Constantine wasn't a born a man for rough conditions, nor was he born a man that would keep quiet about it. "Bloody hell it's frigid," he mutters, and lights a cigarette from his seemingly never-ending supply. Snapping out the light, he wraps his arms around his chest and shivers for a moment, before settling back down. "Bloody fucking hell." Eyeing the long-suffering Britisher, Sand sits back, hands clasped behind his head. "Your home climate's hardly balmy. How /ever/ do you manage living there?" No shivering here. No moving, either. Two ways to deal with cold - and it looks like our Golden Ager's gone the Zen route. The landscape is dark and faintly fairy tale in aspect - Bavarian woods, a rocky slope and long chasm slicing down into a distant valley. Far off, the faint but no less warm squares of yellow indicate the presence of a small village in the valley. Up above, however, the dominant feature is the castle. A stone and marble testament to a dwindled estate dating back to the Teutonic age. Spires jut upwards at the misty, blue-black sky and the front battlements still menace all who approach with the arrow slits and series of iron gates leading in. A dirt road winds through the half-snowed hillside leading up to the castle, passing in front of our heroes behind a small outcropping of rock. "Liquor and smokes," John replies, "and there's nary a pub in sight." Chris Chance crunches up behind the others, glancing slowly around. He looks off towards the imposing behemoth of the castle. He takes a small pair of bionculars out and begins scanning the seige towers. "See a few guards. Skeleton crew from the looks of it." He passes the viewing device to Sandy. "What do you think?" "No, but I'm sure you could find some friendly woodcutter willing to let you in for dinner," suggests Sandy, straightfaced. He watches the road, occasionally glancing up at tthe sky; taking the binoculars, he stares at the castle for a long moment. "Blitzkreig's never been one to leave himself defenseless. Either he's got some sort of ridiculoualy powerful weapon or the majority of his men are inside." Chris Chance nods, mouth tight. His brow crinkles slightly and he absently adjusts his black leather gloves, moving in a slightly stooped posture to the outcropping overlooking the road. "Any habitual blind spot? If not, I'd say maybe we can try and go around the back way. Up that cliff." He gestures with a flat hand along his line of sight. A vertical drop. He must be kidding. At some point in the past few days, Constantine came to terms with his inability to sway the majority opinion when it came to moronic concepts such as scaling cliffs. In fact, he's come to expect such lunacy. Were he a gambling man, which he is, he'd bet on it, which he had. "I knew the moment I saw it, we'd be climbing it. You're sick bastard, Chance." "Really, no. As far as I've ever seen, his "blind spots" are generally his own men," starts Sandy, then looks a little rueful, pausing, "Sorry, Chance. And the sky -- but Jack's got that covered, and if he'd seen an opening he'd be back by now." He stands, brushing himself off, and removes his jacket. With a gleeful look at John, he raises his eyebrows. "You got gloves, Constantine?" Chris Chance smiles placidly. For a man with a Death Prophecy hanging over his head, Chance has a curiously recreational air about him now. He stands upright and starts to move back into the woods, pushing back some snow-laden branches, heading around through the forest to the cliffside. John Constantine says "Oh yeah, I forgot, I've got me pair of gloves right here in my bloody purse," Constantine snaps back, bitter. He takes a pull from his smoke. "Of course I haven't any gloves, you cruel fuck. Do I look like Audrey Hepburn to you?" He flicks the remaining Silk Cut into the snow, and clumps after Chris." The cliff is pretty much what you'd expect - solid rock, some icy outcroppings, a bitter, whistling wind. Above, about fifty feet, there's the relatively smooth stone tower facing the valley, the top lost in shadow and swirling snowflakes. Grinning, Sandy follows Chris and John to the cliffside, and pauses, swinging his satchel around. He fishes in it for a moment, and comes out with a spare pair of leather work gloves. "No, more like Mama Cass. Here, use these." Stepping back a few feet, he squints up at the edge of the cliff, fifty feet above. After a second, he draws his wirepoon and fires, slightly into the wind. There's a distant and somewhat hushed -clink- as the grapnel finds its mark on an outcropping. Chris Chance nods quietly, watching Sand begin his ascent. He turns slightly away from the other two, pulling back the slide on a black compact pistol with a long silencer, his grip careful to keep the gun from making any loud clicks. He holsters it under an armpit in a sling and looks upwards. "Lets get a move on. He may have already opened the damned thing by now." He blinks some snowflakes out of his eyes. John Constantine stands for a omment, awkwardly, as he shrugs the pair of gloves over his hands. He places his palms onto the rock, and pauses for a nother movement before looking upwards. "Sandy!" he cries out, "Could you just toss that back when you're through?" Softer, to himself, "you daft fuck." Glancing down at John, Sandy just grins. Bastard. He keeps ascending. But - oh, he's left the rope hanging, detached from the weapon. Also, it seems he's been attaching handholds to the line every other foot. He doesn't reply, but - well, they're trying to keep it down, right. Chris Chance glances at the Britisher. "Alright - I'm going up next. No point in you killing us both if you lose your grip," he says, game faced. He reaches up, does a short hop, clutches the tail end of the wirepoon line, then begins his climb, following Hawkins' lead. John Constantine, who was about to say something about Sandy not being too bad a character after all, changes his words midspeech. "Now I get a lovely shot of your arse. Nice trade, that," he says, miserably, and starts up after Chris. The climb is a pleasant cross between a test of endurance from the icy wind and lengthy ascent and pure muscle from the need to keep a steady grip. Gradually, however, the radical-perspective viewpoint of the tower changes and the tower gets a few more feet closer, then a few more... Finally, the trio reach the top of the ascent.The cliff ledge is a slightly jagged ridge that offers little space between the chasm below and the rounded brick edifice of the Schloss spire. A trio of narrow windows rise up along this side of the four-story pinnacle, shining from within with electrical light. The wind howls fiercely as it cuts across the angled wall that joins with the tower. The sounds of a German voice can be heard over the gales, however, speaking over a crackling intercom. John Constantine hurls himself over the top of the climb, resting his body against the ground like a nun before God. "Christ," he manages between breaths, evntually lifting his head to gaze upon the sinister structure. "We better not be climbing this one, too." That John; always a kidder, even in the shadow of armageddon. Chris Chance kneels on the ledge, resting a hand on a sharp rock to steady himself. Narrowing his eyes in the wind and swirling dance of snow that accompanies it, he blows warmth onto his free gloved hand, then rubs his nose. "Maybe, Constantine. Over the wall, in through the tower, either way its going to be tricky." He listens to the German chatter, glancing with a half-moon smile at the others. "Sounds like they're getting something ready. We better hustle." John Constantine coughs as he picks himself up, the hacking, gunning sound of a smoker. "Why don't -you- bloody climb over, then come back down and open the door. I'll be outside with a fag and a good book." Chris Chance nods succinctly to John's suggestion. "Deal." He starts to move for the wall...not that its far from