and if you need to curse my name, CURSE ME GOOD {OPEN}

[heckblazer]

WHO: John Constantine and any participants to help lift the Memory Lane curse
WHERE: Maurtia Falls, a parking lot off of the cursed alleyway
WHEN: The evening of October 30-31st
WHAT: Fighting evil by moonlight (im sorry)
WARNINGS: Flashbacks from various characters, including violence and other trauma



[ Memory Lane, as John liked to call it, had a second spook. That was what he liked to call himself considering the amount of time he'd spent there the past fortnight. He lingered long after everyone hsd fled, watching even when the space had no one's minds to play with. A few times he'd even passed out on the concrete, studying the effects of the alley until his eyelids could no longer protest. Still, he'd been enjoying his playdates with the unseen, twisted prankster immensely.

After the flashbacks had gotten bad, particularly the concert from hell and his...lecture from Batman, he'd barely slept or strayed more than a few blocks from the spot. He'd noticed a stray cat that meandered around the area. He'd felt like a prat for not noticing it earlier, really. It stalked the spot almost more than he did. After some wrestling, he'd borrowed some of its fur to conduct a divination spell, discovering a spot where the magic and energy was most concentrated: a simple, unscary parking lot off one end of the alley. It wasn't clear where it came from - as in, if it appeared naturally or was placed by someone. But in the latter case, it had to be someone, not some thing. This wold still had a weird, chilling sense of nothingness where the usual heebie-jeebies from Heaven or Hell would be. But it did have the familiar vibes of a Dream. Explained why the memories were so... dramatic, and raw, and human.

Since John put out the call for assistance, he'd been gathering supplies and prepping. Road paint, candles, and any herbs and spices he could find associated with positive energy or protection.

As night fell, he went to work. He picked an area in the carpark where the pavement was even and smoothed over, and began adding the circle on the ground.

Time to get the show on the road.

Comments

ACT I: arrival, people showing up and preparing for the ritual

[heckblazer]

john thread

[heckblazer]

[ As people arrive on the scene, they will find John crouched over, painting a protective circle into the pavement. Occasionally, he stops, procures spices from one of his many, many pockets, and scatters it onto the ground or mixing it into his paintbrush. He might also char the leaves and powders with the end of cigarette while muttering ancient-sounding languages in the process. ]

[helpline]

I've got plenty of chalk if you want it.

[ BECAUSE HELLO JOHN, have the Doctor just right over your shoulder, looking at the protective circle he's drawing. Magic isn't his forte. Magic's nowhere close to his forte. So hey, chalk might not work. But again, he's going to be as helpful as he can (while also taking notes because seriously, this is all so interesting and ALL SO WEIRD.)

The Doctor's a bit more casual than his usual velvet coat. He's wearing a button-up shirt, but with a light hoodie over top of it. Because hey, if it ends up being some sort of demonic nonsense then he doesn't want it to ruin his coat—he likes that coat! He's also casual in his demeanor, entirely relaxed about this possibly dangerous situation. ]

[heckblazer]

[ Unfortunately for the Doctor, John startles. He jolts, luckily catching himself before he mucks up the protective circle any. Maybe he didn't notice you coming because he was busy, or because his perception for non-human things doesn't click with aliens. He straightens out again, recovering his cool. ]


I thought 'bout chalk. Reckoned paint might be stronger, keep the buggers from tampering with the signs or breaking through.

[ Which is magician-speak for he has no bloody idea what he's dealing with and is going overboard, just in case. ]

[helpline]

[ or it could just be the rules of comedic timing, who knows with these sorts of things. The Doctor'll gladly ignore that jump though, you're still cool in his eyes, John.

But about the tampering bit... ]

So, out of sheer curiosity, what sort of signs are you drawing? Stuff like this's normally Latin, isn't it?

[ spoiler alert: the Doctor has NO FRICKEN CLUE how magic works. ]

[pummelgranite]

[ Sullen teen goddess is leaning on a dumpster. Her outfit looks quite a bit more like leather armor than dance attire this time, but then that still might just be her #aesthetic. Hard to tell with rock stars.

She's mostly watching John with silent intensity. That is until this guy shows up. ]


Hey.


You're that guy.

