be the World card, and for it to land
touching the Tower card .. well, fuck, you do the math. Horrible Fate + The World
Around Us + A Void/Nothingness = Time To Get One Last Fuck In Before Reality Implodes,
my boys."

Sanderson sags into his chair, visibly relieved. He takes a good long drag off his
Lucky and grins, then exhales as he speaks. "Well, -that's- all right, then.  I thought
it was something horrible, from the way you had me goin', there."

Chris Chance lets the words sink in, then takes the cigar out of his mouth and looks
casually at it, turning it slighting between his fingers for a few dozen seconds. His
eyelids droop about halfway down his eyes as he looks at Sanderson.  He then points a
finger down at the table, indicating the cards. "So, what does this tell us? Doesn't
get us any closer to the box, now does it?" He shakes his head somewhat disgustedly and
says "Carnie bullshit."

Birdy shrugs at Chris's words, then flips over two more cards. He leans back in his
chair, and grins that ugly goddamn grin. His daughter's good-looking, though, on a side
note. John can attest to this. "You, pretty-boy," says Birdy, "you're going to die.
Laugh all you want, slick."

Chris Chance sneers a little, showing a few teeth. "Naturally," he says, really
expecting this to be his personal reading. "Naturally. I suppose this'll take place
before the 'reality implodes', Constantine?" He exhales a ring of smoke.

John Constantine leans forward, pulling the cards from Birdy's clutches. "Don't fuck
with the man," he says, lifting one card in particular. He glances at it, then places
one arm around Chris's shoulders. "Okay, well, you're probably going to die. But it may
not be painful!" John grins, rubbing the back of Chris's head with a jolly manner.

Chris Chance scowls at John, indicating that a horrible fate may await the Britisher if
he touches his hair again. He snicks ash into a tray, eyes locked on Constantine.

Sandy Hawkins lifts his chin, still grinning, and flicks ash into the tray.  "You've no
idea how many times I've been told that," he says to Birdy, "or how many times I
should've, could've died. I could care less - the good guys always win. That's the way
this works. We've saved the goddamn world before, we can do it again. It's not a big
deal." Definitely a smug bastard, he is. Well, every doom and gloom session needs a
superhero, neh?

John Constantine taps the side of his nose, twice. God only knows what this means; the
Brits have way too many stupid gestures as it is.

"To continue?" Birdy says, and moves on without waiting for a response. Pointing to
Sandy, he continues the reading. "You will not die. In fact, you will cheat both death
and time, but in the process you will carry with you a new burden. Or .." he pauses
here, "and Johnny, this seems to apply to you to .. or you might bear some .. sort of
mark. Like the mark of Cain."

Birdy wrinkles his nose. "Wait, maybe you've -already- cheated death and time.  This is
unclear." He looks up with a grin. "Fuckin' tarot."

Sandy Hawkins starts to laugh, shaking his head. "Ah, come on. Well, okay, if in the
process we're gonna be carrying some sort of mark or burden, I s'pose it'll be again.
Still."

"Now John .." Birdy says, then blinks. He blinks again. Having blinked twice now, he
blinks once more for good measure before settling back in his chair.

"Goddamn it, John. You and your fucking .. I don't know if your reputation is coloring
this reading, or if this reading is just supporting your reputation, but god god
goddamn it if you're not going to be facing the forces of evil, et all."

Chris Chance just sits back and listens with a smirk on his face and the cigar working
in short puffs.

"Okay, so facing the forces of evil, yadda yadda, okay," prompts Sanderson, watching
Birdy, then John. "What else?"

"So that's all," Birdy says, slowly gathering the cards together on the table.  
"Vague, vague, va.. eh..." he pauses as he sweeps his cards back across the table,
trapping them under one hand. "What's that?" he says, nodding towards John, pulling at
something beneath his chair. "Did I miss one?"

John ducks his head beneath the table. "Muh buhbuh nuhnuh," he says, his voice muffled
by his jacket. He lifts back up, and slaps another card on the table.  "There. Slipped
off, beneath my chair."

"Lemme guess -- dismemberment?" asks Sandy totally innocently.

Chris Chance stubs out his cigar, letting it sizzle to its demise in the ashtray. He
folds his hands on the table and keeps that same sarcastic expression in place.

"The Hermit," Birdy says, inhaling slowly and exhaling slower. He shrugs, though, and
slides the card in with the rest of them. "Could mean a lot of things. Some outside
party. Probably someone you don't know, or don't recognize.  A strange man."

A low, weird voice speaks with chillingly close sound. "The Stranger is here, already.
And he bears a message."

"That," John Constantine says as he pats his jackets for a cigarette. Failing that, he
grabs Birdy's pack. "..was unexpected." He cranes his head around, looking over his
shoulder.