the current position. He begins to feel for handholds in the ancient stone masonry, and seems to find some pretty easily. Listening carefully to the voices - whatever he can pick up - Sandy's been eyeing the windows. He glances at John. "Sorry - unless you've been hittin' up the Gingold and can stretch yourself through those," he points upward, "it's the wall. You might be waiting here a while." A beat. "Or you can use the line." John Constantine straightens his back, an audible crack heard as he twists around. Pulling his coat closer around his body, he instinctively pats his pockets for a cigarette. Sand's brow furrows. "Line, wall, or wait, Constantine? They're about to fly the coop." Chris Chance is about to begin a hand-foot ascent, but halts at Sandy's words. He tilts his head, listening. "Huh. Well, that's good. They'll be distracted." He jerks his head towards the wall. "Let me check for sentries up here first, though. I can send you down the line." He holds out a hand. John Constantine places a cigarette in between his lips, unlit and drooping. "You head up," he says, walking around Sandy, "I'll probably find another way in." Sandy Hawkins tosses Chris the wirepoon. "Fire that at me and you're a dead man, Chance." Chris Chance snorts. "Never get tired of people telling me that..." He begins to climb up, moving carefully like a human fly. Eventually, he reaches the top and disappears for a few moments. John Constantine slips around the side of the building casually, shoulders hunched over and head down, as if looking for dropped change. Frowning slightly, Sand suppresses a sigh. . o O (Watch him walk through the goddamned wall.) He looks up, eyes trained on the spot at which Chris disappeared; motionless, he doesn't even shiver. Five minutes pass. Then, the wirepoon's line spools down over the wall to Sandy's position. Chris's shadow against the black and white sky can be seen waving an 'Okay' to the Golden Ager. He lies on the wall ledge, gripping the line, occaisonally checking to his left and right as he waits. Hoping Chris's anchored the line to something, Sand pulls his gloves back on and wraps a length of it around one hand, then lets it go once he's on his way. Climbing the rope as if gravity didn't apply to him - quickly and silently, in other words - he makes it to the top and vaults over the ledge. Sotto voce, "He here yet?" Chris Chance glances around. Sandy notes that he carries a carbine assault rifle. "No. And I don't plan on waiting for him." He jerks his head towards a hatch set into the wall-walkway the cliffside tower. An unconcious form can be seen lying next to it - a man in a white parka and goggles. Presumably the source of the gun Chance has now. "Lets go." He slings the gun by its strap across his back and kneels to pull the hatch open. Below, the castle grounds can be made out - the keep proper, where Sandy and Chris are headed into, a courtyard with a fountain, a motor pool, a one story building positioned by a wall, and a large, round roofed hangar. There's much hubub and activity in the hangar - arc lights, motors running, voices chattering over the intercom. The keep and the other building, however, seem silent, save for the echo of their own intercom relays. Raising an eyebrow with a look to Parka Guy, Sand mutters, "Riiiight." He automatically checks to see if his gasgun's loaded, then crouches to listen - anyone immediately underneath? Apparently not - he swings his legs in, then drops to the floor below. Sanderson finds himself in an exsquisitely decorated, wood-paneled hallway. The soft red carpet muffles his boots as he lands and the corridor is apparently empty. A row of doors run along the hall, but, more interesting, there's an open set of double doors to Sandy's left. Chris Chance lands next to Sandy, moving to flatten himself against the wall next to the open double doors. He leans to peek inside. "Huh." Against a wall, six or seven feet away, a flicking light can be seen, a momentary flare of red. Constantine steps forth from the small sport of shadow, wearing a straight face. Indeed, as he steps towards Sanderson, he says nothing at all, choosing to follow the hero's lead. Chris Chance looks back to say something to Sandy. "Looks like an observatory or..." He does a short doubletake at Constantine. How'd he do that? Grimacing, he continues "...observatory or lab. Nobody in there." Sandy Hawkins eyes John wordlessly, then returns his attention to the double doors. Drawing the gasgun finally, he steps up to Chris - and nods at his words. "It'll be with VonZell, wherever he is. So unless you can think of anything immediately that we might need from there, let's head for the hangar." John Constantine, with lips curled and one eye squinted, takes a step past Sandy. "I might," he says, and places a free hand against the door frame. Another step inside, this one a bit more cautious. His eyes roam the room, darting from object to object. He softly hums. Chris Chance shrugs a little at Sandy, turning to follow Constantine in. He glances up and around, turning on his heel as he carefully regards the domed room's interior. Biting back a comment that'd only raise someone's ire, Sandy follows a little, then stops inside the doorframe. One foot in the room, one foot out, he watches the hallway. The observatory is strange indeed. The walls have hanging red velvet banners emblazoned with all sorts of arcane symbols that are clearly not of mundane script. A finely polished brass telescope with curious lens attachments points upwards to a wooden panel in the rounded ceiling. All around this centerpiece, there's cabinets, drawers, tables, and alchemy sets. Starcharts and astrological diagrams hang near a central white board that's been drawn on in black removable ink markers - the scrawls indicate astronomical formulae and quotations in Latin and notations in German. John Constantine walks slowly past a table, on which rests numerous near-crumbling tomes. He traces his index finger over the outline of one such book, leaning over the table to decipher its content. He pauses, then makes an obvious realization and spins the book around. "Fucking Germans," he mutters, then looks at an intricate inscription. "Fucking Latins." Sandy Hawkins inclines his head at John. "See anything useful? Can you read those?" Chris Chance watches Constantine, trusting him to not do anything stupid with the mystic crap around the room. He walks over to the white board. "I can translate some of this, but it doesn't mean much to me. A lot of 'rising Orion' and 'ascendant powers'." He smirks a little, then looks to the doorway where Sandy is. "Let's get down to the hangar." John Constantine lifts one hand to his face, rubbing his forehead and tired eyes. His fingers brush across the surface of the aged book pages. He flips the page, and scans it for a moment before flipping again. And again. After a moment, he pushes this book aside and grabs another one, skimming it. At Sandy's voice, he stops and looks up, cigarette ash flitting down onto the pages. "Nazis and demons," he says, and moves onto another book. "And .. the Weather Channel?" "There's a difference?" quips the former Golden Boy. "We'll be where the explosions are. Meet us when you're fin..ish..ed..." He frowns, getting the feeling he's being watched. Or that something's behind him. Casting his eyes to the side, Sandy turns slowly. As Sandy turns, he sees a group of five men in black paramilitary garb striding up the hallway purposefully. They are not, however, nordic in appearance - they have dusky skin and thick black hair that matches the black depths of their piercing eyes. One of them halts, raising a fist in a soldierly signal for the others to stop. "Kali has sent us other infidels to cleanse, brothers." Then, they raise their weapons... There's a pause - a fraction of a second. Then, since he's already halfway out the door anyway, Sandy instantly