1964-09-28 - Where Did Our Faith Go?
Summary: A question needs an answer.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
lucian lindon constantine 

Lux shimmers in brazen tones, captivating bronze and brass fixtures aglow under the Edison bulbs used to such effect. This early, and it is early, the place is at a doldrum. Staff shift the night's elixirs into place while a sound test for a singer goes on the main floor, the man's voice smooth as honey drizzling down a windowpane. Lucian, bearing the look of someone entirely pleased with his lot, toys with a cufflink on his wrist.

"Careful, you'll crack a smile," says the strawberry-blonde behind the bar. Her voice carries a laugh, and the wry grin on the girl next door bartender widens when he stares back at her over his shoulder. "Well, it's /true!/" Only Ana gets away with talk like that.

Such is the lot of the blond, who looks more like a rock star than a bartender, or proprietor for that matter. "Insufferable. I leave you to run one night, and you act like you're mistress over it all. Who knows, maybe you will be."

Constantine came on, earlier than he'd like, but that would be predicated on the idea that John slept at all and was not up practicing some spell or another, researching, or making bargains with Below to get information. Ana wasn't the only one unphased and glib in the face of greatness. In enters John Constantine, perhaps to pay back debts owed? Haaaaaaardly. "It's like you can't trust anyone anymore." Oh could he be more cautious or more casual? Still he seemed to be leaning hard on that card that he held far less value to Lucian dead than he was alive.

Easy for Ana to be used to it; as a bartender, she hears all kinds of secrets and half the people in here at any given time are some flavours of supernatural, like a Baskin Robbins of magic and horror. How delightfully they rotate around one another, the star and the black hole. Ana turns to find a shaker, out to distill a few herbs in a proper lemonata liqueur she's developing in a bottle shaped like a tulip.

"Trust is a hard currency, in this day and age," Lucian notes idly. He tugs on his sleeve. The cufflinks hold. Excellent, the exact sort of thing he hoped for. The stairs descending into the den of decadence are laced by a serpentine green sculpture, a wall of individual green glass panels reducing people to watery silhouettes against the aurora. That said, he misses little, and Mazikeen wherever she is, even less sometimes. "Do enjoy your time at our little institution."

Constantine was still dresed in the suit he might have slept in a night ago. Truth was John had nice things, but he didn't necessarily take good care of them. Same with articles. Same with people sadly. Footsteps brought im up short of where Lucian was looking bored as ever with the world, but who can blame him. John was frank, without rudeness, but just shy of it, "We need to have us a talk. I think it'll be of interest to you."

The singer practicing his routine with the sound engineer picks up the microphone and starts again, crooning a bluesy folk song midway through. The speakers come to life, carrying his rich voice for several bars. A few patrons enjoying the atmosphere and quiet go about their business. Lux is in a state of perpetual night despite its name, though the companionable evening gathers close rather than being a forbidding presence. Like a great house cat, the mystique settles in and lingers, a leather coat and cigarette for the soul.

"A talk." Lucian echoes that sentiment easily enough, looking over John with a particularly mild ease. "It's custom to offer a drink and a date before that comes up. However, I'm on the clock and so neither is required." Suggested, maybe. "What bothers you?"

Constantine arched an eyebrow and offered, "Considering the tally list I think I owe you the lobster. If you want to grab a drink, I'm game as anyone. I have two items you… may be interested in. Maybe three. Depends on how this goes and what you're willing to ofer up in help. Short story, I talked to your friend here. Been doing some research. Some things aren't adding up."

"Lobster thermidor, a food considered poor in most parts until very recently. Amazing what ad executives dining on Fifth or Madison Avenue can do," Lucian observes dryly. He nods to Ana, the strawberry-blonde tender a rarity in a city where few women even get to drink, let alone mix the drinks. The light touch she uses with distillations to make those very unusual libations the place is famed for is notably curious. "Two or three. You know I shan't bother to mince words with you. What are they, what's the risk in finding them, and what sort of stakes are you countenancing?" Pointed questions, simple, but not rude. He's listening and in a languid mood.

Constantine looked over to the singer doing his sound check. He was good. Damn good and John's expression betrayed as much. "You want ot discuss this here? How about a few people on either side of the field coming into play 'off sides'. And the other? Well… may involve someone I know you are harbouring as a fugitive? sanctioned haven? What is that about anyways?"