Chris Chance turns, a hand moving inside his jacket and his face twisting into an alert
grimace. "What the...?!"

The Phantom Stranger steps forwards, the light bulbs casting long shadows beneath the
curve of his navy blue fedora. His opaque white eyes look out without concern or
seeming empathy as he levels them at the beaten down table's occupants. Walking
silently forwards, the folds of his cloak rippling eerily, he says nothing for a long
moment. Those eyes glare with a probing quality, like mystic searchlights beaming into
the souls of the mortals before him. He seems to carry a palatable aura of mystery and
ancient secrecy. "My message is not for all ears." Whether its through magic or by the
apparent location of his current stare, all can tell that he means Birdy.

Sandy Hawkins straightens, then stands so he doesn't have to crane his neck.  Eyebrows
up, he decides, for once, to keep the wisecracks to himself -- and glances at Birdy.
"Sorry, man. He wants to pull a mystic rifle on us."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," John says, slouching back in his chair as Birdy, pale as a
nubile virgin, leaves the room. "For a moment I thought you were the devil, come for my
soul. But it's just -you-." Constantine stands, and closes the door behind the exiting
bartender. Turning, he leans against the cold wood, his legs crossed. The cigarette
held tight in his lips glows blue, momentarily, before returning to the normal red
flare.

Chris Chance relaxes a little as he sees Sandy and John both seem familiar with this
being. The hand slowly retracts from the jacket and back to the table, balled in a
tight fist. His expression reads 'What Have I Gotten Myself Into' rather plainly. It
also is notable for the way his mouth is clamped tight - he'll let Sanderson and
Constantine deal with this...person...

John Constantine bows his head, shadows casting down on his face. "Phantom Stranger,
meet Chris Chance, Man of Danger. Chris Chance, Man of Danger, meet the Phantom
Stranger. Nice guy. Smells of mothbolls."

The Phantom Stranger nods in approval once the door closes, then raises his right hand
to point at Constantine. There's something about the way he points that isn't terribly
friendly. "You should not have attempted this scrying, John Constantine. It has marked
you." The hand drops, then the Stranger looks towards Sand and Chris. "All of you."

Sandy Hawkins leans back on the table, cigarette clenched in his teeth, palms on the
tabletop. "And unearthing and messing with Pandora's Box hasn't? I'm impressed." He
pauses, looking the Stranger up and down. "And you're lookin' good. Haven't aged a day
since the last time I saw you...oh wait, you're immortal. Nevermind."

The Phantom Stranger looks steadily at Sandy. It is unsettling to say the least.  
"Sanderson Hawkins - you should have learned by now that no one can claim ownership of
this Box. Pandora was but one of a line of thousands who have possessed it, only to
lose it at Destiny's reckoning. Her only distinction was in being the first to open
it." He pauses for a moment, raising his gaze to the trio in general. "There must not
be a second."

John Constantine lifts his hair from his brow and raises his fingers, grazing them
across the skin as if to test for any scarring. "Alright, guy," he says, walking up
next to the Stranger, close enough to breathe smoke in the immortal's face. "So then
what do you want me to do? Save the world?"

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, and gesturing with the smoke, Sanderson goes for
the 'hold the phone' routine. "We were gonna do that anyway, Constantine. I'm just a
little hung up on this 'the tarot reading has marked you' thing when possessing and
trying to open the Box didn't do jack shit. So thousands have possessed it. Possessing
it and losing it to a bunch of Ratzi jerks and then trying to see the future with a
bunch of cards - /when I can see it in my dreams/ - turned us into Cain? I don't
goddamn well think so. What else is going on here, Stranger? Who else is playing this
game?"

The smoke seems to grow in size and density as the smoke curls around the Phantom
Stranger's pale and shadowy face. "You did not have the key, Sanderson Hawkins. You had
no chance of opening the box now matter how you or your friend may have desired to do
so. That key was in your possession only long enough to pass into the possession of the
man known once as Baron Blitzkrieg. He is but one player in a varied field, however."
He pauses, then says, with a tired drone "You seek further evidence? Further meaning?
Then you must know the history of your doom." There's a moment of distortion and a
sensation of things unwinding, breaking down, then being reconstructed into something
else. The walls of the room melt away in the roiling clouds of smoke now, turning into
a black and brown hazy shadow play that envelops all four figures, the table strangely
in their midst. There's the sounds of battle, a drone of screams and clanking
machinery. It is indistinct at the moment and could be any battlefield at any time in
modern history.

John Constantine, glancing around for his chair, takes his cigarette from his mouth
just long enough to say "Damn, I could use a beer with this." Staggering slightly
before he regains his steadiness, his bearings, Sanderson stares for a moment.
Carefully he replaces his cigarette - probably intending to inhale nothing but numbing
nicotine for the endurance. "If this is what I think it is," he finally says, voice a
little thick, "I'd love to hear the rationalization."

