Summary:Constantine tracks down Mack to apologize, and finds out why she freaked out over his business card. He offers to help her. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Constantine makes his way down to the docks. Growing up in Liverpool he knows three things better than magic: Rock music, coal dust, and waterfronts. Really demons pestering the ever living shit at him for not returning calls came later in life if one can believe such a thing. He stands off her boat to finish up his cig before flicking it into the water and checking his watch. "Oy." It's like ahoy, but Brittish and entirely abrupt.
Mack has been out on the water for the better part of a week. Something spooked her on St. Patrick's Day and she avoided docking too long. A week without incident, and a small craft advisory, has the Quint's Folly back in it's berth in Red Hook, looking as unimpressive as ever. The Captain herself is in the galley, working on making a pot of her granddad's famous chili, for her dinner tonight and meals for tomorrow's crew, if there is one. If not, most of it will go in the freezer for another day. It's the kind of chili that can warm a frozen soul in wind and rain, the flaming sort that involves some dashes of habanero sauce in the mix.
The little blonde woman is in yoga pants and a tee shirt, with a hoodie over it, zipped up against the chill in the air, and pull on deck boots . The heating on the boat isn't terribly efficient, but the pot of bubbling meat and sauce helps a little. She hums along to something on the radio as she stirs the pot.
Rufus is on the floor at her feet, snoozing happily, just content to be with his favorite human, knowing when she eats, he'll get his dinner too. Happy dog is happy. His ears perk and his head lifts at the sound of a voice, and he gets up and aroofs his way down the way to the hatch out to the deck.
Mack wipes her hands on a dishtowel and heads after Rufus, swinging the heavy bulkhead door open and peering out. Her eyes land on the Brit and she arches a brow. Well, him being there isn't the weirdest thing that's happened lately. "Here for some dinner?" she asks with a smirk, waving him aboard.
Constantine steps aboard and looks around with a once through. "Well since you went through the trouble? Eeeh I wouldn't say no to that. I did want to apologize." MArk it on the calendar folks. Not that he technically has. "I think we started off wrong, and-" Waving a hand he assures drily, "Not lie that, but I really do wat to help your friend. I think there's something weird going on, and I don't believe the police have been much a help." Well there's your olive branch. Looking to the puppy he grins, tired, weathered, earnest enough though. "Your pal here's havin a good time of it at least."
Mack closes the hatch behind John and then stuffs her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she leads him down the hall to the galley. The smell of the chili can almost make one's eyes water. Spicy. There is also rice in a slow cooker plugged in on a counter. The interior of the boat looks like the 70s threw up all over it. But it feels like a home. Clearly, the Captain lives aboard, as does the giant mountain of fur she refers to as, "Rufus, sit!"
The Leonberger plops his butt down on the floor and smiles pantingly up at Constantine. Ddefinitely not a guard dog.
The Captain goes about getting some mismatched bowls out of a latched cupboard and spoons from a drawer. Everything is secured for when the boat hits high seas. Also all the dishes and mugs and cups are plastic. Life on an industrial fishing vessel. "I know things are off. I….I see things. Like when I touched that business card of yours. I think I saw two somethings on St. Patrick's Day, but I could have just been really, really drunk." She scoops rice into each bowl, then chili on top, setting them down on the small wall-mounted table between the two small cushioned bench seats.
Constantine follows taking in in design that feels a faint third cousin to a bowling alley. Inherited, never updated: Sentimental perhaps? Possibly just comfortable. Crouching down he gets eye to eye level with-the dog who is told to sit and listens better than the detective.
Looking up NOW curious when she talks about the visions, his lower eyelids squint up noting, "Psychic impressionism?" He considers giving her the benefit of this one, "Better than French Impressionism. Never was much a fan of Cassatt." Forearm rests on knee of his crumpled and tired suit before his hand slides up to push himself to a stand still mulling the real truth of this over. "Could have been good and pissed, but imagine how much more you might've seen sober?" With a purse of his lips and an agreeable nod he votes, "I say best just to pour the next glass and wait for it to sort itself out. But I showed up and one of your mates gone missing. Stopping it might mean letting it happen."
