tampered | Log; Ongoing

Log; Ongoing

When; Oct. 5 (approaching midnight?)
Rating; PG-13 (language, implied violence)
Characters; John Constantine (

silkcutremix), The Corinthian (

bitingnightmare), Scarab (

noh_dancer), Pyramid Head (

redhorror)
Summary; Following the trail of a Woman and Her Nightmares
Log;

The Corinthian had crumbled into dream sand, into the grains that made him, not quite flesh and not quite blood, but neither did the blow expose his core, the tiny little skull with teeth for eye sockets. That remained hidden, even as the great knife burrowed through his body in a most phantom-like gesture. The sensation caused the nightmare to arch his back and bolt upright in bed. He felt around his bare torso, flesh still intact. Right, a dream, a nightmare.

"Oh fuck, fuck," he swore. Scarab was alone now.

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The middle of nowhere.

Funny thing to say when one is caught in a place that exists outside time, outside the world, and flat-out outside of everything.

Still, it was the best way to explain just where she was at present;

Fortunately she had the presence of mind to drag herself into an out of the way corner of the alley way..
..Or perhaps not so fortunate considering the spreading puddle of blood that seeped from the patched seam in the front of her suit.

That was Scarab, though.
There hadn't been time to baby the bullet wound inher shoulder, and though Chrno had done a good job following her directions during thier impromptu doctoring session, the sutures had popped when she had been climbing, and clambering and searching high and low.

Add to this the over use of her implanted endorphin 'stim, and you get a near-comatose state for a few days.

So now, caught within the prison of her mind, she slept...slept...

....and dreamed.

"Get up," he said to John, giving the man's shoulder a nudge before he swung his own legs over the edge of the bed, "it's Scarab, we have to find her."

The Corinthian kept a hand covering his teetheyes until he could find his sunglasses. There, on the table, still his third pair of shades and hopefully the last he'll need for at least a few months, ideally a year. He plopped the gunmetal gray frames and black lenses on his face then turned to the Englishman while searching for his jeans. No time to waste.

"She found me in a dream, she's in fucking trouble," he said to the blonde, "I couldn't get a lock on her, but that big helmet head shit is with her."

Did the groggy magus catch the severity of the situation yet?

Constantine grimaced, remembering the brief adventure with him guiding her down where the magic was, wherever it had been in this City. Strangely, ever so uncharacteristically of him, even he was not so sure. Typical. Worked when he didn't want it, did not when he needed it, but that was beside the point.

Point was this: Scarab was in trouble.

"You're kidding," mumbled John as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was clad in nothing but his pants and quite hairy, enough to pass as the wolfman should he decide that his birthday suit would be clothing enough, but a hand soon reached for the pair of discarded trousers on the floor. They were crinkled, but already the urgency was staining the air with an uncomfortable tension. They were fumbled on when the magician stumbled out with his usual grace.

If The Corinthian had gone out in his birthday suit one might think the wolfman's companion was in need of a big dose of sun, but even some solar rays couldn't tan his pale skin, permanently anyway. So The City should thank the gods he slipped into his jeans and threw a shirt on, maybe not a clean one, but a shirt nonetheless. After pulling the fabric over his waist he looked to John, seriously.

"No," he wasn't kidding. Then he tossed the other a shirt, who knew if it was his or John's anyway. "She's across The City, that's all I got, can you do something about it," the nightmare asked the magus, implying a little sleight of hand, and magic.

Buttoning his shirt, John knew that cue all too well. A familiar grin creased his face.

"Well then, first thing's first: Got anything of hers on you?"

"Does it matter what it is," asked the nightmare.

He was not at all well-versed in the ways of formal magic, not even rogue magic. That territory belonged to the blonde man getting dressed in front of him. The Corinthian could skip and traverse through dreams, make someone crave their own salvation or destruction, but conjure a marked demon? Boot a few praxis prats back to hell? Not really.

"I have one of her guns and the shit she dumped in my head," said the white-blonde with a tap to his temple, most unsarcastically because those things really were all he had of hers.

