1964-09-22 - Bad Roman Holiday
Summary: Demons in SoHo are a no-no.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
constantine robbie rogue 


These things always happen at night, away front the ivory towers of Manhattan's financial district. Soho embodies all that's grungy, edgy, and transformative in an urban environment. Greenwich Village's overflow spills into the cheaper streets gone silent after dark. Here the real artists buy their loft space in vacant warehouses from vanished industrial business retreating to the south, Mexico, and points further east where competition is swift and wages low. Away from the beacons of culture — the Village Vanguard, Cafe Wha? — things get sketchy.

Exactly the sort of place some people gravitate to naturally. Others, well, they usually need a reason to show up.

Most wouldn't peg Scarlett for a revolutionary. Counterculture maven, yes, a bohemian raised by beatniks. But here she is, cross-legged, eyes closed, listening to the wild melodies swirling around her. One of those empty warehouses has its door hanging open, music inside a confusing blend of electronic notes and eastern influences. A river of smoke runs through the place, seeping out past the cool kids altering their perceptions by music, drug, and wild abandon. Psychedelic impressions have their nascent beginnings here. Alas, they're also plenty attractive to things that feed on psyches: on thoughts, needs, desires. One of those hunters is, unfortunately, wearing a human face and a hunter's smile. What delicious sheep.

Robbie was on a mission tonight. It seems whatever odd commodity rested there, it already gained the Rider's attention, and consequently, Robbie's as well. He was back on his motorcycle, no helmet, wearing his trademark Leather jacket and he wore jeans and combat boots, biker gloves worn on his hands.

Scarlett and maybe half the neighborhood could hear is engine revving as he approached down the street, no smile, just a watchfully eye…which almost seemed to glow faintly.

Eventually he would pause…most demons attempt to come out to try to slay him (which is most always in vain), so he waits, his hands on the handlebars giving the engine a rev or two more. He waited for his prey before he tried the hard way.

The wolf wasn't the only thing hunting tonight. There was another; this wasn't a human face wearing a hunter's grin. This one wore a human face and a cheap, black suit, and instead of a aura of concern it was two day old cigarette smoke. It was John Constantine, and really that was bad enough for most.

Did demons know of him? Like they knew the cop that threw them into a high security prison and laid in wait knowing he'd eventually be locked up there with him. John really was the patron guardian of the damned and diaspora. He was the sinner's sinner, and he was… hungry.

No, not for souls, for answers. Something was out hunting the lost descendants of the Nephilim, someone was working below hunting mages, his enclave specifically, and he was looking for a denizin he could exploit for answers. Wether that was devil or human remained to be seen, but someone was bound to know something.

Here a pretty smile, there a friendly look. The picture perfect state allows someone to mingle with the cattle, few the wiser. Those who feel the inklings of dread might not pay attention to the warning signs thrown in their sensitive brains. Those who do live another day, slinking off to another corner or taking fresh air with a friend. It's a long walk back to anywhere from Soho; buses don't run frequently and it's a rough neighbourhood. Those who trickle out every so often give that motorcycle a look or clutch one another's arms, spooking at shadows.

Inside the warehouse the musicians work their rig, twisting sensory impressions with a consummate skill. Some dance, others meditate, and a few are so fucking high they're practically seeing Mars. It's there the unassuming man with a Puerto Rican look and accent goes, purring words in their ears and sampling the psychic residue. He's sensitive enough himself to detect when the wrongness is coming in, the pollution on the waves so to speak. The vice-riding speeds up a little, spilling more of that savory energy into himself. One of the meditating kids slumps sideways.

Scarlett hasn't partaken of the drugs. There's no point when they can barely affect her. She tastes the melodies in the balefire glow of the few bulbs on the glow, slipping a look over her shoulder at the basso grumble indicating the passage of a powerful bike. Some part of her mind assesses that, and the other forms a riddled, painful minefield for the damned to negotiate. Not immune, but a hell of an unpleasant walk. Her green eyes open, and she looks up. "Something wicked?"

…Eventually, Robbie turned his head to the warehouse, giving his motorcycle another rev to make it howl with its powerful engine…almost otherworldly. He looks as if he's about to go investigate, but then John Constantine catches his eye…and it's like an impulse vibrates through his body…something he'll have to deal with later no doubt. Then, the young girl he met just the other day catches his attention with her words. "You could say that." No smile, eyes ever forward, flames of Hell visible even then in those brown eyes.