Re: john thread

[pummelgranite]

[ She's still got her golden hood up, but her arms and torso are decked in leather armor, held together with golden chains.

She's been watching him silently this whole time. Not smoking, not fiddling with her phone. Later she'll have questions, but for now he's her best chance of getting her hands on whoever or whatever is responsible (well, as responsible as she is, at least.) For that matter, she's been even more tight-lipped than usual all day. There's been a stillness to her that may or may not belie the rage that was coiled tight inside her like the springs of a far-too-wound watch. The girl's ready to bash in a few heads. Hopefully he can find her something worth bashing. ]

[heckblazer]

[ Gods were not, at least in John's experience, very subtle. Except for the designated tricksters, anyway, which Persephone was not. One did not get a moniker like 'The Destroyer' via pranks and deception.

He can feel her eyes burning holes into his back while he works, and he needn't hear her speak or utter any complaints to know what's bothering her. Reliving trauma is bad enough, let alone when a crowd of the general public could see it too and watch for their own amusement. And that's to say nothing of being a... deity forced into the modern world? Incarnated as a teenager? Both? John hadn't stop to question the finer points of how her world and its Gods worked. At the moment, though, they were trifling details. He kept working, occasionally glancing back at her, not sure if he should speak first. Could throw her off her groove if he did. Could also give The Bat more reasons to sock him a good one. ]

[beneathbluerafters]

[ Klarion just barely scratches 5'2, and so he really only gets to look down his nose at people when they're physically below him. Luckily, Constantine is crouching, so Klarion has ample opportunity here! He's staring down at Constantine with a look that suggests he's seen much better protective circles (he hasn't, but that's beside the point), and the cat curled up around the hood of his sweater is giving him an even loftier look, as only a feline can. ]

Is tobacco part of the ritual?

[heckblazer]

[ John stares back, not particularly hostile but he is... an inherently very challenging personality. He gives the kid, demon, whatever a moment to enjoy the sneering before standing again, rubbing in some of the cigarette ash with his heel. ]


Seeing as it's my ritual, yeah.

[abandon_hope]

[ Here's your favorite goth teenager, watching John work with his dark eyes. ]

Is all of that going to work?

[ He has a healthy respect for supernatural rituals, given his everything but ... it still seems like a lot. ]

[heckblazer]

Hope so. M'not pulling this off fer' fun and games.

[ Uuuugh how many of the damned kids have to badger him. Not he can say anything, since it's Persephone's kind of/sort of son. ]


Dealing with the unknown and fighting with magic is one of few areas where overcompensating innit actually a bad thing, really.

[timecapture]

[Max shoes up, looking uneasy. Time travel? She can do time travel. But magic? She's not so certain she can manage it. Still, she's willing to give it a try. She hasn't brought anything for the seance, having no idea what to bring - but at least she's here, right?

She just hopes it's not too late to stop this.]

[heckblazer]

[ At the corners of his mouth, there is a just noticeable twitch upwards. John lets himself feel a moment of relief. ]

Oi, Max. Sight for' sore eyes, luv.

[ He pulls an extra cigarette from his pocket and gestures it towards her in offer. Solidarity, peace offerings help with rituals like this. Might calm her down. She doesn't need to know how bad the incoming shitstorm will really be. ]

[timecapture]

Hi, John. Are you okay?

[She makes a polite gesture to refuse the cigarette, giving him a little smile to show she's not offended.]

ACT II: showtime, fighting off the curse

[heckblazer]

[heckblazer]

((self-harm, dark magic ritual, cancer warnings))

[ Once the circle is completed, John motions for his helpers to come forward and stand, just within its borders and join hands. He stands in the centre, letting them envelop him. He stands atop the sigil in the circle's centre.

It's just like following a recipe in a cookbook, John. Except the cookbook is in ancient Sumerian and half the pages have fallen out or been burned away.

He keeps a lit cigarette in one hand, the people surrounding him hand in hand, quiet and focused. They focused on safety, and protection, and defeating the negative spirit. John does not think of the risk they assume just by showing up, entrusting him with their protection, their survival. If he doubts, it'll be no better than being overconfident.

In his pocket, he finds his small multi-use knife. He had this with him, the other night when Batman ambushed him. Good. It should still be emotionally charged, then.

