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tampered2006-10-24 12:58 am
bitingnightmare.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-10-24 12:58 am
Log; Complete
When; Oct. 22 (evening)
Rating; PG-13 (language, violence)
Characters; John Constantine (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare), Castile (splatterdoc)
Summary; the wildcard interrupts the madman's experiment
Log;
The facility was underground but not under the piercing shop, that would be far too obvious, see. Now while it was in Castile's liking to taunt the pair it had not bee his idea to leave the little jar of teeth and glass at their doorstep. Oh Pestilence, perhaps she'd wanted Constantine to arrive here, to show them the futility of their fight. Stupid woman, blinded by her thirst for revenge, incapable of seeing that the good doctor prioritized his own self-interest over hers, and he was not through with this creature called a nightmare just yet.
He kept the white horror in a glass tank, built from floor to ceiling as the Corinthian's holding cell, and hold him it did when filled with water, wrists bound by the anchoring chain. Castile had watched the man wake and drown, wake and drown, for three whole days. Foolish immortals, there were always paths around that whole inability to kiss death thing, and he'd found it. Dressed in his usual affair, white lab coat stained red at the sleeves and hem, the good doctor sat and waited for the next moment the nightmare might wake.
----
"Just like Old Faithful, isn't he? Wakes up on the hour, then dies about the same time. Rinse and repeat."
There was the smell of cigarette smoke, a different kind should another brand already be staining the air. A sudden presence. It stepped out from a convenient corner, a convenient shadow, all trench coat and talk, balls swinging and eyes alight as the butt of the smoke glowed. A stream of the light smoke drifted and twisted, twirling and framing the familiar newcomer's face, perfectly healthy this time around and quite human.
----
"She kept you down longer than I thought she could. Perhaps it should have been your head I capped," the good doctor said in a cool voice, his nerves steeled by the man's sudden presence but unfazed by the smoke. Nicotine was bad for one's health after all, Castile didn't partake in such a nasty habit so this facility smelled a mixture of sterility, metal, and blood.
"Isn't it lovely? You of all people should know immortality means nothing to the will of man," the redhead nodded once in his seat, "thank you for sending my companion running by the way."
Not far from the watery cell was a body, that of a sickly woman with her legs twisted in convulsion, her eyes rolled back as the nanites went to combat the poison in her veins. It was a temporary measure, enough to keep the one-eyed man safe from her arm until he got what he wanted from the nightmare. The Corinthian's eyes were closed in death, sleep until life would return again.
----
A puff of smoke. "Oh? Just how long?" Constantine did not expect a straight answer; he would find out eventually, but the question seemed inevitable enough to ask anyway. Or not. "Aw, sod it. S'why I never really wanted the immortality bollocks anyway. I see you occupied me ol' mate there. Give her a slap 'cross the cheek for me, will ya'?"
Constantine strode around Castile as if he fucking owned the place. Hell, he might as well. Nothing stopping him.
----
"It's only temporary. When she wakes I shudder to think who she'll hate more," Castile tapped his chin thoughtfully, other hand still tucked under his coat, possibly a small firearm there. He didn't seem to mind the way Constantine strut about the facility, as long as he could keep the magus within his sight. The Corinthian still hadn't stirred from his watery grave. "What are you thinking, Constantine," asked the doctor, smile sweet and tongue as sharp as his scalpel.
----
"Oh, making a pick up and pissing off." The magus held his cigarette in-between two fingers, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. "Nothing like prescribing pills to keep'em coming back, eh?"
----
Castile arched a fine red brow, matching the single upturned corner of his smirk. "It was a good trick, wasn't it," he remarked, delighted that the Englishman should bring up that bit of brilliance however concocted between the sick woman and himself.
----
"Says a lot about the City, doesn't it? Wouldn't mind a regular hospital, meself, 'less they're still hiring the demon doctors and shite." A petty, old remark, but if this was the City, being treated by a demon doctor in a legit hospital, or ill, sounded very likely, as far as experiences went. Not that he minded them, provided they could control themselves around the maternity ward as well as their darker tendencies. Demons were demons for a reason. "Now how about that pick up? Care to hand the poor sod in the tank to me or shall we get ugly?"
----
"Get ugly, Constantine." Castile spoke in that same tone, careful, calculated, followed by the click of a safety under his coat. "The man has something I want, I intend to get it before either of you walks out of this laboratory," he added.
----
"Alright." Puff. John approached. "Short on teeth then? Sure he had plenty left. Even after I fucking found a few in an old jar, yeah?"