draws his gasgun and yells inarticulately at the top of his lungs, slamming the door shut behind him and cutting himself off from the others. The doors are thick and wooden, maybe they can stop bullets, eh? As he yells and finishes slamming the door, his momentum carries him forward toward the men, and he pulls the trigger on the gasgun , releasing a powerful cloud of knockout gas. Maybe they'll be offbalance - maybe he'll buy time. Maybe he'll get killed. John Constantine, so engrossed in the books that his cigarette butt seems to dwarf the rest of his fag, barely hears the threats tossed around in the hallway. He's lost in a world of his own, a world of scrawled symbols and fogotten languages. With slightly surprised faces, the front two members of the Thugee strike force raise their weapons and fire off silenced three round bursts in succession. There's a sound like paper tearing at rapid speed and the red carpet and wall fixtures pop and break all around the charging Hawkins. He can feel the breath of the 9mm subsonic rounds tickling his hairs. The gas cloud cuts into the lungs of the shooters and one of the other assassins as he fumbles with what looks a great deal like a grenade. They all fall choking and onto their faces. The lead Thugee and his only concious cohort widen their eyes and both fall back behind the niches offered by two opposite doorways in the hall, covering their faces. The grenade falls down by a KO'd uniform - a few inches from the pin that the man still clutches in his spasmed fist. Chris Chance looks up from the page of a book depicting some unspeakable act between a nun and a devil. His eyes widen a little and he moves away from the suddenly closed doorway, flattening his back against the interior wall of the observatory. Unslinging the rifle from his back he shouts "Hawkins you crazy...!" A plume of grey smoke wisps into the room, sliding over the ground like a ghost, curling up around the Constantine's ankles. He still refuses to look up, instead tracing his fingers across a line scrawled in the margins. "I knew I should've studied Latin as a schoolboy," he mutters, "bloody occult fuckers and their bloody occult languages." Chris Chance seems to listen at the doorway, waiting to hear a bloodcurdling cry of agony or the splatter of brains on the other side of the door... John Constantine glances up, in the direction of the hallway, then over towards Chris. He takes a step back, the book resting open across his forearm, and then turns from the doorway as if to seek out solitude for his studies. "Bloody savages," he grins. For Sandy? Everything's moving in slow motion, and his thoughts are racing. Briefly, without even thinking about it, he considers rolling the downed Thuggee over the grenade - after all, he tossed it. But...goddamn heroics, goddamn! Three. After what seems like an eternity to him, but it really about a quarter of a second, he wrenches the canister from his gasgun and drops the butt, then picks up the grenade and flips it into the now-empty chamber. Two. Slamming a door open on the side and likely dislocating his shoulder in the process, he charges into a side room praying there's a window. One. There is -- and he tosses the canister through the glass with a furious force, then drops to the floor. Zero. There's a fizzle, then a distant clink. The grenade bounces off of a castle keep raingutter, down a firmament, then lands with a distinctly unexplosive thud on the snow down below. It was a dud. Chris Chance calls out, experimentally "Hawkins?" The two Thuggee in the hallway raise their weapons and fire at the darting diving figure of Sandy as he flings the grenade outside. Tufts of carpet and chips of wall dance around his back. They then move to flank the door he moved into, preparing to come in from behind and wipe him out. "Open the goddamn door and shoot the fuckers in the hall!" bellows Sandy, probably about as pissed off as he's gonna get today. "Unless you-- damn." Chris Chance looks sideways at Constantine. "That silly son of a bitch." He kicks the door open with a backwards foot motion, then whips around the corner, the rifle low and at his side. There's a distinctly unsilenced chatter of the gun spattering lead into the corridor. The two Thuggee are caught off guard. One smiles strangely as a trio of bullets stitch his chest, the other just falls backwards like a ragdoll tipped over on his back at an unnatural angle. There's a sickening sort of pop from beyond the door the Thuggees had been standing before, and Sand walks out, grimacing and stretching his right arm, rotating it in its socket. "I don't want to talk about it," he says, preemptively. Chris Chance keeps the smoking firearm leveled at the bodies, slowly looking around at the broken wall fixtures. He looks in slight disbelief at Sanderson, smiling in spite of himself. "Fair enough." He glances back over a shoulder. "You finished browsing, Constantine? If they didn't know somebody was here, they will now." John Constantine speaks without looking up, his face underlit by his cigarette. "You boys done playing games?" he says, around his coffin nail. "But, yeah. Yeah, I've read about enough." He tosses the book into a pile at his feet, then drops his cigarette atop the dry its cover. Chris Chance nods, tossing the emptied rifle down by the bodies. He pauses as he hears a grunt from one, then looks up when the man finally expires. "Alright, hangar." He motions to Sanderson. "Think I saw a stairwell to the courtyard cojoining this building on the next floor down." He moves off towards the corner, glances around it, then moves further into the keep. Sandy Hawkins eyes John, then shakes his head. He bends down and picks up one of the guns from a fallen guard and looks a little irately at the butt of his gasgun, on the floor. He silently follows Chris. Chris Chance looks at one of the tapestries hanging on a wall as he scouts out the way outside. "15th century. Dutch. Nice." John Constantine pulls a fresh cigarette from an inside pocket, and leans forward over a sacred blue flame to light it. He takes a long drag, and then exhales slowl. "Sacrilicious," he breathes, and walks through the dor. "Nerd," mutters Sandy under his breath. Chris Chance crosses silently behind a balcony overlooking an expansive great hall. Down below, a few guards seem to be preparing for a trip, zipping up duffel bags. He opens a door in a small side hallway on the next floor and shows the outdoors - a chilly, snow covered courtyard. A barracks building sits to the right, the hangar to the left. A half dozen well armed men in parkas stand in formation, taking orders from another parka. The hangar is lit from within, snowflakes dancing in the light. The shadow of something very large can be seen. Chance motions to the rear of the hangar. "Need to get there. Anybody got an idea for a distraction? "We could set Constantine on fire and send him screaming through," suggests Sanderson, squinting outside into the courtyard. He's silent for a second. "There aren't any...did you spot any vehicles around here anywhere?" John Constantine, who remains silent, might just be game for that plan. Anything to break the dull monotony of Sanderson's witticisms, after all. Chris Chance says "Motorcycle by the motorpool, but that's back around the barracks corner." He pauses, then says "You think you can do it without getting killed - which seems to be a knack of yours - go ahead." He eyes Constantine. "Say, speaking of plans, you got any idea what we're going to do when we, say, find the old man and the box?" John Constantine pulls his cigarette from his dry lips, and grins an ugly, crooked grin. "Of course I do," he replies. A chatter of german can be heard over the loudspeakers, echoing over the scene. The line of men look up, then are signaled to move out by the parka. They move towards the hangar in file. There's sounds of clanking and machinery