He squeezes the blade with his free hand, letting the crimson ooze forward from his palm, dripping onto the pavement, onto the sigil at his feet.

He takes a breath of the cool air and starts his incantations, putting on his magic-doer voice. ]



Ei̇ͯs̎ͥͯ̈̔ͫd̀̐͗̒̍͒i͌ͪ̅̐̆b̊̌ͯ͌ͨh̓̊͗̄̎̊ ̽ͮ̿ͨ́r̊ͨ́̾i͑̂͒̐̉̽̊um͛̑̃,ͥ̉̾͂͗̓ ͊̀͆̿̍s̋̈́ͧ̏͋pͭ̎̒̌i͌̿o̓̓ͥ̽̊̑r͋͑aͭ̔d̎̔̈ͣ͐̈̎
̎̈ͥCͦl̍̂̎ͩ̃͊u͌̎͊̽i̿̿̈́̀͑͊̎ňn̽̊̂ͧ̒ͤ̉ ͭ̽̉̀ͮ̄̄m͌ͥ̆ͦȯ ̌̎̐̍̽̄àͮͥ͒ͦ̓ͬi͒th͐n̅eͨͣ̒

[ As the words leave his lips, another awful sound returns, and for a moment he thinks it really came from him, before realizing it's back: the other him. He hears the retching and hacking of his old self again, and sees it stumbling into the carpark where the group have their ritual. His past self, the memory of himself in the moments before nearly being taken by lung cancer. And this twisted past-John isn't alone. Another memory from another person manifests, then another, people's worst parts of their lives and minds making one last, horrific comeback, the screams and crashes of the multiple traumatic events building into a hellish cacophony, the band of nightmares building in their song's finale. In the eyes of his past self, there was a hatred John didn't recall seeing before. He watches himself, and whatever force beyond compels the apparition and thinks: is this the best you got? ]

Th̸a ͞m̸i͟ ̶a͜g̕ ͟àit̷hn̴ea͢dh̨ spi̛or̢a̸d ̡ai͟slin͢g̶èa͏ǹ
͏Fáil͘e̴as͟ ͜còm͜h͠d̶ai͜ch͝ do̧ ̀gh͟n͠ù͠is͘
Ach҉ t̴h͞a̧ na ͢sùile̸an a͢ǵa҉d҉ a d̵ȩalraich ͏toi̴gh́ leam̕ mo͝
ceum͟ a̧i̶r̕ a͡d̕h͝art̕
͠Ce͜u̧m̸ a-͡stęąch͜ ͠an so͘l͘u͟s̵

[ He just has to keep this up for a few more minutes, right? ]

[pummelgranite]

[ She stands quietly for his ritual. She can feel when the magic starts to flow, prickling the inside of her head. She's been quieter and weirder than normal, as he built the spell. He had been weird as well. (Though unfortunately not quieter.) Like he was expecting her to hurt him, like he was hoping her could goad her into just getting it over with. She couldn't say she didn't know the feeling. But it seemed weird, coming from an adult.


Once the alley began its counter-attack, there was only one phantom that shows up for Persephone- and that's the image of herself, laying down on her side in the muck. There's a splatter of blood across her cheek. She's laying perfectly still, eyes haunted and hollow. Her breath is slow and even. Sometimes, she blinks out a few tears. Other than that, she doesn't move. And there she remains, staring at her living counterpart with that unsettling gaze.

The real Persephone's hands tightens just a hair on the ones she's holding. She thinks about protection, and safety, and the power that she has to make that real. She almost entirely avoids thinking about how easy it would be to retreat to the underground and lie back down. She thinks harder about protection, and safety, and power.

nsfw for many F-bombs

[heckblazer]

[ Intention is the backbone of any successful spell. It's more than saying the right words or having a pretty looking circle to stand in. The magic cannot do anything that the caster does not genuinely desire; it cannot manifest anything that the mage is not willing to focus on and give their undivided attention and energy to. It's willpower is that of its wielder. No more, no less.

In other words: Don't fuck it up, John. Don't fuck it up like you do everything else.

