maskormenacelogs | what makes a good man? {CLOSED}

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what makes a good man? {CLOSED}

WHO: Batman and John Constantine
WHERE: Downtown Maurtia Falls, a few blocks from Memory Lane
WHEN: Late night October 25th/Early October 26th, following the concert and the manifestation of people's bad memories
WHAT: A polite conversation between two civilized gentlemen
WARNINGS: Mention of John's flashbacks which involve child death, child abuse, sexual abuse, violence, PTSD and generally all kinds of pleasantries.

[ It was well over a week John had been kicking around in Maurtia Falls. The Porters weren't difficult to deal with and his flat-mates in Heropa left him be, generally, but he didn't see the point in going back, at least not yet. He stayed around where the interesting things were happening, using cash on hand for motels if he needed to crash, but generally staying up through the nights in cafes, or wandering the streets. His job, and plenty more excitement, was here.

Excitement. It was the nice way of saying that even in a new dimension with a fresh start, his life was buggered up already.

Not long after showing up here he'd happened upon Persephone and her- music? Even he wasn't still sure what to call what she did. Immediately he had the urge to jump back into the rock and roll game from his youth, managing her act in a piss excuse for altruism. He told himself he was keeping her from making the arse of herself that he had during his punker "star" phase, and that working with her held back the tide of souls he'd damned or doomed. He'd managed to believe that for about a month until something... happened. Until the memory curse appeared, drawn by God knows what - that part John was still trying to figure out. It seemed to feed on or use the highest and lowest moments from imPort's lives. The alleyway, an unassuming-looking passage between two titans of brick in the town's business district, had become an installation of twisted drama. The defining moments of anyone whom happened by oappeared, like walking through a film scene. John had seen much hope and horror, including his own.

Three nights ago, the curse and his friends' music made Astra come back, to haunt him in the middle of a packed auditorium. Following this, he bolted and ended up back in the alleyway, watching everyone else's worst moments dragged up and out of the recesses of their minds. People's terrors persisted night after night. Eventually, he had steeled himself enough to watch the alley itself, rather than the sick scenes within it, watching for clues. He had been scarcely communicating with his talent or her entourage unless necessary, not sure what to say to them. But he was to the point of needing a bloody drink.

It hadn't been a chore finding a corner store that sold him a decent pint bottle of scotch, at least. Cracking it open and letting the smooth burn soothe him inside, he started in a meander back towards the alley, while trying, even though dead tired, to come up with a plan of attack. ]

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[Batman stalks him from the rooftops, not for an exceptionally long time, not really, John just isn't that hard to find. Check your telltale skeevy locations-- bars, liquor stores, motels, and strip joints. You're bound to find him at one. He doesn't make an effort of hiding himself, mostly because the neon lights along the strip of road afford him a small amount of discreet cover, and he also expects John thinks the people that would come after him would want him to see them coming. Well, that's not entirely inaccurate.

John'll get a few good swigs off his bottle before the noose hooks around his ankle and drags him upside-down through the air and into Batman's grasp. He holds him by the same ankle over the edge of the building and looks down.]

We need to talk.

[He sneers, tossing him roughly on to the rooftop as though he were discarding some small amount of trash behind him.]

[ It's clear that whomever ambushed John isn't an amateur. He can tell by the way that his skull doesn't crack on the pavement as he's suddenly jerked upside down, then yanked several stories into the air and hurled onto a rooftop. In the process the whiskey slips out of his hand, most of it splashing onto his coat before the bottle falls with the telltale smash of glass on concrete. John grits his teeth in order to stifle any noises of pain or surprise. He won't give the goddamn Bat that kind of satisfaction. ]

Evening, Batsy. Don't have somewhere else to be? Fighting a clown, maybe?

[John will barely have his last word out before Batman is on him and rocks him hard with a blow to his floating ribs. He doesn't pull this punch, he intends for it to hurt, and yanks him up by his hair before he has a chance to crumple in on himself. He bares his teeth.]

Let me be more clear. I talk, you listen. Understand?

[ The trouble is, when you start by beating the everliving hell out of someone, you can't really step it up from there. And maybe this routine works on Bat's usual villains and the miscellaneous goons in Gotham, but John is waiting to be scared.

Still, that punch smarts. He's not sure whether he actually heard any of his ribs crack, given that the blood is still rushing in his ears. He goes deliberately limp as Batman pulls him up, just to be difficult. He grins and bears it, since it keeps him from making any reactionary noises that would indicate anything hurting.

With his arms still free he gives an overly-theatrical shrug in reply, as if to say "sure" or maybe, "do your worst, mate". Since, you see, he's not meant to speak. ]

[He yanks back at his hair to make sure that John is looking right at him when he speaks.]

I never expected that I'd want to know even less about you than I already do, John, but here we are. This place just keeps surprising me. I wonder now if all of your bravado is just to cover up what a miserable human being you are.

Wait, yer' just figuring out that bit now?