----
"Don't take that gesture personally, it was her idea," Castile smiled, upnodding briefly to the unconscious disease. "I had a thrill analyzing his chemical composition on top of sewing his fucking head back together, among other things," he leaned closer to the blonde, though not out of his chair.
----
" 'Other things?' " John echoed, his turn to cock an eyebrow.
----
"You should wait until he wakes up, he'll tell you, if he doesn't drown first," Castile offered with a laugh.
----
John's knuckles turned white as his nails dug into his palms, walking up to the doctor. "Sure he's used to it by now, isn't he?" The statement was finished with a right hook.
----
The knuckles against his jaw sounded a quick crack as Castile toppled off the chair and onto the floor. He should have expected that for opening his mouth too much. The gun under his coat hummed to life but not to full charge just yet, as crosshairs hovered over Constantine's torso now that his cybereye had activated the target-lock system.
"You don't know who you're dealing with," he growled.
----
"Oh, I know who I am dealing with." A foot swung towards Castile's torso; that was for the bloody diarrhea. "I'm dealing with a quack. Knew dealing with your sort was a gamble, but get what you pay for, eh?" Another kick.
----
Make that two of them who weren't particularly good at hand-to-hand combat. First blood had trickled from the side of his mouth thanks to Constantine's punch, add saliva and a little bile to the mix thanks to the kicks the magus delivered to his gut. Heavy foot he had, Castile was tall but still a lightweight, a lightweight with technology on his side. Too bad the gun had clattered off to the side.
----
Amazing. Was his luck turning? That was two fights he wasn't getting his arse handed to him then, but on the other hand, his opponents were nothing amazing physically. Didn't matter at this point.
Wait, what was that?
Constantine noticed something clatter away from Castile. Eyes following it, he sneered when it registered: A gun. Sure that the bleeding Castile would not be getting up anytime soon, Constantine risked going for the weapon as insurance in getting what he wanted and then getting the hell out of there.
----
The gun was left for John to grab, though it meant taking his eyes off of Castile for a moment. Poor doctor couldn't do much, reeling from the blows the other had delivered to his torso, but that was fine. Who needed guns in this city? Who needed guns when you had blades built into your hand. Shnnk. A stiletto flicked from the man's wrist, he went to strike the man's ankle.
"Use your fucking tricks, magic man," he hissed.
----
"AUUUH!" John fell, but momentum and luck led his hand to also fall on that gun. His fingers went thick as time began to run like sewage, fumbling to hold onto the weapon. He remembered the Family Man, remembered shooting him. No, the murderer made him shoot him. Fucking gun scared him more than the man who apparently doubled as fucking Wolverine.
The magus crawled as his ankle throbbed. The blade had struck alright, hitting bone and flesh. Fortunately for Constantine, nothing vital was cut. Last thing he wanted to be was hamstringed. The gun was cold, despite the warmth of Castile's pockets, and hard in his hands, black and dead.
----
Wolverine, certainly not as strong but just as ravenous when he was determined to get what he wanted. He tried to strike the Englishman again even though he'd already managed to claim the firearm. As if John knew how to use it, hah! But... Castile wasn't going to take that chance. Tch, he remained crouched on the floor, bloodshot eye still targeted on the magus as he raised his hands in 'surrender.' The blade slipped back into his wrist.
"Shoot me," he dared the blonde.
There was movement off to the side, a sick woman stirring back to life as her body bled the nanites away, slowly.
----
Easier said than done. Ever so slightly, the gun trembled in John's hand, like a small metal bird on a perch. Was he even aiming right? The blue eyes began to sink under the quicksand of memories, of a cow pasture and vomit, blood and eyes.
Could he fire?
----
"You mages are all the same, shits in the face of real power," Castile smirked.
Pestilence was no longer beautiful, she was a sick and writhing creature, still silent in her inhuman movements as she slithered up behind the good doctor. Her turquoise eyes were menacing, sick of the men who interfered with her life, sick of the men who double-crossed her, tried to hurt her, sick sick sick! Her hands went straight for Castile's throat.
"Never mind the gun," her voice uttered, ill and diseased tongue as she squeezed.
----
John curled his lip. "Never mind the tank either."
Finally, John pulled the trigger, aiming for the tank that contained the nightmare "in death."
----
John had seen the woman in good form, curved figure and luscious lips, in health that was opposite her true nature. She was stronger now, giving herself over to disease, virus itself, and she was going to make sure she shared that joy with Castile who pursued knowledge so hungrily.
The single bullet put a crack in the tank, trickling water out slowly, and then more as the panel began to split from the pressure. Soon the dam burst, flooding the room by an inch and allowing the nightmare to hit the bottom of the tank, unconscious still.
