Xanadu does in fact have a bar - the hilariously named Stigmata, which predates the creation of the rest of the city, therefore making it the oldest building in town. Hasi is on her way there when she sees a strange man (there are so many of those lately! ...fortunately this is basically par for the course in her life) looking like he's not too keen on his surroundings- maybe another new arrival, maybe just someone who turned up here unexpectedly again. She's preceded by the sound of her high heels clicking, as she comes up alongside John - headed in the same direction, since conveniently, Stigmata is that way.
"Lost?" She inquires, tone light, in passing.
As a rule, she is inclined to be helpful. It also assists her in getting the measure of all of these strangers she encounters, particularly if she does so with a smile on her face.
Though he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, John gave no outward indication. His ambling pace never changed and his posture remained straight and marginally relaxed. Anyone who did belong could probably tell that he didn't; he wasn't going to aid in that conclusion by acting like a twitchy, apprehensive tourist.
At the sound of the woman's voice he glanced over, the corner of his lip quirked in a faint smirk, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "That obvious?" he responded coolly, only slightly sarcastic.
"Let's just say I know the look." She also knows people with a little bit of a gift, and she tilts her head at John with a slightly different expression- more quizzical, a touch keener to know who he is. It's a subtle change, though, and her smile doesn't go away.
"Xanadu?" John snorted, not quite a laugh yet evidently amused.
Falling silent, he looked at her more closely, the humor slowly fading. It was possible that she was a random pedestrian, just happening by with the information he needed. Possible, but in his experience unlikely. To fill the silence and conceal his scrutiny, he took another drag on his cigarette, let the smoke sink heavily into his lungs before half-turning his head to blow it out away from both of them.
"No," he finished finally, eyebrow canting upward as he spoke. "Can't say I have."
You know what they say: where there's smoke, there's Roger Sterling.
He had found the bar easily enough. There was never any mistaking the look of people stumbling out. Since arriving to this place a whole twenty minutes ago, Roger had looked for something that was both familiar and safe. This was as good a place as any. Better even.
After making his way inside he naturally gravitated toward the alcohol supply. On his way there, he noticed a man who looked just as lost as he was and seemed to be making no attempts to hide it. "You know, if you're really going for the tourist look, I'd suggest a pair of shorts." Roger's voice is casual and non-threatening, hoping to spark a bit of conversation.
Once he'd gotten inside the bar, John felt as though he were on more stable ground. He knew where he was with bars, and to a certain extent, with the people who frequented them. It was outside in the rest of the world, especially in a city as unfamiliar as this one, that he felt uneasy and exposed.
He had yet to tackle the money issue, but he was working his way up to it, gravitating slowly toward the bar as he took the measure of the crowd. The comment about shorts, obviously directed at him, caught his attention and he looked over at the man who had issued it. The sharp, unfriendly retort died before it got started as he realized that the man wasn't trying to be offensive.
"Airline lost my luggage," John responded instead, still sarcastic but not caustically so. In fact, to anyone who knew him, and that number had dwindled considerably over the years, it was the rare tone he used when he was actually attempting to be friendly. "How about yours?"
The reply results in a short chuckle from Roger. "I'm not a fan of airplanes," he says, "I don't trust them, but I still managed to make it to this place on foot. How's that for the opposite of luck?" He almost starts attempting catching someone's attention for a drink and then realizes that he isn't sure where he is or if they'll take his money.
Instead he reaches for his own cigarette, lighting up without asking for permission from present company who he guessed probably wouldn't mind considering his own smoking. "But first thing's first. If you've figured out where the hell we are and if they take American cash I'll buy us a round. I know I could use a drink."
John's lip twisted into a wry expression that seemed unable to decide if it was a frown or a halfhearted attempt at a smile. "Sounds like mine. Must've been absent the day they were handing out the good stuff."
Not minding the other man's smoking in the least, John shook his head. "Haven't tried buying anything yet. Figured if they didn't take cash, maybe they knew a place to change it. You been here long?"
In the last five years, Detective Dodson has done a lot of thinking, rethinking and taking stock of various elements in her life--her former life. Things once ignored had to be faced and dealt with and events experienced had to be accepted (or ignored, she isn't perfect and there are things she still prefers to keep under rug swept)in order to get on with living.
One thing she has not considered is the possibility of the universe not being done screwing her over so as she gets up from her desk with thoughts of a fresh cup of stale coffee from the break room and walks through the doorway and onto the streets of Xanadu, she's more than a little flummoxed. The Hell... No, not Hell, that she would recognize. This is something else entirely but no less bizarre. What is her life, truly?