being turned on inside of the hangar. Chris Chance nods, waits for Constantine to continue, then realizes he probably doesn't want to know. He nods haltingly again. "Good. That's good." He glances off towards the hangar, muttering "Good to have a plan." Deadpan, Sandy looks to Chris and replies, "Yeah, not getting killed is a prerequisite for being a superhero." He glances back over at the barracks, and raises his eyebrows. "There any way to get there from here that doesn't include walking across the way there?" Chris Chance mutters "Think maybe we can try that - but we need to move quick." Sandy Hawkins frowns. "Nevermind. Not enough time." He slips out the door, giving Chris a nod. Chris Chance heads out across the courtyard, walking almost casually, hand inside his jacket and his eyes scanning the walls and paraphets as he slinks up to the back door into the hangar. He fiddles with the lock and opens it. "Not helicopters. Not in this weather. Wonder what it..." A zeppelin hangs by a row of fixtures within the hangar. A big, big air fortress of modern dirigible design but a definite ring of Old School design about it. Workers mill about on catwalks and gantrys, preparing it for liftoff. The massive fan motors are buzzing and one of the boarding ramps is hooked up to the bus-sized canopy on the bottom. The guards in the parkas seem to be heading up to an upper room in the corner of the hangar - probably flight control and briefing room. Sandy Hawkins sprints toward the barracks - lucky thing, you know, parkas have giant stupid hoods which are practically blinders. Not long before he disappears behind it, not long at all. About thirty seconds after he goes offcamera, so to speak, there's a fairly loud, visible explosion at the back of the building. About five seconds after that, there's the unmistakable sound of someone gratuitously revving a motorcycle engine. Yeah - yeah, come on, hangar guys, come see what the stupid American's just done. German chatter echoes all around. The side of the dirigible is emblazoned with a simple series of stenciled letters that read ten feet high. They spell out DRANG Z-1379. There's a moment of dead silence within the hangar. Then shouts in Austrian, German, and Afrikaans. The loudspeaker announces "Alarm! Alarm!" in that peculiar way German pronounce it - it sounds like whoever's shouting it is coughing up a staticky hairball. The heads of the guards turn towards the outside and they suddenly break into a group run back down towards the floor of the hangar. Red lights blink on and off and a klaxon sounds. With casual aplomb, John Constantine stares up at the zeppelin. He spins at the sound of the explosion, though, unable to mask his sudden start behind any false casuality. "oh, fuck," he wheezes; he was hoping to get out of this without a fight, as ridiculous and naive the concept may sound. Chris Chance slips a hand under his suede jacket, retrieving his a matte black silenced pistol. "An airship? Why does he need an airship?" A crewman with a clipboard runs up towards a phone box, apparently to report something. He rounds the corner of some oil drums, then sees Chance and Constantine. John Constantine, seemingly weighing his chances against a man with a clipboard and finding himself to come up with favorable odds, rolls up his sleeves and takes a step forward towards the crewman. Chris Chance points the end of his pistol at the crewman. "You need a hand there, sport?" The crewman is too busy staring at the gunbarrel to worry about defending himself... The half dozen guards run out into the courtyard and are met by four other men who come charging out of the barracks, coughing and a little confused by the explosion. John Constantine takes a swing at the man's gut, a fierce cut upwards, even as he glances over his shoulders in the direction Sandy ran. The crewman takes both blows, the second neatly cocking his head back like a pez dispenser. He falls down with a clatter and a sigh amidst the oil drums. As Constantine looks towards the barracks, Chance says "Hawkins can take care of himself. Lets get aboard. Mate." John Constantine kneels down on one knee, and slips his hand around the crewman's inner pockets. "Christ, don't they properly equip these poor bastards?" He mutters, rising to a stand. "I'd feel a lot more intimidating with a pistol in one hand." He pauses, and suddenly kills the accent from his voice, resulting in a dry, mid-Atlantic accent. "Okay, partner, let's go." As if on cue, there's another explosion - but this one's far more near and dear to the fellows outside the barracks: the mirroring set of doors blow out in a shower of splinters and the deafening roar of a gas-eating motorcycle bursts forth from the building, along with the bike and its grinning rider. Swear to god, it's like bowling for lackeys - Sandy drives the thing into the guards, treating 'em like tenpins. The guards are thrown into a panic by the second fireball. One manages to spray the dirty and snow all around the racing 'cycle as it bares down on him, but to no avail. With a smattering of "Schiess!" and "Aaaah!", they are sent scattering to the side as Sandy rips through their midst. Chris Chance moves on the boarding ramp with the gun behind his back, walking fast. He reaches the foot of it, looks up, then begins his ascent up the stanted piece of metal inside. John Constantine follows Chris at a steady pace, but pauses to retrieve a small black gun that was kicked underneath the entry ramp. He stands straight, and investigates the gun. After a moment, he holds it out and drops the clip straight down, then uses it to rub the back of his head. Feeling classy and not unlike a proper American action hero, he boards the vehicle. There's shouting coming from further within the utilitarian, metal canned canopy, echoing off of the room walls. It seems to be coming from the direction of the cockpit. Skidding in a turnaround, about fifteen to twenty feet from the scrambling lackeys, Sandy kicks up enough og his own dirt and snow to make, er, a mess. He revs the engine again, backs up some more, then barrels forward once more. Shifting his weight, he suddenly swings one leg over the side so he's essentially standing on the bike, leaning in to keep straight - going faster - and just before he hits the men again, he vaults off entirely and makes for the hangar at a dead run, not looking back. John Constantine walks through the entry corridor like a homeless man claiming a previously occupied apartment as his own, all long strides and calculated familiarity. He holds his gun at his side, bobbing against his thigh. Chris Chance walks a little ahead of John, peering around cautiously. "Sounds like they're taking off in a hurry. I wonder if Hawkins intends to grow wings and fly up here." He points his gun off towards a door and prepares to open it. True to Chris's word, the zeppellin begins to hover out of the hangar, moving with a low, throaty rumble, the snow swirling all around it's gray frame as it moves into the open courtyard. John Constantine steadies himself with a hand against one wall, even though the zeppelin is sturdy and stable. "Look," he says, ignoring the question of Hawkins for the moment, "when this reaches a climax, there may be some weird, some weird bloody madness. So do me a favor; if somebody asks you if you are a god, you say YES." Chris Chance casts a short glance at John. "Check." He pops the door open. It reveals a connecting corridor. He begins to move further in. "By the way, take the safety off." John Constantine glances down at the pistol in his hand. With the clip removed, he's momentarily confused as to the importance of the safety switch. Then he remembers - one in the chamber. Sandy can see the zeppellin's ramp starting to be retracted as he moves towards the hangar. The cigar shaped craft looms overhead like the finger of night, pointing off towards the black thunderheads on