eastbound | un: wooden dice.

[The voice is definitely English, a scouse accent mixing slightly with bits of Cockney, if one is the sort to recognize it.]

Lovely weather we're having in this sodding fishbowl. Nearly reminds me of home. Ah, hfff, something to lighten the spirit. I've got a story.

Have you lot heard of Ellethia? Couldn't tell you how it's spelled; I haven't the foggiest whether we're playing with Fake Latin or fake Greek. Gorgeous country, it is; proper Byronic. Maybe fake Greek, then.

It were haunted.

D'you remember a bloke prancing around during the communal head trip? Stroppy bastard he was, complaining to me about tea and infanticide. Reckon he had more sparkling conversation for you lot. Wore white. Ghosts in your Ellethia said he got a uniform from them. Or from there, at least.

Don't all rush to thank me. Weren't alone. Your girl Lila, she were dead helpful. Distracted the ghosts she did. I'm sure she'll love the credit, hehh.

And that'd make me John Constantine. [It rhymes with Clementine.] Ain't me first brush with ghosts, let's say. Magic, that rubbish, have you ever seen any? The real stuff, I mean.

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[ For that, she does smile, tight-lipped but won over by open such disdain for the bothers of Satan.

Which eighties? Not important yet. ]

Suppose I have yet to learn how best to cheat the Devil.

[Oh, but that smile is worth its weight in gold. The jawline at least, the cut of that grin-- she really is dark and beautiful and if he were younger, he knows he'd be wrapped around her finger.]

[At the moment, he just wants to cool in the shade of her shadow.] Call 'im the First. First of the Fallen. Less respectful. Never Lucifer-- too much credit.

[Different guy, too, but explaining that's a whole different discussion he doesn't feel like having.]

My suggestion-- if I were suggestin' having anything to do with the bastard, which I ain't-- my suggestion'd be to play him off somebody. Bastard gets distracted. Detail-oriented bugger.

[ Something about his advice is stirring. Familiar. A memory she can't see or hear, but one she can feel in her belly. A flutter like moths searching unending for their light. She knows of someone else, doesn't she?

When he fell... He did not fall alone. A warning that still rings inside. Who could distract him from her? Who would make him shrink from her, when he calls her beloved? No more can she recall, so she leaves it, with her fingertip tapping once at her knee and that curiosity abandoned by the roots.

To talk in this way leaves her uncertain about how she's meant to feel about him. His draw is uncanny. He doesn't talk of demons like anyone else has. It's reckless and foolish. There's admiration for such a nature, in how she'll nod her chin in the direction of the drink of choice. ]

Shall we drink to that, then? May he forever be left wanting.

[John lets out another wheezing laugh, bright charm fading into something more homely. There's a certain smile men acquire, roughly after the age of 63, and while John doesn't look old enough to have it, somehow the shape of that grin has plastered itself onto his too-pleased face.]

Can't argue with that. Cheers, luv.

[The bright pink liquid burns the whole way down.]

[ It's enough for her to make...a face, of sorts, clearing her throat roughly against her knuckles. At least she isn't reduced to coughing, no stranger to hard liquors, but she certainly prefers whisky or brandy.

Embarrassment from her reaction leaves her smile more crooked─awkward. Almost apologetic in how she hums after setting the glass down. ]

Nothing quite like that in London.

[ That she knows of. ]

Edited 2022-10-20 19:52 (UTC)

Oh, we have this in London, [John says, his voice only slightly wheezed,] but I don't think it's survivable.

[ Something like this may very well exist in the back alleys of London. When she frequents those, it is hardly for a drink.

But it does trigger her earlier curiosity as she brushes what remains of the acid from her lips. ]

You mentioned 'the eighties'. I already gather you do not mean the 1880s.

[ Because nobody is here from her time, she would never be that lucky. ]

[His stutter stop of confusion lasts half a second, a quarter. He looks up, down, back up again, and the features of his face have rearranged themselves from hangdog shock to comfortable confidence.]

I were born nineteen fifty-three.

[ Perhaps good news. If they do come from the same world, then it means she won't be heralding the end of days. She doubts she will live long enough to see that year.

Yet, it's still a disconcerting concept...even if she isn't particularly surprised. She folds her hands again, just over her knee. ]

I imagine I will be just another ghost by then, singing in the moonlight and hoping for someone to listen.

[It's rare John comes across living, flesh-and-blood people older than him, but- no, she isn't. She's just from a different time. In lived years, he's still entitled to that weary superiority complex.]

Don't worry, luv; I'll double back and put you to rest, if we ever get out of here.

[And the ghosts from the wars pushed out all the nice girls and boys who died of consumption and paint chips- but he doesn't say it.]

[ It could be a jest, but Vanessa considers it seriously. Would that be enough to send her wandering spirit into grace? A friendly visit from a most unconventional exorcist? Already caught between the underworld and the heavens, if her spirit should persist in such a state, any peace offered should be welcomed.

Her sigh is weary, her nod something of acceptance. ]

Now you are duty-bound. Most unwise to spurn a promise made to a lady.

[ Her ghost would be most brutal in its haunting. ]

[John sees in her a more stately version of himself, wrung-out and jaw-clenched. The difference is, she seems to accept the possibility that she'll one day die.]

Reckon I'll manage. [Then, sarcastically,] Appreciate all your faith in me, though, just chuffed I am.

[ She can only hope, some days. ]

But I am putting quit a bit of faith in you, Mr. Constantine. You have made an assurance to a woman whose spirit may not be kind, nor gentle if its tragedy is ever set free to roam. And you never even asked this woman's name. A bit reckless.

[ Her shrug is one of understanding. Whether or not it was a joke, it is always a reckless business to talk of ghosts and demons. She supposes if one is going to, though, why not someone who claims to put them to rest? ]

To be precise in one's recklessness is a different sort of faith, isn't it?

Don't need your name, luv. Though I'd take it, if you'd give it.

[That sounded more romantic than John meant it to, and he'd kick himself if it wouldn't ruin the venomous mystique he's assembled around himself like armor. You're lonely, the voice in his head repeats, thick with a Scottish brogue.]

Best person to bet on is yourself, innit?

[ For a moment, uncertainty twitches in her brow while entertaining his remark, but she's quick to follow with an adversely resolute smile. His candor has charm, the sort that usually resonates with her, but his age has nothing to do with her caution in anything beyond flirtation. Bloodied barbed fences and crumbling walls surround her heart for the safety of all. ]

It has carried us this far, though I have yet to discern if that is a good thing.

[ Who am I, indeed. One signature is enough for tonight. ]

Whether it beckons peace or calamity, I would have the man capable of putting my soul to rest know the name Vanessa Ives.

un: wooden dice.

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