"The rationalization? There is none. There is only man." The Stranger says, turning to
look at the ruin and horror. "Since the dawn of thought, man has struggled with his
capacity for violence and destruction. He has turned to the heavens and sought reprieve
from the gods. He has looked inward and sought to track the beast - the animal he is
borne from." The shadowy cut of a trench like a wound in the earth becomes more
apparent in the horizon, ribbed with wooden x's and spiraling gouging barbed wire.
Tatters of flags and of men hang there in silhouette and figures in gas masks can be
seen toiling in the muck and blood stained mud. "And, still, as much as he may try, for
centuries he has become a master of this darker self, perfecting it and crystallizing
it until it rose like a black wall across the fields of Europe. Until it signaled the
true beginning of this past century." Machine guns chatter, mortars explode, and oily
yellowish gas fills the air; a universe of death. "The Box was created to hold the
miseries of man - and Hope. Only Hope remains after its first opening eons past. But
since these blackest days at the dawn of your generation, Sanderson Hawkins, even Hope
has become tainted. And so a flaw was made in the Box. A flaw that has grown every day
since."

John Constantine nods at this, at the mention of the flaw, as if he'd known all along.
Cocky sodding bastard, he is.

Out in the smoke, in the middle of the screaming and the rancid trenches and the
exploding death - but still shockingly close, close enough to touch - a familiar form
fights its way through bodies and pieces of bodies, headed for a fallen comrade.
Finally he gets close enough so you see the name on his uniform -- Dodds. And he tears
his gas mask off in frustration; he can't see. Sandy's eyes widen as he watches this,
as he watches the other man attend to his friend, try to help him; the former Golden
Boy, now feeling very young, doesn't even listen to the Phantom Stranger. "Wes!" he
yells, his voice doing a strange broken thing at the end, starting to step forward.
"Wes, for the love of God put your mask back on!"

"He cannot hear you, Sanderson Hawkins. His fate was but one of millions touched by
this conflict - and it was a rare one that brought the seed of something better from
his hurts. Your mentor became an agent of Dream and it is through this legacy that you
have become what you are now." The Phantom Stranger looks back at the others and says
"You are all now inheritors of this...of the twisting of Hope by cynicism and fear. The
legacy of an entire age." The brown becomes black and the black becomes brown and the
scene stagnates and decays until it becomes a vision of a silent sky, filled with
feathery dark clouds, a negative image of a clear, sunny day. "Hope is now often
indistinguishable from Hate. To save the world, men had to offer a means of its
destruction. To prevent the deaths of children, children were slaughtered. To save
freedom, machines made decisions." There is a sudden flare of negative light - a black
orb of glowing heat far below. It expands and burns the landscape and the sky, marking
a growing cloud that has become a signature for the atomic age - the mushroom cloud.
"And so it has gone for decades."

"Yeah and I bet you golf and do shots with that self-important uptight little bastard,
don't you, Stranger," says Sand bitterly, dropping his cigarette to the 'ground' and
stepping on it, crossing his arms over his stomach, looking away with a hurt and
twisted face. "If all of this came about because of the tainting of hope, why didn't
someone let hope out of the box to combat misery?"

John Constantine crosses his arms. Lips pursed, he seems unwilling to speak.

The Phantom Stranger says "Before this nuclear age, there were men who sought to rule
the world. The personification of the blackness that lay at the core of Hope now, they
hoped as purely as any group of men have hoped - a mad hope, brought on by a madman.
These were men who knew the power of the arcane and wielded it to great effect,
preventing their defeat for years and allowing their cancer to cover much of their
land." He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he lets more images provide the answer.
The spear of destiny. A swastika. And the shadows and shape of a concentration camp
churning out its infinitely black, hellish smoke.

It'd be impossible to say anything coherent at this point, impossible to ask any
questions. So the tools of hope were twisted to obscene uses - this is a standard,
unfortunately, of the human condition. Sandy doesn't want to watch - doesn't want to
see the more rotten half of this firsthand. But he does anyway, because, well, he asked
for it. He glances at John and Chris, finally. John Constantine tilts his head forward
a bit, resting it against the hard bones of his thumbs. "So the question remains; what
now? I know we're .. right. Thanks for nauseating me to the gut, but I knew what we
were up against. You gonna help us out?"