the Alps horizon. The ramp skims by at about seven feet above the Golden Ager's head as he keeps ahead of the guards giving chase. Aboard the airship Drang, the corridors are cold and clean, apparently freshly painted. The air is cold and has the crisp scentless quality of being heavily recycled. Over the on-board speakers, a voice can be heard, speaking in accented English. "Are our guests aboard? Please speak up if you are." The gravelly notes of the Baron echo down the hallway to Chris and John's ears. Chris Chance looks towards Constantine, then up towards a small box speaker in a bulkhead corner. His mouth tightens and he starts opening doors seemingly at random, moving steadily down the corridor. Sandy Hawkins doesn't especially need wings; he's adaptable. His timing sucks, though, and he curses slightly as he runs - getting on that airship is imperative. He shouldn't've ditched the bike. But - ah! He stops at the hangar, and screams in the doors, in perfect German, "The traitors outside are trying to shoot down the zeppelin! Kill them!" John Constantine, who had previously been moving with the stooped posture of a man doing his best to walk in silence, pauses in mid-step. He tilts his head and straightens up, raising his one hand to he back of his head and throwing the other up in the air. "Oh, well bloody hell," he says. There's sounds of confusion in the hangar. A skeleton crew of men move out, carrying wrenches and handguns. They glance around anxiously. The guards begin opening fire on Sand. The Drang floats with silence over the first line of walls that ring the castle. Its belly and the base of the canopy nearly clip a fountain and a butress as it slowly traverses across the courtyard. The ramp is at half mast now. "Ah, there you are," the Baron intones pleasantly. "Please take the door straight ahead. We need to talk." "Crap," mutters Sandy, then cries out as one of the bullets gets him in the arm. Quickly disappearing around the side of the building, he starts running again, this time just sort of hoping he chances upon a conveyance. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the jarring of his arm as he runs. Chris Chance's hand halts before turning the wheel to the door the disembodied voice seems to indicate. He lets it hover there, saying "Why don't you come out -here-, VonZell, if you want to talk." He looks upwards, as if expecting to see a face looking down at him. John Constantine walks behind Chris, his feet leaving minor scoriations on the floor and metallic echoes bouncing from the walls. The Drang's midsection begins to cross over the outer wall and its currently unmanned paraphets and stairwells. "No, I'm afraid you'll have to come to me, gentlemen. I'm preparing something I think you'd feel priveleged to witness," the Baron says. There's a faint sound of radio chatter in the background. And what sounds like...temperatures being read out in degress celsius. "I have the key. The box. I only need one last component, and I'm about to have it whether you choose to observe or not." Glancing back behind him, up at the Zeppelin, then at the guards, Sandy bites back an extrordinarily foul Malaysian explicative and draws his wirepoon. Grimacing, he switches hands, then fires the thing as he's running. He's aiming for the outside support lattices around the back of the cabin. There's a clink and a sharp tug on the line of the wirepoon as Hawkin's shot rings true. The grapnel latches onto the lattice. The zeppellin cuts upwards and begins a hovering ascent, turning slowly to adjust its position. Chris Chance looks towards Constantine. "You got a plan up your sleeve, Constantine?" Glancing back at the guards, hoping they don't shoot the fuck outta him, Sand flicks on the retract and begins ascending a lot quicker than the airship. He looks up, bracing himself; his right arm just sort of hangs at his side. The air whips around the suddenly airborne Hawkins as he retracts the line. The heavy thrum of the engines bang in his ears as he passes them on his way to the canopy. He sees the ramp is nearly completely shut now, about four feet to go until its clamped tight. "Same plan as always, squire," John says, lifting the gun to scratch his brow. "Prove there's more to life than fighting and fucking." There's a bit of a pause as he contemplates that. "Sadly, I'm always proving that hope wrong. After you?" He gestures towards the door with his gun. Chris Chance nods, once, flipping the wheel lock and opening the door. He pauses at the red lit corridor presenting itself to them both. Walking down it, he opens the next door, gun low and at his side. It opens onto a scene utterly out of place with the airship's mechanical confines. This is gonna be interestingly painful. After getting a decent swing going, Sandy makes a grab for the lattice with his knees and disengages his wirepoon, holstering it. He tries to climb up to the quickly closing top of the ramp without using his other arm. The chamber is a chamber for rituals. Teutonic, hermetic, astrological ritual. Its circular, the floor is covered with a thick red carpet, and brass fittings for some sort of unknowable device hang in the shadows of the high ceiling. A large round window faces Chris and John, showing the black thunderhead that the Drang seems destined to meet. Blue white streaks flash in the cloud's midst behind the Baron, seated in his wheelchair, dressed in a simple black velvet suit with black undershirt. He has his scarf and fedora on, apparently unwilling to show his real features even in this setting. Around him, there's a small gathering. Men and women in a variety of outfits - some guards, some airship crew, some more scholarly looking. They are not nordic as a rule - there are some people of African or Asian descent mixed in. The altar is white marble. There's the smell of burnt incense and the remains of an offering on it. The Box sits on it, looking utterly harmless. Just making it through, on the outside and meanwhile and all that, Sandy rolls through the ramp just as it's closing. Ahaha, the place seems deserted. He takes a moment to tie up the wound on his arm, then sets out looking for everyone. John Constantine walks in with the assurance of a man completely and utterly confident in the size of his penis, and the inadequacies of his opponent. "Time to give it up, Baron; it's not going to work." He crosses his arms, a smug look creeping up over his face. "Your calculations are for shite; you don't even know what's going to happen, do you?" To one side, a short man of obvious German extraction by his build, large in the center and otherwise average, his head bald, his beard a large, long fork of salt and pepper, gives orders to some of the assorted crew members and more scholarly looking individuals. His eyes are hidden behind wire-rimmed, round-lensed sunglasses. He is clad in flowing red and black robes, like some bizarre parody of the pope. "Nono...the icon of Malbovus should be placed hear, where it can easily be seen by domine novum." He seems unconcerened with the intruders, allowing the Baron to see to them. "Yes...just like that...aha...it will be glorious..." The Baron leans forwards in his crooked way, pointing with a finger atop a hand grasping the pommel of his walking stick. "You have advice to offer, Mr. Constantine? You wish to help me in this enterprise? I suggest you consult my man Orbis." He motions in a vague way to the strange little man. "Or are you bluffing? Haven't you tired of blustering? Don't you realize that my work here is good? It is right. It is preordained." His voice isn't that of a megalomaniac or braggart - its the voice of a tired old man. Chris Chance smirks, slowly returning his pistol to his shoulder holster. His eyes rove the crowd, looking for signs of covert action, tactical movement. With an almost disappointed tone, he says "Destiny. Tarot cards. Magic 8-balls. You're a joke, VonZell." He