Well, detective start detecting. As she takes in her surroundings, the street and the storefronts and the people--the person ahead of her, she swears under her breath. Of course. Of COURSE. Things start to make a little more sense to her or at the very
( ... )
Although it had been a while since he'd spoken with her, John hadn't forgotten the sound of Angela's voice and he'd often wondered how she was doing. How she was holding up. If she was holding up. How she was adjusting to the use of her abilities. It would've been easy to contact the police station, try to get back in touch with her, but he'd wanted to let her be. All he did was bring people trouble anyway.
Finding her here, wherever here was, was the last thing John had been expecting and he was so taken aback by the sound of her voice that it showed if she knew what to look for. Back stiffening slightly, he nearly choked on the smoke he'd been in the process of inhaling. But years of experience came to his aid and instead of choking, he turned it into a grunt as he slowly twisted around.
"Angela." His eyebrow rose as he greeted her, the tone of his voice not quite turning her name into a question. "Just that lucky, I guess. How long've you been here?" As casual as if no time at all had passed.
That last conversation had been a bit of a doozie. 'Here, hide a powerful implement of destruction and never tell anyone where it is, not even the guy who gave it to you.' It wasn't the sort of talk that led to a lot of followup. What did you say to that? 'Gee, thank you for the burden of knowledge and making me a target should anyone ever figure out who last held the Spear of Destiny.' There were so many reasons why Angela hadn't tried to keep in touch, that was just one.
Still, there was something oddly comforting about finding Constantine here. She wouldn't quite call it trust but she had faith (oh, the irony...how it could burn) in his ability to figure a way out of trouble. If she had to be backed into a supernatural mess, it was better to do so with John than go it alone. She'd done a bit of the loner thing, testing out her reawakened gift and she didn't care for it much.
"I got up to get a cup of bad coffee. Three minutes? Four?" Not long. "Where is here?" She took the eyebrow work to mean that he hadn't expected her, maybe
( ... )
So it wasn't some kind of gateway or tear in reality that he'd wandered through when he wasn't paying attention. Not unless it moved around, which was a possibility that John wasn't entirely ready to discount. And with Angela's story added to the mix, his second theory - that he'd accidentally tripped a spell - didn't hold much water either. Which meant what, exactly?
A whole lot of questions and not enough answers.
He took a meditative drag on his cigarette, gave his answer to her question some serious thought as the smoke settled into his lungs. It was only when it started to burn that he exhaled. "Don't know. Not LA. Nowhere I've been before." He tilted his chin in her direction. "You recognize anything?"
There was no sound to herald his arrival, only the faintest scent of sulfur drifting in the breeze. Why or how he detected Constantine's presence and who's to say he did? It might have been the sort of cosmic coincidence that comprised John's life remained a mystery, but there was no question about it, when he spoke in tones low and personal, smooth and knowing: "Johnny."
Fucking delighted, that voice, yet not without a sense of restraint. The half-demon circled John like a lazy, pinstriped beast, one who was obviously savoring the moment before the kill. But no killing move came. He merely stopped in front of John, a good six or seven feet away, and smiled good and sharp, a flash of white that was just as false as his human facade.
His voice was a low, angry hiss, not sounding the least bit surprised. Maybe it'd been the whiff of sulfur in the air that had warned him before the halfbreed had spoken, or maybe it was just cold, hard cynicism. Either way, John's only reaction to Balthazar's presence was a narrow-eyed glare.
"Not long enough," John snapped, tossing the cigarette to the side, wanting his hands free if it came down to a fight. It figured. It just fucking figured. The desire to stalk over there, grab Balthazar by the collar, and start hitting him was nearly overwhelming. And John almost took a step forward. Almost. But there was a high probability that whatever was going on was Balthazar's doing, and deporting him, if he could deport him from wherever the hell this was, might only make matters worse.
Comments 39
Xanadu does in fact have a bar - the hilariously named Stigmata, which predates the creation of the rest of the city, therefore making it the oldest building in town. Hasi is on her way there when she sees a strange man (there are so many of those lately! ...fortunately this is basically par for the course in her life) looking like he's not too keen on his surroundings- maybe another new arrival, maybe just someone who turned up here unexpectedly again. She's preceded by the sound of her high heels clicking, as she comes up alongside John - headed in the same direction, since conveniently, Stigmata is that way.
"Lost?" She inquires, tone light, in passing.
As a rule, she is inclined to be helpful. It also assists her in getting the measure of all of these strangers she encounters, particularly if she does so with a smile on her face.
Reply
At the sound of the woman's voice he glanced over, the corner of his lip quirked in a faint smirk, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "That obvious?" he responded coolly, only slightly sarcastic.
Reply
"Let's just say I know the look." She also knows people with a little bit of a gift, and she tilts her head at John with a slightly different expression- more quizzical, a touch keener to know who he is. It's a subtle change, though, and her smile doesn't go away.
"Have you been here before? To Xanadu."