John chewed his lip for a moment, studying the nightmare's face intently and thoughtfully. He might have been inept at machines, technology and the like, but the magic addiction that stained his blood, drove his being, made him a completely different person. The hardened bastard was knowledgable, a hand offered in the black, serving as a guide through the dark and unknown.

Hm...

"We can work around that," the magus said, finishing his tie, "just need to change things up a bit and we'll be off and ready to go. Show me that lovely palma' yers. Either would do."

..... He'd gone through the effort of putting on his tie. Well the nightmare should have expected as much, this was John Constantine after all. The man's level-headed cool was the appropriate balance to The Corinthian's eagerness to get moving, to dive in blindly. That would only waste precious minutes of Scarab's time. He stared at John wondering what (or who) he could be staring at.

Eventually he offered the other his right hand, the hand that had grown a mirror blade to fight the Red Pyramid. He trusted John, enough to not even ask questions.

That worked. Made things quicker, since it seemed ol' Cori was in a haste to begin with. And Christ knew what kind of shit Scarab was in to make the nightmare act in such a fashion.

The magus took the Corinthian's palm, closing his eyes in concentration and allowing the index finger of his other hand to trace. The tip was calloused and rough, but it continued to seek out the tiny invisible intricacies whatever forces were guiding him through.

Or he was completely making up.

Either John was far more powerful than he acted or the magus knew that leading the nightmare on would open him up to sharing the vision, everything that had happened from Scarab's call to the metamorphosis to her violation and his, the helmeted creature, his manipulation of her past, and then her rise before they both shut him out of the dream realm. It might have come out full force for the Englishman, or maybe it played like a simple tune for him to hear, to pick up the source of the music, trace it back to the record player, and note the cord in the wall.

"......" The Corinthian remained silent, aware of the transfer of magic though he couldn't tell if John was drawing it from him or if he was emitting it to the other.

A simple draw. Constantine had manipulation, whether it was the supernatural or ordinary, mastered to an art form, but anything truly magical within him was almost nil. Years ago, he summed himself up sufficiently: Not a figure of power pretending to be an ordinary bloke, but a simple bloke pretending to be something greater.

The draw had leaked into Constantine's brain, eyes still closed, a trickle of visions bleeding into the blacks of his lids. He had found the link needed, and all that was left was to take that link and broadcast it, to try to find a resonance that would lead him to the source of the memory traces.

Concentrate... Concentrate...

A room.

( An alley way?)

A bed, a concrete slab covered in torn blackened cloth.

( A shadowed corner between builings?)

Lay still...doesn't hurt if you lay still

A lone woman dressed in decorated lace.
A pattern of crawling vines swirl across it, the lace becomes a dress, the dress becomes the cloth.

( A torn and bloodied vinyl suit?)

A long silver chain links her ankle to an equally delicate ring bolted into the concrete.
The links fashioned to resemble exquisite strands of barb wire.

She is covered in cuts, abrasions, some deeper lacerations.

( A bleeding bullet wound, three fingered hand?)

Silence, save her measured breathing.

( The far off sound of city nightlife.)

And then....a touch.

( The woman frowns in her sleep.)

A far away calling of her name..

( Feint, and distant...)

......John?......

Constantine almost jolted, almost broke the link, but no, he had to to keep his focus, had to keep his mind on Scarab. He could feel her almost reach out, almost talk to him. Psychic spindles of his own willpower tried to push through, and the Englishman channeled his energies into speaking with the tiny voice. He had images, clues he could possibly divine something out with, but talking to her would make an even bigger difference.

Are you there, luv? Speak to me... It's John.

The comforting accent and smoky voice still remained, even in psychic speak.

Deep brown eyes open and look around as much as possible without moving from the bed.

Is she moved, He might hear.

( The frown deepens, the hand curls into a fist.)

...John?...John!

She slowly, ever so carefully raises her head from the sheet and looks around for the source of a voice.

You have to get out of here! You have to stay away!...

A shift of cloth, and she freezes, careful not to disturb the chain.

( A stuttering sigh...a single tear...)

Please, don't try to find me!...HE will kill you! HE tried to kill Cori...stay away...stay....away.......

She lays back down on the bed, and shuts her eyes tight.

( Curls onto her side....Her hair sticks to the mask...the puddle grows.)

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Log; Ongoing

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