----
Bingo.
Constantine dropped the gun and darted in while the pair were distracted. Let Pestilence be Castile's problem. It worked for him.
The magus stepped over the remains of the front panel to the chamber where the collapsed nightmare had laid (Peaceful, a thought briefly flickered). He was bound, and Constantine was not sure if there would be enough time to bullshit the restraints open. As far as he knew, magic liked to work when you don't want it to and don't when you do.
A tug. He was not bloody Superman, but he was not helpless either. Might as well.
Turning Cori to his back, his fingers traced along the manacles around his wrists and a mutter, a familiar incantation. Coxing. Come on. Open.
----
Talk about wild card magic. At first the metal did nothing, still clean and shiny despite its watery bath, but when the magus whispered those words the restraints began to corrode. They rusted till they could be torn away from the nightmare's wrists. His peacefulness didn't last for long either, chest heaving when he coughed water onto the floor. Both eyes opened just a sliver, the left still full of teeth, and the right something softly glowing electric blue.
He knew it was Constantine without needing to see him, the Corinthian could feel his hands.
"Jackass...." he muttered under his breath, genuinely appreciative of his assistance, "... I could've taken him."
----
"Arsehole."
John managed a weak, shit-eating grin down at his companion, the magus careful to avoid the Corinthian's gaze so the unusual glow was not caught. Instead, there was a gentle pat on the cheek. "Come on, mate, we need to get you out of here. Feet's still stuck too. Hope the luck's holdin' out." He turned his attention over to undoing, of sorts, the final set of restraints.
----
Ever gracious in his inability to show traditional gratitude, the Corinthian managed to respond to John with a similar grin, albeit weakly. The metal rusted away, trickling a trace of copper red in the water as they freed the nightmare. Regardless, he was still at the Englishman's disposal for most of his energy had been sapped by the repeated drownings. He reached one hand up to the blonde and pushed off the ground with his other to do as much for himself as possible.
----
John did not expect a thank you. He let the Corinthian help himself, although the magus too had taken care to aid him in anyway possible, and in his heart of hearts, he truly was concerned for him, for his weakness and possibly pain, despite the fact that he was an immortal and he, Constantine, was not.
A wet arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders for support, a pang of memory surfaced, red with a bleeding jugular. Funny that, history repeating itself, as it always seemed doomed to, in one way or the other.
Rating; PG-13 (language, violence)
Characters; John Constantine (
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare), Castile (splatterdoc)Summary; the wildcard interrupts the madman's experiment
Log;
The facility was underground but not under the piercing shop, that would be far too obvious, see. Now while it was in Castile's liking to taunt the pair it had not bee his idea to leave the little jar of teeth and glass at their doorstep. Oh Pestilence, perhaps she'd wanted Constantine to arrive here, to show them the futility of their fight. Stupid woman, blinded by her thirst for revenge, incapable of seeing that the good doctor prioritized his own self-interest over hers, and he was not through with this creature called a nightmare just yet.
He kept the white horror in a glass tank, built from floor to ceiling as the Corinthian's holding cell, and hold him it did when filled with water, wrists bound by the anchoring chain. Castile had watched the man wake and drown, wake and drown, for three whole days. Foolish immortals, there were always paths around that whole inability to kiss death thing, and he'd found it. Dressed in his usual affair, white lab coat stained red at the sleeves and hem, the good doctor sat and waited for the next moment the nightmare might wake.
----
"Just like Old Faithful, isn't he? Wakes up on the hour, then dies about the same time. Rinse and repeat."
There was the smell of cigarette smoke, a different kind should another brand already be staining the air. A sudden presence. It stepped out from a convenient corner, a convenient shadow, all trench coat and talk, balls swinging and eyes alight as the butt of the smoke glowed. A stream of the light smoke drifted and twisted, twirling and framing the familiar newcomer's face, perfectly healthy this time around and quite human.
----
"She kept you down longer than I thought she could. Perhaps it should have been your head I capped," the good doctor said in a cool voice, his nerves steeled by the man's sudden presence but unfazed by the smoke. Nicotine was bad for one's health after all, Castile didn't partake in such a nasty habit so this facility smelled a mixture of sterility, metal, and blood.
"Isn't it lovely? You of all people should know immortality means nothing to the will of man," the redhead nodded once in his seat, "thank you for sending my companion running by the way."
Not far from the watery cell was a body, that of a sickly woman with her legs twisted in convulsion, her eyes rolled back as the nanites went to combat the poison in her veins. It was a temporary measure, enough to keep the one-eyed man safe from her arm until he got what he wanted from the nightmare. The Corinthian's eyes were closed in death, sleep until life would return again.
