| CONSTANTINE: Got your mind's eye screwed on straight? Good. Now cast it back. It's ten years ago. It's a warm enough day for England in the springtime, which means, at the very least, that your hands won't go numb around the cigarette. Thatcher has been out of office for seven years, Major has been overturned, and Blair is the new PM. The conservatives are whipped, John Constantine has a fresh pack of Silk Cut, some brand new books waiting in a box upstairs, a pub-crawl with Chas later -- and he feels, frankly, pretty fucking good. It's a spring day. New beginnings, fresh starts, and all that rot. He doesn't buy into it, but he's listless enough to not care -- instead, he's taking in the scenery outside his apartment, which is all grimy gum-studded concrete and limp grass and mottled bricks. It's not much, but it's home; he lounges on the outside steps like a king on his throne, back to the wall, cigarette to his lips, and watching the occasional pedestrian slither on by. People-watching isn't usually Constantine's fare (because most strangers are total pissants, of course), but he's in the mood for empty philosophising today, so it's good enough for him. Of course, that'd be the universe's cue to piss all over his mood with something bizarre and out-of-the-ordinary. It's starting to become standard fare by now. Turns out once you dip your ickle naive toes into the occult pool, everyone starts giving you calls thinking you're the newest, biggest paranormal lifeguard on the block. Big bloody bother, but at least it keeps him busy and it keeps his blood pumping. The new job's a bitch, but as far as memory recalls, John always did have a thing for snide bitches. CORALINE: She's seen the man on the stoop before, he's a shaggy thing with a near constant tower of powdery gray smoke rising from his lips and hands. He hasn't been here long but she noticed him within the last week. Always in that faded trench coat. Always smoking. He's not at all intimidating, grumpy perhaps and someone little children ought to steer clear from. Coraline isn't your typical child, however. She is ten and three quarter years, three quarters being the most important fact of her age, since it means she is much closer to eleven than many other ten year olds and of this fact she is very proud. Her gaze remains steady on the lounging silhouette of a John Constantine as she clambers down damp concrete stairs, the heels of her feet thudding lightly against the pavement before she stops mid skip, only to land a few feet away from where her new neighbor is perched. Her face now squinting up at the sky in a screwed pinch of pensive thought, despite the clouds it's still rather bright and harsh on young, inquisitive eyes. With a sigh, the young girl plops to also sit herself down upon the steps supporting herself with the palms of her hands. "Excuse me, I have a question for you. You're an adult, aren't you?" Her head cocks to one side, brows disappearing into her bangs. Coraline didn't try to assume someone is an adult simply because they look the part, looks were deceiving more often than not. "A simple yes or no would be wonderful. No long winded explanation is necessary." Long winded explanations tend to bore her quickly. CONSTANTINE: Then it was a good thing John was a fan of the short and to-the-point; he tended to ramble on with long-winded and meandering monologues, but only in the comfort and soliloquoy of his own mind. Out loud and physical, the man settled for one arched eyebrow, and a grin around his cigarette. He pulls it out of his mouth for a moment, the Silk Cut drooping between his fingers -- at least he has the decency not to blow smoke into a kid's face. "D'I look like a child to you, love?" CORALINE: "Well, looks are deceiving," she responds pointedly. Coraline takes a short breath before she exhales through her nose, the warmth of her breath misting ever so slightly in the cool, fresh spring air. "You can't look at something and assume. At least, I can't anymore. Nothing is as it seems. It's a very true saying, much like when you see a flower it may look nice but perhaps it will make you sneeze, or bite you. A flesh eating flower isn't the best. You need your fingers. Especially if you ever wish to play the piano." A blink, swivelling her body a bit more to get a better look at him, she happens to notice he has premature wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Most likely from the awful smoke and nicotine that he allowed to pump through his blood stream. "But the point I was making is . . . do you have an Other Mother?" CONSTANTINE: "An other fuck-what-now?" CORALINE: A sigh, grown ups were ever so difficult. "An Other Mother." CONSTANTINE: He pauses, mulling that over for a moment. Crazy kid. Then again, he's met crazier. "Nah, I don't. Don't even have a regular mother." His grin is lopsided and only a little sardonic. "What's your point, then?" CORALINE: "Oh." She looks a bit disappointed, hoping perhaps there may be an explanation to the problem she had just recently experienced, a shuffle of the foot kicking a few pebbles out of her way. "I suppose an Other Mother is rather ridiculous . . . though you know, soul stealing is ridiculous too. Talking cats . . . but the real world can be far more ridiculous. Cats choose when they talk. Besides, I took care of it." The word ridiculous was fun to say. Her head cocks to one side thoughtfully, a state of pensiveness passing over her eyes. "Her hand is still crawling around in the well, I'd imagine." CONSTANTINE: Right. Now that sudden onslaught of words gives him pause, and Constantine finds himself temporarily mollified, the cigarette fading in his fingertips. Then, briefly jarred back into movement, the man takes another drag, red embers glowing. Either the girl's mentally unstable, or she's gotten herself a real-live dose of the supernatural. And judging from how John himself seems to be a sort of paranormal shit-magnet, money's on the latter. "Soul-stealin's downright rude," he says slowly, more to himself than to her. "Least the friggers could do is bargain for it, am I right. What sort of thing did you see, this other mother? Ghost or what? Monster?" John's looking at her with a critical eye, sizing her up. Can't be more than what, eight? Nine? Seems stable enough. Seems a damn sight calmer than he was at age eight-nine-something, even. CORALINE: The red embers catch her attention for a moment. Their soft subtle glow flaring when he inhales too quickly and then suddenly dissipating as the gray toxins leave his body. She seems more intent on the actions of his smoking than listening