continues watching, uncomfortable with the whole setup. The Baron waves a strong hand. "Come forwards. You want to see what your employers want you to steal from me, Chance? You want to see this shard of the first forges, Constantine? Make room and see. Watch." He motions for the crowd to part and let his 'guests' closer to the altar. Believing that he has heard his name mentioned, Mal Orbis shuffles over toward the Baron, his movement making his red slippers visible beneath his robe, "You called for me, imperius novum?" He looks toward Chance and Constantine, blustering from thick, wet lips, "You are non-believers! Soon you will understand the power of the slithering lord of the stygian abyss of Neinhorn! Novus ordu seclorum en diabolus!" He seems legitimately disturbed, and his protestations fade into a series of small humming sounds. He stands before the altar reverently. The rest of the crowd parts, first for Orbis, and then in a circle around the altar, to let the invaders come closer. Oswald steps back silently, face blank; he crosses his arms and watches Orbis. The window displays the first signs of the storm engulfing the Drang. Strangely, it doesn't seem to be thrown off course by the gale winds. It simply shudders, as if its outer skin is suddenly chilly. The lightning flashes continue at jagged intervals. Sandy Hawkins finally ends up by the door, and hesitates just beyond it. Chris Chance glances sidelong at Constantine. Then back over a shoulder at Hawkins. He smiles, showing a grim sign of relief at the other man's arrival. Sandy Hawkins raises his eyebrows at Chance, giving him a look like 'I hope one of you knows what the hell's going on, 'cause I sure don't', then steps into the room. "Where'd you -get- this guy, Blitzie?" John Constantine steps towards the Baron with a calculated reluctance. Ignoring Orbis's manic rantings for the moment, he walks until he's but a few feet from the Baron, and plants his feet at a shoulder's length apart. He displays his gun for all to see, then gestures towards the ribbed walls with a casual flick of the wrist. "Give me one reason I shouldn't fire a hole in this blimp, squire." He cocks the gun. The Baron cooly nods to Hawkins. "Ah, Hawkins. Good, good. Come forwards as well. Orbis is a former colleague of an associate of mine in an agency that no longer exists. And for the good, for the good that it is no more. Yes." He folds his hands over his lap, cane angled over a knee. He glances idly between Oswald and Constantine. "If you were to do that, my friend, you would find the wall bulletproof. If, of course, my associates did not disarm you first. Lets not make threats. Let us discuss what is going to happen - inevitably - and your role in it, shall we?" Chris Chance turns his attention towards Oswald now, spotting him in the gathering and still not liking him at all. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting his right hand touch the side of his holstered gunbutt. Its a warning gesture and an action for self-comfort more than practicality. "Only if you make your former colleague of an associate of yours in an agency that no longer exists for the good that it is no more can can the pretentiousness. I donno about these two, but I get enough of that as it is," interrupts Sandy, face distinctly annoyed. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The crowd moves around the intruders almost like a large, living thing, with guards coming to the fore, particularly near Constantine, at their commander's implied order, and the more bookish fading toward the back. Orbis seems to have settled, and tugs at his beard a bit neurotically, murmuring under his breath, "...the hope and glory of the whole world comes..it cometh quickly...elpis tachus..." He looks to the storm from behind his stained glasses, in a world of his own. The Baron looks with a fish eye towards Orbis. "How long do we have?" Oswald's flat gaze turns to Chance, meeting his eyes. Eerily, he doesn't posture, doesn't react at all to the motion. Just looks, then looks away. John Constantine lets his pistol drop. Without looking, he hands it to one of the Baron's men. Orbis is a bit startled, and looks to his leader, "Oh...we have..." He looks back to the storm, adn then to the assembled elements, "...the...arcane texts contain many mysteries....they speak of dimensions and energies beyond the mortal ken.." at this, he thrusts a hand into the air dramatically, back of the hand forward. "But the time grows near....it grows near...." This is his long and complex way of saying that he isn't sure. The Baron's man snatches the gun, moving back through the crowd to store it away on a nearby stand. The window to the outside world shows a blue and black swirl of ebbing and rising cloudlets. Rain spatters the viewport at strange angles. Ahead, in the midst of the storm, there's a core of blackness. No lightning. Just dark. Like an eye glaring out of the midst of the thick air, the center of the storm. The Baron says "Excellent. Now, you have no doubt been told many things about the Box? I hope you have not been marked." He pauses, reading the faces of Hawkins, Constantine and Chance. His lips purse. "They have? I am sorry. I had hoped none would be burdened again. But, you can take heart - once I open the Box, I shall free the hopes of the world. You've felt what it contains haven't you?" His voice takes a slightly excited tone. A boy trapped in a dead man's body. "You felt it! I know you did. What did you see, I wonder..." Sandy Hawkins's eyes widen. "You can't -possibly- believe anything good will come of this. You're meddling with fate! You are -so- just /begging/ Murphy for a manifestation..." Chris Chance slowly turns his attention back towards the Baron. His face reads 'he can't be serious'. He turns his visage towards the Londoner with the same expression, now poised as a question. "I saw death, Baron," Constantine says, in the quiet gravel road of a voice he reserves for statements free of irony. "Trust me on this; I know something you don't." The Baron shakes his head as Constantine speaks, holding a hand up, eyes shutting. A look of rejection. "You are twisted by your fears, Constantine. But somewhere, you too sensed it, under this calloused exterior of yours. I have - and if I can, then surely such as you can. I've broken and destroyed hope, I've been its mortal enemy. I've...I've done things you cannot comprehend doing with your hands and your mind." He relaxes in the chair, shaking his head again. "I saw it and I knew once I did that I had to do something about it." The lightning stops. The rain continues apace, but there is no more lightning. The clouds ahead swirl like a tunnel vortex, the blackness at the end. You say "So that gives you the right to do this? Whatever it is you're doing? Your guilt gives you the right?" Orbis bursts into full sputtering bluster again, "Lies! Blasphemous lies! The world's great hope which lies beneath the box is beyond the concepts of life and death! Your tiny minds are incapable of comprehending its unspeakable glory!" His hands sweep wide, "The world which will come will be bathed in all the glories of the flesh! All the hidden richness of arcane powers above our power to comprehend!" He seems to again calm himself, stepping behind the Baron, "And once the glorious power is freed, this great man...this great and glorious man, will be the new emperor of a glorious golden age which shall outlast a thousand years!" He rests his chubby, ringed hands on the Baron's shoulders. "Ewinge Blumenkraft!" John Constantine steps forward towards the Baron's chair, and tosses first Orbis than the Baron a sad, knowing look. "You poor sad bastard. You don't even know." He leans his head forward, and tugs on an earlobe. "You don't even know." The Baron smiles. To Hawkins' eyes, there is something more than pathetic in this picture. It is tragic. A man who once prided