"Stay here." He says to Scarlett, likely a vain attempt to try to keep her safe as he drives on down to the warehouse, pulling up a small ways, parking that bad boy, and dismounting. However, as he walked, it put him across the street from Constantine, and Robbie makes doubly sure to watch him a moment, before entering the warehouse, whose door happens to be hanging open.

his eyes scan the room until he finds what he's looking for, and he approaches, not touching the drug-addled minds nor interrupting the wild dancers, he makes a straight B-line for his prey, and grabs him on the arm, speaking in Spanish "You're a long way from home." He says, his grip tight, but could be overpowered if the Demon was a very strong one.

Constantine rings up on all sorts of radar. Like a cold pocket of air in a hallway that was throughly unwelcome and sometimes reprieve, John moved through the supernatural awareness in the room. It was almost hard to decipher if he found trouble or he attracted it like a magnet in a ferris mine. But… there he was. Demons were attracted to deviance like a fly to feces and that's precicely what John needed right now. The former, not the latter. John had enough shit to deal with already.

Robbie got a side eye, but John made no indication that he understood the Spanish. Sure, he did, but he played his 'Brit Card' out on this one. His attention was on teh pseudo Puerto Rican with the goodies. "What we got t'day, mate?"

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d20 for: 10

|ROLL| Robbie +rolls 1d20 for: 9

|ROLL| Constantine +rolls 1d20 for: 20

Does the demon speak Spanish? You betcha. It also wears a snazzy coat, because no demon worth his salt hangs out with people like these without a trusty velvet jacket. Yellow in this case, showing off those striped pants beautifully. He — the demon — is already running hot on plenty of good vibes and tasty sensations, which gives him a little more gumption when facing down a badass in a motorcycle get up. Righto. The first grip takes the demon by surprise, but only marginally, and he spins around with a sweeping kick intending to knock Robbie's feet out from under him or get the man up against a wall. He's pretty strong but it's still a quarrel.

Its opinion of Con dwindles to, "Having a party and this square wants to screw things up." Hey, he sounds mildly put out, and a few of the other bleating sheep are inclined to agree as they hasten to get out of the way. Leaps and hops or stumbles, the partiers scatter for the walls.

Mostly. Scarlett doesn't, even though told to 'stay there' amounts to bystander status. Not one she particularly cares for. The music screeches to a halt as a DJ goes running after his girlfriend, since they have enough wherewithal to get out of dodge. The big, cavernous space resonates with the sounds of thumping feet. She nudges them along, moving against the current. "Hey! This is not cool for dancing." Smooth, girl.

Robbie kept his eyes on the demon, even though, in a surprising display, knocks Robbie right on his back. But he's no stranger to demons, and he gets up pretty quickly. Robbie stands there a moment as all the people pretty much get out of his way. With a crack of his neck, Robbie stares right into the eyes of the demon "Alright…let's dance."

It's here when Reyes undergoes his transformation: his skin starts to burn like fire to paper, and it starts disintegrating off his body, layer by layer to the bone until a flaming skull remains, eyes that seem to reflect Hell itself burn as he watches the demon. The Rider greets it with an otherworldly breath, the kind that could make a mortal double over from terror alone as this wolf from Hell approaches.

Rider slings the chain off his torso with a flick of his wrist after grabbing one of the ends., reeling his arm backwards, and the chain catching with Hellfire flames, Robbie attempts to wrap the demon with his chain, attempting to burn it with Hellfire.

At this point, Constantine is the last thing on the Rider's mind, though he wasn't forgotten.

The chorus of screams and few wet pants, with that ammonia scent to go with it, greet the sudden flaming talent put on display.

Constantine had his moments where though he was a glrious walking trainwreck of collateral damage would remind the world below who he was. Candidly. Oh, that hellfire on that chain? Interesting. That… that would be a conversation for another time. It seemed however that the sin hunter was going to ruin his opportunity to get the information he needed and that would reset his entire investigation. He sighed. Wasn't that his luck though? But thena gain… wasn't it? He wa nothing if not a weaver of his own fate and opportunity; a nudge here, and a pull of fate's thread there, and his will was manifest: there was an open opportunity.

Luckiest sunnovabitch ever.

He pulled a ring of charms and tokens and icons out of his pocket and strode with purpose into the fray. The man withthe chain had the demon's attention? Gooooooood. John stepped behind him wrapping an arm around it's throat putting it in a headlock. The charm he was looking for, St. Jude patron of Lost Causes, was pressed to the demon's forehead. The intent was cast from a conviction that would not be swayed. Really, try telling John 'no' when you have what he wnats and he needs it to avenge a thing? G'luck with that, guy. "I am speaking to the entity inside…Name. Now."

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d20 for: 19

The bad day starts with fire. The demon hisses and drops Robbie, immediately retreating from the scene or, at least, proximity. That's before skin starts burning and a chain shows up, wrapped up in the hissing flames of the pit. Right, this happens to be inconsiderate and no fun, which has something to do with why it reaches out silently to its patron elsewhere. Demons sometimes receive a get-out-of-jail-free card from their superiors on the understanding never, ever to use it. A great way to end up the lickspittle to the second dung shoveler. Still, the demon doesn't think to really fight back so much as press the big red button. Repeatedly.