The Phantom Stranger shakes his head slightly, tone cold and neutral. "I cannot help
you save to point you to the current situation and to explain what you are now fated to
attempt." He looks off towards the black horror behind him. "The Box did not do this.
Hope did not cause this. Man chose all that you have seen, and that is why the Box is
now tainted." The images swirl away slowly, peeling back and revealing a simple,
battered room in the back of the Hanged Man once more, lit by a pair of buzzing light
bulbs. "The Box was one item in the horde of these madmen, forgotten and misunderstood.
And so it should have remained.  But man keeps seeking answers and solutions to these
problems, as if there is an outside force responsible for them. One such man was once
one of these madmen, an agent in their service. He came to learn of the Box and desired
to know its contents and free himself of the horror of his past - to find the truth
within.  For years he had sought it and men had kept it from him and women who had been
chosen to protect it. The last of these betrayed the secret, seeing no reason to
prevent what this man wanted to do - to free Hope and cure the hurts of the world." He
looks steadily at John. "In the end, he sought to find a man to help him accomplish
this without the now old man's interference. He sought and found you John Constantine.
And here we are."

Chris Chance, clearly stricken by all this vulgar display of paranormal power and the
images contained therein, simply shakes his head and says "What the Hell do I have to
do with any of this? I never wanted to open this damned Box. I was trying to keep it
from VonZell, for godssakes."

Sandy Hawkins points angrily, accusingly, to the Phantom Stranger. "Look here, we
didn't fucking look for the box, all right? You ask me, yeah, it -should've- stayed
buried. It should've stayed in whatever long-forgotten warehouse, like the Ark of the
goddamn Covenant in Raiders - but no, okay, this fellow you're talking about, he dug it
up. We, as far as *I'm* aware," he shoots dirty looks at John and Chris, "are trying to
shut it back up into obscurity, okay? So don't you start tryinna put the blame for this
on us, okay?"

The Phantom Stranger remains unmoved by the outbursts of either Chris or Sandy.  He
simply says "Destiny has chosen and there is no use seeking a way out of your doom. The
mark has passed on to you all and you must use what skills and spirit you possess to
serve it. The only alternative is to deny what you now know and watch as your world is
drained of Hope and left a desolate, soulless realm in which man's Destiny will be
shown to be that of your worst selves." Is that an edge of pity in his voice? Nah.

John Constantine brings his fingers to his temples and rubs them gently, reminding
himself of why he was there in the first place. Or attempting to; any story gets a bit
convoluted the moment "fate" is brought into play. "So then,"  he says, keeping his
fingers at the sides of his head. "What kind of mark're you talking about? Are we going
to be hunted men the moment we step out of the pub?" "Who was seeking a way out of
anything?" mutters Sandy angrily, crossing his arms again and leaning once more on the
edge of the table. "You don't have to tell us we need to save the world. I don't know
about these two, but Jack and I, that's our business." He pauses for a second. "Is Jack
marked, too?" Then a glance at John - "Uh, in case you weren't paying attention back
there in the car on the way to the plane? We're already hunted men."

John Constantine pauses. "Oh yeah!" he says after a moment, a grin crossing his face.
"We're quite the popular lads, these days."

The Stranger slowly backs away as one of the light bulbs begins to flicker on and off,
casting him in a strobe like yellow light. "You three and Jack Knight all bear this
mark. It is the mark of the Blackguard. Its history is of no consequence as its records
and its former leaders all lay dead or lost to the horrors unleashed by the Box's
previous wielders. Only you shall know it and recognize the enemy; beings of the other
planes may know it as well, so beware."  He starts to fade out of sight as the light
bulb finally dies, leaving him in shadow. "You will find the Box in the ancestral home
of the man known as VonZell; Schloss Sturmhold in the Austrian Alps. You must move
swiftly or your charge will end with the unleashing of the Box on the world. You will
not save the world, but you may yet prevent Hope from being lost."

"Farewell, Blackguard. We will speak again. Either way." The Stranger's voice dwindles
to a nothing and is lost in the murmur of the bar outside of the room.

Constantine steps forward, out of the shadow of the doorway and into the light.  He
pulls the cigarette from his lips and flicks it against a far wall; ashes spark in the
darkness. "Right stupid name, that," he finally says, and turns to open the doorway.
"Anybody want one last drink b'fore we go?"

Chris Chance scowls bitterly, quite obviously still feeling somewhat unfairly lumped in
with the rest of the unhappy band. He rests a hand over his eyes for a moment, a muscle
in his cheek twitching. Finally, he seems to make his mind up about something and runs
a hand through his hair. "A drink. I could use a drink.  Yes." He glances off towards
the corner of the room the Phantom Stranger faded into, half expecting him or another
creep to appear from it. He turns slowly away and walks with a slight slouch towards
the exit.

Sandy Hawkins can't stop himself from making the 'talking too much' hand gesture at the
fading remnants of Stranger, with an irate and rather knowingly helpless look to go
with it. He glances at Chris, then turns to John. "Yeah. Yeah, could definitely use
something strong. Then we go get Jack."