himself on his power, who worked the mechanations of an evil greater than many others manufactured by man - he sits, smiling with a broken face and body, waiting to save his soul. Sandy Hawkins pauses, just outright -stops- in the middle of everything. "/Flower power/?" He *stares* at Orbis, then looks at the Baron. "You're -trusting- this guy with your immortal soul?" The Baron shrugs. "Look at me, Hawkins. You knew me in my days of 'glory'. You've seen my crimes first hand. What hope have I for redemption other than something like this." He chuckles weakly. "You're fighting on the side of what, now, I wonder? The right to fear? To right to doubt?" Voice rumbling, Oswald glares at the three marked men. "Stay back." At Oswald's words, the surrounding guards make a deliberate show of their presence, be it the clack of a shifting weapon, or the sound of a bootstep. Chris Chance points a finger at Oswald. "You watch it, Klemperer." The black end of the vortex rises over the Drang like liquid darkness, engulfing the window and rendering the room's unnatural lighting all the more surreal. No rain now. Just the thrum of the engine and the breaths of the people gathered in the chamber. Sandy Hawkins's shoulders drop, then he winces. Ouch. Sighing, he shakes his head. "Listen, VonZell...that's what they make churches for. They make churches so people can believe in salvation. You're only further damning yourself by playing with the lives, the hopes and fears and futures of innocent people. Just like you've done before, just like the man you followed in the War. You're not just making decisions for yourself, you're making them for all of humanity." He glances at Oswald, then at the surrounding men, and steps forward anyway. "You can still turn back. You can still make peace, you can still save yourself. Back out, for all our sakes." Oswald just glowers at Chance, then seems to think better of it and notes a trifle snidely, "You are in no position to make threats, American." The Baron wheezes a wracking laugh. "I've heard this all before Hawkins. Your Phantom Stranger spoke the same words. But haven't you played with lives? Made judgements? Your mentor put himself in harm's way to make a difference." He looks pointedly at Constantine. "I have chosen to use my influence to make a righteous difference. If I fail, my soul is damned and it ends here. The Blackguards, the box, all of it. Life goes on unabated and unchecked by the mystics. If I succeed, what glories." He turns to start to look into the black. "What glories." John Constantine shoulders one of the Baron's men, taking another step towards the crippled German. "You're wrong, Sandy," he says, over his shoulder, his voice slowly rising until it takes on an angry level. "You're dead bloody wrong. They can't save themselves. It's too bloody late for them to save themselves. I know how this ends, Baron," he says, raising a hand. "I know how this bloody well ends." Chris Chance keeps his finger pointed, but looks towards the window. His mouth opens in a small 'o'. "Okay. That's it. Stop this thing. Turn it around." He's not quite dealing with this. And the blackness and its implication seems to be having an effect. "Orbis. You know what to do. Prepare the rod," the Baron says. He looks over a shoulder at Constantine. "Then be content in your knowledge, magus. And leave me to my work." Orbis, in turn, turns to the surrounding members of his staff, now standing behind the guards. He claps his hands twice, sharply, "Raise the rod!" Men scurry to do as he has told them, operating the complex machinery to raise the exterior rod of the zeppelin. Others operate other machinery, and a small latice-work pops into place on the altar where the box sits, to channel the coming electricity. "Ahh...now is the dawn! The new dawn! Ein kleine klompein!" "Once a Ratzi, always a goddamn judgemental Ratzi," mutters Sandy, reaching up with his left arm to rub his brow. "My mentor only risked the lives of those willing. You risk not only the lives but the afterlives of the entire," his voice starts getting louder, "-fucking-" and louder, "PLANET." He glances at Chris, and his face twists. If only. Looking back at the Baron, he starts to say something else, then realizes it won't make a difference at this point. Chris Chance glances at Hawkins and Constantine, his cool edge hanging by a thread. "For christ's sakes, we've got to stop him. We turn this thing around and the Box goes back into hiding and we get away from -that-." He looks at the window again, grudgingly. He seems to think Constantine is onto something - that or he's seen this before somewhere. Dropping his arms to his sides, Oswald steps up a bit closer to the altar. He's got an almost greedy look in his eyes now. He remains silent. The Baron raises his hands upwards, silhouetted against the infinite darkness. "More than the world, Hawkins! More than that!" As if finishing the sentence, Orbis exclaims, "All of reality! A new state of being!" "Jesus," is Sandy's only muttered comment. John Constantine seems to consider the Baron's recommendation with an honest moment of contemplation, then turns his back. Something in his eyes can be seen, but whether it is an admittal of defeat or the sly spark of victory cannot be discerned. "He's right, Chance," Constantine says, and takes a step towards his smartly-dressed companion. "We can't do a damn thing about this; let him be." The Baron looks expectantly out of the window. That music box sound begins to play over the hush. Orbis seems to be drawing energy from the dark cloud, becoming less and less controlled, "It comes! It comes! The new dawn rises up to greet us out of the darkness!" He cries to Chance, Constantine and Hawkins, "Can you hear its steps! Can you feel its power rising over you like the tide!" Chris Chance rests a hand on Constantine's shoulder, as if to push him out of the way. "Are you crazy? We're going into the mouth of..." He doesn't complete the sentence, just glaring out the window, a terribly familiar sensation of helplessness sinking into his veins. His hand lowers and he watches, wrists loose at his side, shoulders slightly slouched. The music from the Box winds on, slowing imperceptibly. The Baron smiles broadly. His fist clenches. There's a charge in the air. Lightning strikes. The room is filled with white light and there's a sound like the exhaling of the throats of the dead. Nothing is visible, no sound, no touch, no senses possible beyond the shared sensation of the rod's bolt being lead down through the breath of Zeus, hand and breath of the Gods touching the Box. Somewhere in the blaring white, the Baron wheels up to the altar, seemingly the only one to see his way to it at the moment. John Constantine's throat catches, and his eyes flood. Sandy Hawkins hugs his arm to his chest, staring ahead at the Box - it's all he can do not to drop to his knees. Unrestricted desires and aspirations flood out of the box, leaking out through some invisible hole. Missed chances, awaiting opportunities, the very components that make a soul endure fill the chamber, bathing the men and women surrounding the altar. The Baron's trembling hands reach for the lid. Chris Chance opens his mouth as if to scream but can't find the primal noises necessary to accomplish even this. He is overwhelmed and frozen in place. John Constantine seems to see something hanging in the air before him, an image both minute and infinite. He lifts his hand, stuttering forward like an aborted sentence given form, his lower lip trembling out the name of his mother. He struggles with his tongue, forcing it to complete the syllables. The name hangs in the air like a raincloud, and then drops. Constantine seems to break free from suspension, taking three steps before stabalizing himself. The Baron whispers "One must have sunshine, freedom...and...a little flower..." The box's lid tips upwards in his spindly