Reply
Falling silent, he looked at her more closely, the humor slowly fading. It was possible that she was a random pedestrian, just happening by with the information he needed. Possible, but in his experience unlikely. To fill the silence and conceal his scrutiny, he took another drag on his cigarette, let the smoke sink heavily into his lungs before half-turning his head to blow it out away from both of them.
"No," he finished finally, eyebrow canting upward as he spoke. "Can't say I have."
Reply
He had found the bar easily enough. There was never any mistaking the look of people stumbling out. Since arriving to this place a whole twenty minutes ago, Roger had looked for something that was both familiar and safe. This was as good a place as any. Better even.
After making his way inside he naturally gravitated toward the alcohol supply. On his way there, he noticed a man who looked just as lost as he was and seemed to be making no attempts to hide it. "You know, if you're really going for the tourist look, I'd suggest a pair of shorts." Roger's voice is casual and non-threatening, hoping to spark a bit of conversation.
Reply
He had yet to tackle the money issue, but he was working his way up to it, gravitating slowly toward the bar as he took the measure of the crowd. The comment about shorts, obviously directed at him, caught his attention and he looked over at the man who had issued it. The sharp, unfriendly retort died before it got started as he realized that the man wasn't trying to be offensive.
"Airline lost my luggage," John responded instead, still sarcastic but not caustically so. In fact, to anyone who knew him, and that number had dwindled considerably over the years, it was the rare tone he used when he was actually attempting to be friendly. "How about yours?"
Reply
Instead he reaches for his own cigarette, lighting up without asking for permission from present company who he guessed probably wouldn't mind considering his own smoking. "But first thing's first. If you've figured out where the hell we are and if they take American cash I'll buy us a round. I know I could use a drink."
Reply
Not minding the other man's smoking in the least, John shook his head. "Haven't tried buying anything yet. Figured if they didn't take cash, maybe they knew a place to change it. You been here long?"
Reply
One thing she has not considered is the possibility of the universe not being done screwing her over so as she gets up from her desk with thoughts of a fresh cup of stale coffee from the break room and walks through the doorway and onto the streets of Xanadu, she's more than a little flummoxed. The Hell... No, not Hell, that she would recognize. This is something else entirely but no less bizarre. What is her life, truly?
Well, detective start detecting. As she takes in her surroundings, the street and the storefronts and the people--the person ahead of her, she swears under her breath. Of course. Of COURSE. Things start to make a little more sense to her or at the very ( ... )
Reply
Finding her here, wherever here was, was the last thing John had been expecting and he was so taken aback by the sound of her voice that it showed if she knew what to look for. Back stiffening slightly, he nearly choked on the smoke he'd been in the process of inhaling. But years of experience came to his aid and instead of choking, he turned it into a grunt as he slowly twisted around.
"Angela." His eyebrow rose as he greeted her, the tone of his voice not quite turning her name into a question. "Just that lucky, I guess. How long've you been here?" As casual as if no time at all had passed.
Reply
Still, there was something oddly comforting about finding Constantine here. She wouldn't quite call it trust but she had faith (oh, the irony...how it could burn) in his ability to figure a way out of trouble. If she had to be backed into a supernatural mess, it was better to do so with John than go it alone. She'd done a bit of the loner thing, testing out her reawakened gift and she didn't care for it much.
"I got up to get a cup of bad coffee. Three minutes? Four?" Not long. "Where is here?" She took the eyebrow work to mean that he hadn't expected her, maybe ( ... )
Reply
A whole lot of questions and not enough answers.
He took a meditative drag on his cigarette, gave his answer to her question some serious thought as the smoke settled into his lungs. It was only when it started to burn that he exhaled. "Don't know. Not LA. Nowhere I've been before." He tilted his chin in her direction. "You recognize anything?"
Reply
Fucking delighted, that voice, yet not without a sense of restraint. The half-demon circled John like a lazy, pinstriped beast, one who was obviously savoring the moment before the kill. But no killing move came. He merely stopped in front of John, a good six or seven feet away, and smiled good and sharp, a flash of white that was just as false as his human facade.
"Johnny, how long has it been?"
Reply
His voice was a low, angry hiss, not sounding the least bit surprised. Maybe it'd been the whiff of sulfur in the air that had warned him before the halfbreed had spoken, or maybe it was just cold, hard cynicism. Either way, John's only reaction to Balthazar's presence was a narrow-eyed glare.
"Not long enough," John snapped, tossing the cigarette to the side, wanting his hands free if it came down to a fight. It figured. It just fucking figured. The desire to stalk over there, grab Balthazar by the collar, and start hitting him was nearly overwhelming. And John almost took a step forward. Almost. But there was a high probability that whatever was going on was Balthazar's doing, and deporting him, if he could deport him from wherever the hell this was, might only make matters worse.
"What the fuck do you want?"
Reply
Leave a comment