The singer purrs and croons. Warming up offer a fine moment to test whether thee speakers are up to snuff. Short of Stark technology, there isn't much finer about: the sounds ripple through, clear and crooning, the gorgeous acoustics Lux is blessed by capturing every mellow note. "Do you imply, John," oh first names, "that someone who should be neutral is not, and has kindly decided to meddle where they shouldn't? Goodness. That could be anyone but mankind." He doesn't really mince words. The query of harbouring fugitives earns a smirk. "Why, I am one."

Constantine squint at the First of the Fallen as he took out a cig from his jacket and pinched it in his lips fishing for his zippo. "Being obtuse doesn't much suit ya, mate, but I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself again. You had us all worried I'm sure." Casual? Oh he could do that. "GOt something in play you might be… interested in. You got someone out there trying to hunt down 'descendants' and you're harbouring one of them. I know you know that. I know where the other is as well. I wouldn't have been asked for help if you didn't indirectly want my involvement but here we are. Great coat incidently. Suits you."

Lux has the sleepiness of a lion in the doldrums of midday, heat burning on the savannah equivalent to 2:30 PM midweek, or mid enough to constitute a bother. Most performers haven't risen from their beds, the ad men from Madison Avenue aren't in their cups, and the music crowd won't be in for another six hours. Now a musician sings smoky, black honey ballads while the sound engineer adjusts different settings, giving no real urgency. He occasionally circles a microphone as adjustments translate into varied quality. It's all good, and it should be: the man who owns the place is a peerless artist, a creator who even in mundane form can unleash ecstatic hymns and furious battle anthems with almost certain supernatural force.

John and Lucian loiter at the granite and marble bar. A ways off the strawberry-blonde bartender, Ana, mixes up a few different concoctions in a signature composition, limonata being distilled with herbal infusions. She occasionally shakes up a metal mixer, and pours out the contents. The traffic is sluggish, and if daylight intrudes, Mazikeen — dusky-skinned, murder-eyed wench in leather pants — is there to bounce it and the patrons out. Or in.

First of the Firstborn, the being who was the cleaving of the atom, the spark of ignition, and the cessation of othe Void smirks. A usual arrangement for him, the expression comes easily to Lucian's face. "Everyone attempts it thee first several times, and I am sometimes inclined to part their breath from their body to teach them a simple lesson." He takes water in a glass cut with ice, and not a great deal other. A sip satisfies his thirst, if it ever existed. Let John chew on that. "Brevity is the soul of lingerie. The same applies to wit." His fingertips press into the glass. "Names."

Lindon finished all his work early; this happens sometimes, where there's just nothing left for him to do and they tell him to go home. Whatever, he's salaried, not that he needs the money in the first place with a sugar daddy like Lamont. Who has recently footed the bill for fitted suits. Off the rack doesn't suit Lindon, but something cut to his narrow, long-limbed frame is downright transformative. One notices things like the thick crop of dark hair neatly done instead of bare wrists. When there are no high-waaters to notice, those deep, dark eyes come on just a touch more soulful. It's a good look.

He makes his way to the bar, still shy in his bearing. When he spies Lucifer, he pauses, swallows. Then his glance jumps to Constantine, and he continues his approach. "Er, hello John." He was introduced to Lucian once, but instead of speaking his name, he nods to him. He's not sure if they're on a 'you may name me' basis or not.

Constantine never enjoyed these meetings, and kicked himself for missing them. He was not, however, one to fret. Not his own longevity: it was or it wasn't. He had a nasty bad habit of remaining too useful. "Harper. Genesis. And is that a Seraphim hunting them?" There you old goat. Chew on that. He was so terse this one, like pulling teeth. "The girl. She's being hunted for ancestory, why? What do we know they bloody want?" Dark brown eyes flicked up to Lindon, neat, prepared, and now familial? Iiiiinteresting. He lit his cig and pocketed the zippo. "Mills. Sharp, mate. Occasion?"

When it comes to sartorial matters, manners and clothing maketh the man. Well, that's the rule for humans. For seraphim, they maketh creation and better believe the white French-cuff shirt is perfection itself, even if the cuff-links are precisely placed. And please don't ask how he can pull off dark lilac pants with a luxurious tint and texture, black boots beneath halfway between pirate or jack, and it just /works/ because he's Lucifer Morningstar. Take notes. The ice clanks and hums in the glass set to the arrogant bow of his mouth. He's somewhat casual compared to other nights and days, loose-limbed, the ease of a leonine monarch surveying his domain. "Hello, welcome to Lux."