----
A puff of smoke. "Oh? Just how long?" Constantine did not expect a straight answer; he would find out eventually, but the question seemed inevitable enough to ask anyway. Or not. "Aw, sod it. S'why I never really wanted the immortality bollocks anyway. I see you occupied me ol' mate there. Give her a slap 'cross the cheek for me, will ya'?"
Constantine strode around Castile as if he fucking owned the place. Hell, he might as well. Nothing stopping him.
----
"It's only temporary. When she wakes I shudder to think who she'll hate more," Castile tapped his chin thoughtfully, other hand still tucked under his coat, possibly a small firearm there. He didn't seem to mind the way Constantine strut about the facility, as long as he could keep the magus within his sight. The Corinthian still hadn't stirred from his watery grave. "What are you thinking, Constantine," asked the doctor, smile sweet and tongue as sharp as his scalpel.
----
"Oh, making a pick up and pissing off." The magus held his cigarette in-between two fingers, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. "Nothing like prescribing pills to keep'em coming back, eh?"
----
Castile arched a fine red brow, matching the single upturned corner of his smirk. "It was a good trick, wasn't it," he remarked, delighted that the Englishman should bring up that bit of brilliance however concocted between the sick woman and himself.
----
"Says a lot about the City, doesn't it? Wouldn't mind a regular hospital, meself, 'less they're still hiring the demon doctors and shite." A petty, old remark, but if this was the City, being treated by a demon doctor in a legit hospital, or ill, sounded very likely, as far as experiences went. Not that he minded them, provided they could control themselves around the maternity ward as well as their darker tendencies. Demons were demons for a reason. "Now how about that pick up? Care to hand the poor sod in the tank to me or shall we get ugly?"
----
"Get ugly, Constantine." Castile spoke in that same tone, careful, calculated, followed by the click of a safety under his coat. "The man has something I want, I intend to get it before either of you walks out of this laboratory," he added.
----
"Alright." Puff. John approached. "Short on teeth then? Sure he had plenty left. Even after I fucking found a few in an old jar, yeah?"
----
"Don't take that gesture personally, it was her idea," Castile smiled, upnodding briefly to the unconscious disease. "I had a thrill analyzing his chemical composition on top of sewing his fucking head back together, among other things," he leaned closer to the blonde, though not out of his chair.
----
" 'Other things?' " John echoed, his turn to cock an eyebrow.
----
"You should wait until he wakes up, he'll tell you, if he doesn't drown first," Castile offered with a laugh.
----
John's knuckles turned white as his nails dug into his palms, walking up to the doctor. "Sure he's used to it by now, isn't he?" The statement was finished with a right hook.
----
The knuckles against his jaw sounded a quick crack as Castile toppled off the chair and onto the floor. He should have expected that for opening his mouth too much. The gun under his coat hummed to life but not to full charge just yet, as crosshairs hovered over Constantine's torso now that his cybereye had activated the target-lock system.
"You don't know who you're dealing with," he growled.
----
"Oh, I know who I am dealing with." A foot swung towards Castile's torso; that was for the bloody diarrhea. "I'm dealing with a quack. Knew dealing with your sort was a gamble, but get what you pay for, eh?" Another kick.
----
Make that two of them who weren't particularly good at hand-to-hand combat. First blood had trickled from the side of his mouth thanks to Constantine's punch, add saliva and a little bile to the mix thanks to the kicks the magus delivered to his gut. Heavy foot he had, Castile was tall but still a lightweight, a lightweight with technology on his side. Too bad the gun had clattered off to the side.
----
Amazing. Was his luck turning? That was two fights he wasn't getting his arse handed to him then, but on the other hand, his opponents were nothing amazing physically. Didn't matter at this point.
Wait, what was that?
Constantine noticed something clatter away from Castile. Eyes following it, he sneered when it registered: A gun. Sure that the bleeding Castile would not be getting up anytime soon, Constantine risked going for the weapon as insurance in getting what he wanted and then getting the hell out of there.
----
The gun was left for John to grab, though it meant taking his eyes off of Castile for a moment. Poor doctor couldn't do much, reeling from the blows the other had delivered to his torso, but that was fine. Who needed guns in this city? Who needed guns when you had blades built into your hand. Shnnk. A stiletto flicked from the man's wrist, he went to strike the man's ankle.
"Use your fucking tricks, magic man," he hissed.