All it takes is an incantation that means nothing to anyone who hears it, a distorted growl, the bass tones rumbling through the machinery of existence. Granted if one of those nephilim were around, they might recognize the rocking temblors, the sense of wrongness. If their ancestor were around… well, best not think about the two that could be showing up there, because that spells game over, no fun for anyone.

As it is, though, the flaming links of that awful chain do reach the demon. And yes, so does John's damnable luck show up to allow him to deke out a retreating infernal power to shove up that charm of Catholic faith. Except… Except… Except.

This is how the world burns,
Not with a sputter, but with a bang,
And the pipes crashing down in slews of liquid fire blacker than black.

The inversion is the sort of thing to scream hellfire and brimstone, a sickly stench roaring up in a column that definitely reads 'not a minor power.' Rings of it ripple out at a set distance, burning the floor with the summoning circle — or the inversion, as it happens, taking an unfortunate few party goers who were stupid enough not to run. One DJ, three squawking drugged out dancers, and Scarlett.

Oh. And those other two. The ones who reek of bad things left out in the sun too long. That calling card ain't subtle, nor is it meant to be, given one of its holders is on the Lesser Key of Solomon in a modified form. So the world burns, hot, and quick, sulfur and ashes.

And the warp of space neatly lines up with a glimpse of one corner of the Underworld in tow, before they all fall through the hole under their feet.

Fifteen feet in the air over a dingy street somewhere in the dawn swelter of Rome. It's old, not at all in the modern suburbs, and thus everything is crowded, dusty, too humid. Tall buildings and laundry lines abound. Somewhere nearby is probably the forum or the Colosseum or a pizzeria.

Ghost Rider growls when Constantine gets involved, but seems to….is 'calm' the right word? Regardless, Ghost Rider manages to subdue the creature with that infernal chain like so many before it…but the Rider sees the summoning circle and tries to stop it! But it's far too late. Slippery bastard….The Rider fell through the hole much like his situational allies.

15 feet in the F'n air.

Falling with everyone else, Ghost Rider tries to use his chain, which is now rid of hellfire to try to pull people to him so he could cushion their fall. This was gonna hurt…. one of these people was Scarlett. Of all places, why Rome? He thought as he plummeted to the ground.

but more importantly….where's a. Good bike?

Constantine was not letting that demon out of a headlock. He could hit the ground and still choose to ignore falling through the sky. Until he hit the ground it didn't relaly matter did it? But he wanted his answer. He'd figure out how to walk home later. He kept the seal against the demon's forehead and pushed his will over it. "SO help me we will bind you to a record player and send you to the bloody Vatican. Name, NOW. I want answers about the Hunter." Wind whipped through his hair and the ground was seemingly getting closer. Well… this was unpleasant.

The drop for the demon isn't so much a problem. It will just bounce off John, using him as a cushion for the collapse of a story and a half. Hard concrete makes a jarring end to their ambitions. Bones are sure to creak or snap, and the snarling shriek from the thing still in its human form is considerable. It lashes out with a kick. "What hunter? Not know what you talk about, asshole!" He shoves and rolls. "Kvalahi. Get gone, filth!"

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d20 for: 13

The benefit of being slow on the uptake and dimmed by drugs: you don't panic til it's too late. Those three dancers tumble and crash to the ground, ragdoll hops leading them to sprawl awkwardly or roll to a halt. The bruises will be bad, someone has a sprained toe or a jammed ankle, but no one is dead. Hurrah for small victories. They moan and cry out, the wisest of them hastening a quick crawl out of the way. Hey, it's an alley, that's surely safe! Also useful for disposing of urine soaked pants.

Scarlett is the one oddity because her essential nature, like Saturn, means she'd float if you could find the appropriate medium to test the two. Her instinct when flung through a swerving gap in space is to not fall, reaching up instinctively to snatch whatever she can. In part survival, in part compassion; her defiance of gravity helps others defy gravity too. If only.

Ghost Rider was still trying to save freefallers! And he does manage to save two of them from harm, cushioning a fall as he lands right on a parked car. Hopping off with them on hand. Huh…that'll be a fun story for them. After letting them run off, Ghost Rider looks for Constantine and that demon, putting his chain back around his own torso since Constantine has him presently subdued, though he does approach…likely ready to extinguish it or banish it back to hell.

The Rider still doesn't speak, eerily enough, merely stares and ghastly breaths, and the occasional growl.