Mazikeen is busy haunting things in a way no one needs to know is more than mildly predatory. She's like that with everyone, though, scowling through dark, dark lashes. "Genesis. Subtle name. And…" The proprietor shakes his head, the devotion of the edison bulbs shooting copper highlights where antique gold has far less hue than granted here. "No. It's not what you suggested. Given there are only two…"

Lindon gives Mazikeen a wide berth. He's got nothing to hide from the bouncer, but she's predatory and he radiates prey and knows it. As he comes to stand beside Constantine, he lowers his gaze and smiles as he says, "I just got some new suits. It was time to make a change." He lifts his gaze to Lucian, and his smile falters. No one should look that good in lilac. Or anything. "Thank you," he says. "I've been here before, and I rather like it when it's quiet." Hence coming in in the middle of the afternoon.

He traces his fingertips over the bar, an idle nervous gesture, and he waits patiently for Ana to take his order. "I'd like a Lost Manuscript, please," he says when the moment comes. Never mind he's got all the lost manuscripts crammed in there somewhere. This kind is tastier. "John, Lamont said he'll talk to you."

Constantine turned from Lucian to Lindon arching an eyebrow< "He's agreed to speak with me? Iiiinteresting. Argued withthe old man on my behalf then?" He squint, eyes like curious chestnuts, at the Archive. "…Why did you do this, mate?"

Lindon shrugs a shoulder and smiles crookedly. "Maybe," he says. His drink arrives, and his tracing fingers curl around the glass. "Because he's being gruff and overprotective, and I don't think it's so warranted he can't even hear your questions. You've said time and again you've got no interest in his Archive." He takes a drink, tentative. He's only got the constitution of a human being, and he's a lightweight at that. "If it was my lover, and he'd been killed, I'd want to know who did it."

Constantine was gruff, and grumbly, and it's easy really to see where he and Lamont might be a bit too much alike in some regards. His cheeks pulled in and he didn't remember disclosing that bit of direct information to Lindon but he'd already consigned he wa sa lot more than he let on and had a good idea why. "Well… right you are mate. But we ain't been that in some time." He took a deep breath, resigned to the facts being what they were. It meant something to him, and even in pieces, he did care. His secret was he always did. He wanted better for people and the world loved to kick them all in teh yarbles over it instead. "You're not wrong. Archive might not be the only thing the old man is protecting. Set up lunch. Tell him… Tell him we appreciate it."

Lindon forgets sometimes where the information comes from. It's a bad habit, but what can he do? He knows what he knows. He tilts his head as he watches John. Some might find it coquettish, but a glimpse at his eyes shows genuine curiosity. "Of course," he says. "I'll do that." He pauses, then asks, "John, what happened at the institution? I want to remember you, but that part of my mind is just gone." Replaced by the Archive, pieces of himself ripped out to make room.

Constantine motioned a hand at the bartender. "Scotch, neat. Cheers." There were too many years of necessity and regret in those eyes. Finally when the drink came he sipped it for a moment, savoring the burn in his chest. "I went… trying to forget everything I thought I knew. I went to have them tell me this…" he waved his hand with glass in it, "All of this wasn't true. Aloys called me the night he died. Chased by people. Mkaing a last ditch effort to get ahead of others. So I… came to New York when i heard. I arrived a day and a half too late. I checked myself into the hospital and ran into… well you. You were rambling in Latin nearly in coherrantly and did not shut your bloody yap to save your life. Knew my name. Damneest thing. You were.."

He paused and sucked in his cheeks before having another drink. "You hurt You had answers. I tried to get them from you… but you asked me to kill you. You begged me for death and I almost done ya in good, mate. Almost… did you a solid there. But I didn't. I tried to expel whatever was in ya but I couldn't without ripping out all your wiring. You'da been a vegitable. So… A bound it. Still in there, but… not the first time I forced a cosmic entity into a configuration. Just… never pleasant for anyone when it hapens." He shrugged and expected no fanfare on this.

Lindon regards John for a long moment before he looks away and takes a swallow of his drink. He grimaces as the alcohol burns. "I owe you," he says, his voice a little rough from the booze. "All other things being equal, I'd rather be alive." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Thank you." He glances to John again. Surely the man has to know what he is, but if he's not going to say so, Lindon will continue to play ignorant. "It hurts sometimes," he says. "I get these blackout headaches, but it's a small price to pay for the life I've got."

Constantine lifted his glass to Lindon and nodded. "Small proce to pay, but we're breathing while we do. Time to do something with it I suppose."

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