[ John shifts the weight of his smaller, thinner frame under Batman's grip. Hardly squirming in any sort of protest, but it's just enough movement to dare him to tighten his fist. ]

World's greatest detective, my arse.

Astra.

[He growls the name through his teeth.]

Did you tell her that before you got her killed?

[ Ah, so here's the heart of the matter.

Her name still creates a stabbing feeling in his chest, but he's also spent the last 72 hours re-living that trauma, and by now the firestorm of grief is burning low. But he's not an idiot. He still knows he deserves the punches.

Not that he'll admit it out loud. ]

Concerned with children's welfare now, mate? I reckoned ye' only cared for the ones ye' could indoctrinate and dress up in tights.

[That makes him angry. He yanks John down to his knees and hits him down along his cheekbone, right below the eye socket.

Then again. And again.]

You like to tell yourself that you can help people. That maybe if you try to be somebody you're not you can make a difference for somebody when you've already clearly given up on yourself.

[His eyes narrow.]

But that will never happen, because at the end of the day what you do, you do for you, because it makes you feel good, and while you can keep on breathing and feeling what you'd maybe like to imagine is remorse, other people suffer because of it.

I would have thought that after something like that... maybe it would have made you better. But instead, you see another girl in pain and you use her pain because it of what it does for you. So, let me be clear.

You stay away from her, or I make you hurt.

[ When the beat-down starts for real, John lets it happen. No resistance, no complaints. He doesn't catch every word of the... wonderful, spirited lecture that Batman is giving him, thanks to the tunnel vision and ringing in his ears. But he catches enough. In the meantime, the punches are practically sublime, crashing harder than anything he's felt before, worse than even the nastiest bouncers he's encountered in his time. Faintly, beyond his eye's swelling, he can see his own blood running from the tenderized spot on his face, splattering onto the "hero"'s glove with every repetition of the assault. No wonder why this bloke has so many enemies that are downright zonkers. How often do they get their braincases scrambled like this?

When it eventually stops, for now, John is surprised to discover he's still conscious and has some breath left in him. ]

I can't make a much bigger mess when she's already perma-possessed by an ancient one. But yeh can't let someone be unless you've swooped in and "saved" 'em yerself, hey?

[ He's starting to prefer getting punched halfway to oblivion over the holier-than-thou lecture, really. ]

Edited 2016-10-25 03:22 (UTC)

Funny thing that trouble didn't start until you were around, hm?

Well, you're a tough guy, aren't you, John. So, if not for her, let's put this in a way that you'll understand, because you are only concerned with yourself, aren't you?

[With a free hand, he peels back some of the torn shirt at John's collar, revealing the mottled tattoos.]

These must have taken a long time to put on, didn't they? I wonder if your demons are literal, too? How about we find out?

[He presses his gloved hand to a sigil on John's chest and a light beneath his fingertips start to sear away at it with a blue light. It's a good enough test of this new nanotech of his in action to test what it can actually do when put into practice. The pain is certainly not as painful or as lasting as the punches, but when he removes his hand the skin is fresh and untouched as though there had never been anything there at all.]

Maybe we should remove all of them and really see?

I don't suspect they'll kill you, no. That gives me enough time to get you out. But I wonder how much time even five minutes feels down there?

[ It feels like a cigarette being put out on his skin where the Bat's fingertips rest. Which...might hurt or frighten someone that isn't John. Until, still mildly concussed, he glances down and notices a patch of bare skin where one of his protective marks should be tatooed.

He just manages not to say oh, shite aloud, but he's sure that there's some sort of night vision or other tech that'll let the Bat read his reaction in his facial expression all the same.

Made yer' point.

[ Even the idea of being in a corner gives him a simmering feeling of resentment, but he supposes he has to be pragmatic. This, he can't shrug off the way he can a simple beating. This presents bigger risks. John doubts that his "friends" below would leave him intact inside of five minutes. How eager those below would be, to finally deal with their biggest pest. Would the sanctimonious Batman be prepared for that?

But, pointing as such out would be giving him knowledge, and therefore power, for free. Can't let him break you, John. ]

Anything else y'need to get outta yer system, Bats?

Edited 2016-10-25 04:30 (UTC)

[His hand hovers, fingertips glowing a gentle neon blue.]

That depends. Do we understand each other?

[ No. ]

Yup.

Good.

[He throws him aside harshly.]

Then get off of my roof.

[ John glances conspicuously at the ground five stories below, then back at Batman curiously. He could fuss, but instead crawls back to his feet, and opts to try picking the lock on the roof's maintenance door.

After some painfully awkward minutes, he finds a Swiss Army Knife that he doesn't actually recall purchasing in one of his coat's endless pockets. Small blessing that it didn't fall out on the way up here.

He slides the thin blade in the lock, working slowly on purpose, even with the Bat's eyes burning holes in his back. Even when he feels the mechanism click open, he pretends to struggle for a few more seconds, just to bother Batman.

He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the stars in his eyes from standing up too fast. He saunters through the door, and as an afterthought sticks his head out one more time: ]

Cheers, luv.

Edited 2016-10-25 05:13 (UTC)

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