----
"AUUUH!" John fell, but momentum and luck led his hand to also fall on that gun. His fingers went thick as time began to run like sewage, fumbling to hold onto the weapon. He remembered the Family Man, remembered shooting him. No, the murderer made him shoot him. Fucking gun scared him more than the man who apparently doubled as fucking Wolverine.
The magus crawled as his ankle throbbed. The blade had struck alright, hitting bone and flesh. Fortunately for Constantine, nothing vital was cut. Last thing he wanted to be was hamstringed. The gun was cold, despite the warmth of Castile's pockets, and hard in his hands, black and dead.
----
Wolverine, certainly not as strong but just as ravenous when he was determined to get what he wanted. He tried to strike the Englishman again even though he'd already managed to claim the firearm. As if John knew how to use it, hah! But... Castile wasn't going to take that chance. Tch, he remained crouched on the floor, bloodshot eye still targeted on the magus as he raised his hands in 'surrender.' The blade slipped back into his wrist.
"Shoot me," he dared the blonde.
There was movement off to the side, a sick woman stirring back to life as her body bled the nanites away, slowly.
----
Easier said than done. Ever so slightly, the gun trembled in John's hand, like a small metal bird on a perch. Was he even aiming right? The blue eyes began to sink under the quicksand of memories, of a cow pasture and vomit, blood and eyes.
Could he fire?
----
"You mages are all the same, shits in the face of real power," Castile smirked.
Pestilence was no longer beautiful, she was a sick and writhing creature, still silent in her inhuman movements as she slithered up behind the good doctor. Her turquoise eyes were menacing, sick of the men who interfered with her life, sick of the men who double-crossed her, tried to hurt her, sick sick sick! Her hands went straight for Castile's throat.
"Never mind the gun," her voice uttered, ill and diseased tongue as she squeezed.
----
John curled his lip. "Never mind the tank either."
Finally, John pulled the trigger, aiming for the tank that contained the nightmare "in death."
----
John had seen the woman in good form, curved figure and luscious lips, in health that was opposite her true nature. She was stronger now, giving herself over to disease, virus itself, and she was going to make sure she shared that joy with Castile who pursued knowledge so hungrily.
The single bullet put a crack in the tank, trickling water out slowly, and then more as the panel began to split from the pressure. Soon the dam burst, flooding the room by an inch and allowing the nightmare to hit the bottom of the tank, unconscious still.
----
Bingo.
Constantine dropped the gun and darted in while the pair were distracted. Let Pestilence be Castile's problem. It worked for him.
The magus stepped over the remains of the front panel to the chamber where the collapsed nightmare had laid (Peaceful, a thought briefly flickered). He was bound, and Constantine was not sure if there would be enough time to bullshit the restraints open. As far as he knew, magic liked to work when you don't want it to and don't when you do.
A tug. He was not bloody Superman, but he was not helpless either. Might as well.
Turning Cori to his back, his fingers traced along the manacles around his wrists and a mutter, a familiar incantation. Coxing. Come on. Open.
----
Talk about wild card magic. At first the metal did nothing, still clean and shiny despite its watery bath, but when the magus whispered those words the restraints began to corrode. They rusted till they could be torn away from the nightmare's wrists. His peacefulness didn't last for long either, chest heaving when he coughed water onto the floor. Both eyes opened just a sliver, the left still full of teeth, and the right something softly glowing electric blue.
He knew it was Constantine without needing to see him, the Corinthian could feel his hands.
"Jackass...." he muttered under his breath, genuinely appreciative of his assistance, "... I could've taken him."
----
"Arsehole."
John managed a weak, shit-eating grin down at his companion, the magus careful to avoid the Corinthian's gaze so the unusual glow was not caught. Instead, there was a gentle pat on the cheek. "Come on, mate, we need to get you out of here. Feet's still stuck too. Hope the luck's holdin' out." He turned his attention over to undoing, of sorts, the final set of restraints.
----
Ever gracious in his inability to show traditional gratitude, the Corinthian managed to respond to John with a similar grin, albeit weakly. The metal rusted away, trickling a trace of copper red in the water as they freed the nightmare. Regardless, he was still at the Englishman's disposal for most of his energy had been sapped by the repeated drownings. He reached one hand up to the blonde and pushed off the ground with his other to do as much for himself as possible.
----
John did not expect a thank you. He let the Corinthian help himself, although the magus too had taken care to aid him in anyway possible, and in his heart of hearts, he truly was concerned for him, for his weakness and possibly pain, despite the fact that he was an immortal and he, Constantine, was not.
A wet arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders for support, a pang of memory surfaced, red with a bleeding jugular. Funny that, history repeating itself, as it always seemed doomed to, in one way or the other.