to him. However, she is in fact listening. Quite intently. So much that the fact her got her age wrong was rather insulting. Her head jerks up to gaze at him with scrutiny. "Pardon me. I happen to be ten and three-quarter years, that's very much closer to eleven." A pinching pucker to her lips before she begins to speak again. "I do not know what she was actually. It was all very peculiar when it first happened. She had paper white skin and very long fingers and her eyes were buttons. The cat could talk, the dogs watched my neighbors perform and the rats could speak." The fact an adult was even listening to her was quite a thrill, truly. Coraline takes a seat stretching her legs out. "It was all quite fun until mummy and daddy went missing. Then it all became not so good. Oh, and soul stealing is rude." She nods in fervored agreement. She's a little surprised actually. That an adult held interest in what she was saying, there was something a little peculiar about this shaggy, smoking man. She has decided that likes him. CONSTANTINE: He couldn't help but laugh, and behind the gravelly chuckle, a sentence: "Dogs an' rats an' talkin' cats. Sure this wasn't just a nightmare o' yours, kiddo?" CORALINE: Stiffening. A sour expression spreads over her face for a moment. "My name is Coraline. I can show you if you like. Her hand is still in the well." Matter-of-fact-tone. CONSTANTINE: At those words, John slowly clambers to his feet, dusting off the sides of his battered brown trenchcoat and depositing the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth. He moves with a shrug, and a curious sort of inviting gesture to walk. "Alrigh'. Let's have at it, Coraline. I'm John." He wasn't really expecting to find a disembodied hand in the well behind their buildings. Nothing much ever happened around this flat, which is why he'd chosen this particular high-rise to settle down and plant his malleable roots. Kids had overactive imaginations, didn't they? But on the other hand, children often sussed out this sort of thing before their parents ever did. If he had a pound for every time a kid felt a ghost the adults couldn't, well, he could've retired rich and happy and fat -- but bored. Excitement was important. And the hands of Other Mothers in wells probably went under the general umbrella term of 'excitement'. CORALINE: She will remember his name. Coraline is very good at that. Remembering things. She is a bit surprised that he did wish to see this hand in the well. Most adults would have patted her on the head with a "That's nice dear" and left it at that and possibly bring it up as joke as they sat to socialize. However, Coraline is beginning to realize that this man is no normal adult. She gives a curt nod, wiggling her shoulders justly. "Of course, John. If you would follow me please." She hops off the stoop, her feet carrying her along the rocky pathway that led to the well, a slight skip to her step. "You do have to be quiet if you want to hear it crawling around down there, hopefully the light is good. You don't happen to have a torch, do you?" Of course not. No one ever carried the necessities. "Well, I suppose your lighter will work. Come, come. You're a bit slow." CONSTANTINE: Normality is overrated, and so is moving quickly unless you have hellhounds at your heels. Constantine walks at a satisfied slouch, choosing his own pace in order to pause occasionally and drag more life out of his cigarette; of all things, he's even taking the time to admire (admire? a dubious choice of words) the dirty, scrubbish surroundings. When they finally emerge out back, he is pleased to find that there is, indeed, a well. Dusty and disused, but a well nonetheless. He is less pleased by what he feels when Constantine leans out over it. When he does, his jaw falls slack. His cigarette tumbles from his lips and falls, twirling, into the well until it becomes nothing more than a faint light, and then a muted plop. "Well, fuck me fuckin' sideways, there is somethin' down there," he marvels aloud. He can feel it; it crawls and prickles his skin, setting off that little Occult Spidey Sense (TM) lodged in his soul. There's something down there, and it doesn't bloody belong. CORALINE: She follows with her hands folded delicately behind her back as he approaches the well. Her expression says it all. She knows what is down there, of course, so she has no reason to be surprised. When he finally speaks and she hears the marvelled tone, Coraline finds herself nodding in response. "Of course there is. I told you her hand is crawling around down there. Honestly, I wouldn't try to pull it back up." She lifts her chin while her lips pucker to one side thoughtfully. "She would most likely try to kill you or me really. The point of the matter is she must never get loose." A tired and nearly bored sigh. "Dreadful thing." CONSTANTINE: Constantine sits on the edge of the well, then, teetering out over the damp and mossy stone. Could just stick rocks and planks over it and hope it doesn't crawl out. He had to bury an immortal corpse once -- another Constantine, ancient and bones creaking, rot peeling off its limbs. You could stick 'em under the earth, hope they never come to light again. But it was a half-assed measure, and as talented as he was with the half-assed measures, John preferred more permanent solutions. "Mind if I do something, kid?" he asks, but before she's even responded, he's already starting to fumble around in the recesses of the coat. He shoots the occasional glance into the tepid water, noting the eerie, faint scritching noises from below. CORALINE: "You shouldn't sit so very close," she says, her brows knitting together. "If you were to fall in I'm sure it wouldn't be a pleasant experience." Coraline rocks back and forth from her heels to her toes, watching him with earnest fascination. "What do you intend to do?" she finds herself questioning. He can do as he likes, for he is an adult and that is their way, but Coraline still wants to know. She is a curious young person, after all. CONSTANTINE: "Somethin' flashy." And right on cue, he flashes a grin, and sprinkles a small handful of powder into the water. Smoke and mirrors, kid -- smoke and mirrors. There's a deep rumble at the base of the well, and he strikes a match. Sulphur flares before he drops that down into the well, too. The stones shake and rattle a little. He closes his eyes, focusing and probing his consciousness. Yeah; yeah, there. Something moving that shouldn't be moving. Time to stop, he tells it silently, more a gruff command than a request. Step the fuck down an' leave 'er alone. |