fingers. Sandy Hawkins shuts his eyes against the images he sees, but it doesn't help - they're behind his eyelids. Wes and Dian, young again, healthy again; his friends and teammates; people he couldn't possibly remember, -shouldn't- remember; costumes he's only seen in pictures, that shouldn't be from his time. Hinting at rewinding the clock and letting him live his life the way it was supposed to be lived, sequentially, without dreams or sand -- without the driving nightmares. But - no, no! He was -given- hope, and honestly. Brought out of a living death and given the chance to do good again, new friends that know -all- of him instead of facets...and love. Shaking his head, Sandy opens his eyes wide and steps forward, clenching his teeth. Idle hopes and wishes can't live up to his reality - not this time. "Stop..!" he croaks, reaching forward, trying to get to the Baron and the box. The Baron doesn't scream anything dramatic - he simply tries to pull the lid up. His hands are weaker than Sand's, though, and his grip slips. Now the Box itself seems to be fighting to open itself, fighting Sanderson with the perogative of an object of destiny. John Constantine follows Sandy's actions, although his movements are slower and less certain. He is consumed by the box, even as he fights it. Why? -Why-? Because as much as it'd be nice, as much as it'd be unbelievably.../right/, what the box offers, it'd be horrifically /wrong/. Biting words out as he fights to keep the box's lid shut, he finally has an answer for the Baron. "I fight...on the side...of free /will/." It's getting harder to fight. "COnstantine!" Another set of hands clamp down on the Box. Chance stands there drained, not really all there, still seemingly blind, but still pressing down along with Constantine and Hawkins. The Box does not abate and does not relent. There's a sudden volley of white and the trio are hard pressed to not give in. Their souls feel like they're about to leap out of their skins, their heads pound with memories and fragments of futures and destinies. Hope abounds and their hope to keep the Box from opening begins to drain. John Constantine leans against the box with his entire body, but his eyes have glazed over, reflecting the blaze around him. A fourth hand clasps on the top of the other men's hands. It presses down, hard. The Box shuts. The light goes away. The chamber looks rather mundane now. The fourth figure stands with a frown on his face. Oswald Klemperer. "Can't you...I dunno, magic the damn thing back shut?" hisses Sand, almost letting go a couple of times. He shuts his eyes. Ah, ah, laugh in the face of danger, "I'm out of duct tape." Not necessarily good, though; reverting to Sidekick Goofball. But. Ah. "...huh?" The Baron stares incredulously at the quartet. The face shifts to one of fear and knowledge as something occurs to him. He does not speak. Orbis is agape with horror. He steps forward, hands outstretched before him, "Why? Why have you done this? We were so close! So close!" The window outside shows the storm still rumbling away outside. It is, like the chamber, rather less impressive now. A bit of bad weather. Things seem to have shifted in some unspoken way - puzzle pieces placed back together again. More cracks between the pieces? Fewer? Its hard to say. There's simply a feeling of a change. Chris Chance slowly opens his eyes, slumping forwards, hands flat on the altar, glaring across the way at the other Blackguards - and Klemperer. His chest heaves and he gulps air, face slick and skin pale. John Constantine collapses forward across the box, spilling out to the side of it and onto the floor. He pauses there, lips brushing against the steel of the floor, breath returning in heavy swallows. "You poor bastard," Constantine manages, "I told you I knew how it damn well ended." It's uncertain to whom he addresses his words. That's -it-. Sandy gives Orbis an exasperated look. "Just to piss you off, you pretentious little jerkoff." He looks warily at Klemperer, removing his hands from the box. Silent for a second, he finally asks, "What...who are you?" Oswald's mouth twists wryly at Sandy's question. He looks at the silently staring, horrified Baron "Hello, 'Baron'. You recognize me at last." He stands and approaches the man in the wheelchair, looking down at him. "You know what they say about good intentions." The Baron hoarsely whispers "No. I was so close. You had no right...you had no right." Its a small voice and barely audible over the sounds of the rest of the gathering recovering their senses - the ones who are concious. John Constantine picks himself up off the ground. Knees weak, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a softpack of fags. Oswald turns with a leer in the direction of the Blackguards. "Its funny, isn't it? You try and you try but you never can accept the facts. Hopes fail. An end comes." He seems to speaking generally as opposed to specifically. He holds out a hand to the Baron. Chris Chance looks at Constantine. "Who is this guy? What the Hell is he talking about?" He tries to muster the bearing and poise he came in with, but it evades him for the moment. The Baron wheels back an inch, reflexively. He looks at the hand. Sandy Hawkins sighs, then backs away, to lean against a piece of furniture. He idly thumbs his nose at Oswald, reciting almost as though he had it memorized, "In every failed hope is a new dream, and from every end springs a new beginning." He momentarily wishes for one of John's cigarettes, then glances at Chris, then back at Ozzie and the Baron. "That's the trippy thing about time. It keeps opening doors just when you expected brick walls." John Constantine wrinkles his nose, and places his dry lips around a cigarette half-emerged from the pack. He pulls the pack away from his mouth, and lights the smoke with his free hand. Answering Chris's question with silence, he turns to watch the Baron. "Time?" Oswald asks, grinningly. "Time is all you have. I leave it to you." He grasps the Baron's hand. "You and I have an appointment I believe." The Baron gives a pleading last look of silent, fatalistic terror - and then he and Oswald are gone, vanished into the window like two disappearing shadows amidst the storm. The Box rests on the altar. Dimmed somehow, tarnished, old, and - once more - harmless. Sandy Hawkins stares at the Box for a second, then looks to John and Chris. "Uh...we'd probably better get the hell outta dodge." John Constantine glances at Sandy idly, then turns his attention to the windows in front of him. "You know how to drive one of these things?" Orbis is in complete shock, all of this being the one eventuality he didn't expect, "You can't....can't just...just..." He looks to the Blackguards, then decides that maybe they can. "Sure!" lies the adventurer cheerfully. "What about these guys?" asks Sandy then, gesturing at the groggy accomplices. He gives Orbis a threatening glare. Chris Chance shakes his head at Sanderson. "Stand down. Forget them." He looks at the box, wary still. "We just stopped them from something I'm not entirely sure was a bad idea." He looks towards the window. "Lets take this ship back to his castle and take the box back. I just want to go home." "...right. Right," says Sandy now, sobering a bit. He leans over and moves to pick up the box, then looks at John. "You get it." He heads out the door, presumably for the control room. If the controls are in -here-, then, uh...it'll take him a bit to figure that out. Chris Chance purses his lips as he looks at the box. "Things usually end up this way?" he asks Constantine. John Constantine hefts the box up in his hands again, as he did not 48 hours ago. "I know how the world is going to end, Chance," Constantine says around his cigarette, "and I knew this wasn't it." He pulls the fag from his mouth, and flicks it to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel. "Let's go home."