He stands with his shoulders squared and his feet planted. Assuming proper posture for a change and the tailoring of his coat make his underfed frame look bigger and sturdier than it actually is. His eyes stay open and he dares not look away from his memory. Past and present John compete to be heard, the one within the circle chanting and repeating his incantation, the one without hacking and retching, tar and pus spurting from his mouth with every cough. John reminds himself how this chapter of his life ended. How he'd pulled the greatest con of his life in what could have been his last moments of it. How he'd beat the Devil, tricked him into removing the sickness. It hurt, almost as bad as the disease had in the first place, but he'd won.

But this alleyway seems to like John very much. Maybe because he has so much horror in his past that the curse can eat up and regurgitate.

The ghost of his past takes on a detail that John knows didn't happen at the time: it bursts into flame. The figure is covered head to toe in hellfire, the visage eerily quiet. The flames don't roar, neither does the man within them scream in any pain. But then, the figure morphs into someone else with the flicker of the flames, and the John of the present can feel an awful twisting in his gut as he sees the transformation. The new man is taller, older, hair darker and grayed, clad in an immaculate tuxedo complete with hat and tails. He speaks, booming, projecting as only a seasoned stage performer knows how, declaring his finals words with the same clarity and righteous fury that had echoed in John's nightmares every night since:

"Constantine, if you do not deliver my daughter safely from this place, my shade shall hound you through all eternity. Is that understood?"

Of course the curse had one last thing up its sleeve. Of course it had to show the untimely death of Giovanni Zatara, one of the world's greatest magicians and father of John's then-love. Of course every needless death at John's hands had to be paraded out. Of course the curse needed to have one last "fuck you" at the ready. Offuckingcourse. Because apparently, people had yet to figure out what an absolute fuckup John really was.

But fuck it. The old man wasn't getting any deader.

John kept staring the thing down, keeping himself breathing. Inhale. Power. Exhale. Protection. Inhale. Safety. Exhale. Intention. Inhale. Fuck you. Exhale. Fuck you very, very much.

He shouts back: ]


Mate, you're not scaring me.

c̛͟hę͞u̸̡͢m̛ ̷a̵̢̕i̴̶r̢͜ ̷́a̢̢̕d͜h̵a̕҉͜r̴t͠҉͝
̴͘͠Ce̛͞um̡͟ ́̀à҉-̸̡̨śt̡͘҉ę̷̶ac͝h̢̀ aņ̧ ̸͡s҉҉o͠lu̴s̶̡
̨͞G̢a̡͝͡b̡h̀́ c̸uma͏d̴͜h̷́͠ ҉͡͝f͢h͡͏i͟a͏̢͠nu̕ì̴s͞;͠


[ Step one was complete, at least: get the thing's attention. As a non-physical entity with no name to use for binding, getting its attention was vital. Step two was getting it to actually take shape in front of him. No pressure, John. ]

INTERMISSION; thread for people who have come to popcorn.gif

[heckblazer]

[heckblazer]

((ooc: thread space for any non-magically inclined peopole who want to watch the action and/or stare judgementally LIKE BATMAN MAYBE B|))

ACT III: aftermath, reactions after curse disappears

[heckblazer]

[heckblazer]

[ There is a quiet, still whole lot of nothing in the air after the spell dissipates, the kind of emptiness a drunk might feel after puking. The noise and light from people's memories is gone, back to the recesses of everyone's respective brains. John slowly, quietly exhales at last. ]

Right then. Let's never speak of this agai--


[ He faceplants on the pavement, passed out before he can actually finish. ]

[pummelgranite]

[ After all that, her eyes are rimmed in red and bloodshot, but she's not crying anymore. There was something cold and unpleasant in her gut, but at least it was settling back into regularly scheduled vaguely unhappy numbness. Yeah, drunk-after-puking isn't a bad way to describe it.

If no one else is going to pick up this dinkus princess style, then Persephone will just have to. God super strength was just so legit. She turns to whoever's closes, no hint of emotion at all in her voice: ]


Get his shit for me, yeah?

[timecapture]

[Max, too, had been crying, but by now, she had calmed. She felt drained, but... better, somehow. She was glad that this was over.

And then John fell.]

Oh, shit!

[She races forward to rewind, to catch him, but Persephone gets there, first. It's probably for the best, anyway; Max doesn't have super strength.]

I will. Thanks.