Constantine had the demon by the neck and it was screeching; uncomfortable and unable o get away. This was good news for Robbie Reyes who really wanted to have a word with the bloke. So be it. The creature writhed and said in split octaves *"I don't know about no hunter, but I know they're coming for you, John Constantine."* The demon sputtered and cackled madly as if there was some great cosmic joke that John wasn't finding at all funny. *"They're coming for yooOOOooOOOOooo, Send me to hell, we'll save you a SEAT!"*

Now John felt a bit like he was falling, not just through the air anymore.

at the Demon's words, Ghost Rider didn't seem amused, though he knew of Constantine's fate. He moves to Constantine, likely attempting to shove him off of the demon to try to pick him up. Finaly speaking in that ghastly…demonic voice that many..demon and human alike have come to fear. "That can be arranged!"

|ROLL| Constantine +rolls 1d20 for: 13

Constantine seemed only slightly phased. Affected yes, but not surprised. He really should be but he did just wrestle a demon demon down using will and Latin, but.. what the hell? Glancing up they landed roughly with a flinch. On landing he spun the demon around and booted him in the ass to fall AT the hell hunter. There was a faintly knowing grin that alit his eyes, rasping, "He's all yours, mate. You heard em."

At Constantine's actions, Ghost Rider looked down at the Demon, cracking it's bone neck it would seam, before gripping it by it's collar. "Look into my eyes!" and even as the demon did so, hellfire traversed through the Rider's hands, making it's physical body suffer while also giving it's soul the prime treatment "Time to go home." it seemed to take a sadistic cruelty and pleasure in extinguishing this creature, eventually….the Demon just screamed, forcing it to relieve everything it had ever done against an innocent over and over in hellish anguish and pain, and the hellfire added onto that…and ungodly howl came from it. Eventually, it was a burnt out husk of a body, and Ghost Rider lifted it overhead, then slammed it into the ground, the body turning into dust.

Ghost Rider let out an ungodly Growl, before he turns his head to face Constantine.

Constantine watched with curiosity and dispassionate interest. Then his eyes, knowing and haunted, look back on Robbie Reyes with the fire of hell in his eyes. Familiar. Too familiar. The exorcist flipped the charms back into his palm and dropped them back into his pocket. Stance shifted from the back of one foot and then the other as John stared the Ghost Rider back in the eyes. He didn't flinch. He didn't cower. He was resigned. Quietly he asked, a parade of sins, and selfishness, and enough acts of charity to still never fill in the debt he owed to Hell. His bus ticket was stamped and he knew it, this magus with the blood of a demon in his veins, and enough deals bartered with hell to curse several lifetimes. "Well then… Where's that leave us, mate. You find what you came for?" He damned an innocent girl to hell. John found no reason to run. He knew what he did.

The Ghost Rider stared at Constantine, approaching with cruelty and malice in his steps..cold and calculating. What may have been more scary, is that even at Constantine's question, the Rider didn't respond, those eyes simply keeping lock on his own. He kept walking towards him, and the sound of a car…a particular charger, would be making it's way down the street. He would then grab John by the collar of his jacket and lift him up in the air, as if maybe preparing a Penance stare….but for some reason, the Rider stops. However, muscle tissue and skin began to form on the Rider's head again, layer by layer, blood vessel by blood vessel, until the head of Robbie Reyes is present, and he sets him down. his eyes still staring into his.

"You helped me take down a demon who claimed many lives today, and saved some too, John Constantine." he says, knowing his face and name. Likely told to him by the Spirit of Vengeance that dwells within. "because of that…you will live another day." but then he points at him "You are -not- off the hook. You -will- pay for what you did to that girl." Robbie says, and then his charger arrives, flaming wheels and he opens the car door. "You have a head start. Use it wisely." Robbie says in a sense of honor. a one time deal, unless stated otherwise. and…he figures that Lucifer let him live for a reason…sounds like Robbie has a date with the Devil. and with that, he gets into his car, and he drives off with a drift and it's like he's your average Joe again.

Constantine was seized and pulled up in the air. He was tenacious and scrappy, but he wasn't strong in any supernatural sense against a primordial force. Not like this, but the Con Job had a trick up his sleeve and that was he was more valuable to Hell, ironically, living above and while claimed seemed also to simultaneously be rejected. He swallowed uncomfortably waiting, just waiting. But he had to bring up Astra and the unflappable bloke, flapped and flapped hard. A look of genuine pain from his soul wrenched an honest expression from him. He braced for fury, to steal that hellfire back and hurt but never burn, but instead was set down. His look held watching warily as the car rolled up and the Rider backed away slowly. Well bollocks. No answers, and a bloody Vengeance Spirit who had him on his radar. Brilliant. One thing was certain, he brokered no wasted time lingering. With that John was gone on his way where he would go.

This was New York, there had to be a demon somewhere.

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