Mack grabs a pair of beers from the fridge (cans, glass bottles are a hazard on board) before she slides into one of the bench seats and mixes up her chili and rice with a spoon as she stares into the bowl. "I'm only talking to you about this for two reasons. One, you're trying to find out what happened to Niko, and that means something. Two, you're clearly someone who knows about the shit I've been seeing, and I need help with that." She gestures at him with her spoon, before she scoops up some food and shoves it in her mouth.
Rufus decides his head belongs on Constantine's leg, and for Mack, that generally means the guy is not going to murder her in her sleep. At least not today. "I saw two monsters on the docks. One looked like, Fucking hell he had to be nine feet tall, missing his nose, looked like a dead guy but still alive. The other was like a werewolf got busy with a bird and a goat or something. She seemed really cranky."
Constantine takes his hand and rests it on teh dog's head tentively. Is that what he- oh good that's okay and he's not losing an arm to day. Delightful. THe chili gets stirred a few times to let the steam out. Picking up the beer he stops mid swig when she says ''monster'', and ''undead'', and then curious when she mentions a werewolf, and by the time she mentions the bird bits he's facepalming. "Ah. Right. Did they strike terror into your heart? Did they make you decode iambiac pentameter written in cuneiform?" His eyebrow goes up peking. "You got off lucky, luv. Seriously, would it even surprise you if I told you I've met the old bird and I know her friend and they are likly the third least of your concerns?"
"You ''know'' them? What in the fucking fuck did I do to deserve this!?" Mack asks the question to the ceiling before she lowers her face and squints her dark eyes at John, really studying him for a long moment. "I don't know what sort of magical whatnot I have, but it started a few months ago when I got a tattoo in the East Village. I started seeing things. Images overlapping things, feeling cold spots and hot spots and electrical spots. And sometimes when I touch an object, I get flashes of things that happened near it in the past. Unnatural things. And sometimes," she grimaces, "sometimes I feel like I have to go somewhere, and if I don't? I black out and wind up there anyway. And it's always something not normal. Always."
Constantine squint in quiet comisseration, "Well, at least you escaped the cuneiform. Could be worse. You coulda met the other one." Now he bies into the chili. Oh damn that's hot. "So you got, and I hate to ask because there's no way I won't sound like a creeper for askin, luv, and you ''do'' have my honest apology for that, but you have a picture or a drawing of it? I'm curious if it's unlocking something or if you thought something off a oujia board looked kitchy and went 'oh yeah let's jsut go with that, yeah?'" There's no look of judgement, only waiting as he drinks from teh beer again. "Psychometery is a hell of a burden to carre around. I'd reccommend gloves if you haven't already. Might… ''might'' be able to help you focus down that skill. Have a friend inteh area. Better than I am at it. I cheat, but you? Sounds like yooooou are the real oracle there. Lucky you." She's not lucky. The whole tone carries the irony of ''oh you poor git.''
Mack shakes her head at the question about having a photo. But she's a sailor and she's not the shy sort, so she stands up and unzips her hoodie, shrugging out of it. "I went in, and there was this tiny ancient Japanese guy who called himself the Horishi, who still used hand tools. Dude told me he already knew what I was getting, and I woke up like 12 hours later back here on the boat. When I went to find the shop again, it was gone." She turns her back to him before she hauls up her tee shirt, holding it to the front of her body so he can see the massive work of art on her back. It moves and shifts, the map beneath the compass rose. Like it's searching for something.
|ROLL| Constantine +rolls 1d20 for: 1
Constantine licks his spoon off slowly and does a double-take away because he's not one to get slapped while eating chili. How many white rumpled shirts has he without blood on them? Too fucking few is how many. "I… I'm at a loss, luv. You let me know when you're done…" He waves the spoon in a circle indicating 'whatever' "Bloody hell." He gives up on polite. He gives himself points for trying and just swivels around to stare at- no her back okay? "It's… written in tiny Asian script. That's… resoundingly not helpful. So you went to see this… Japanese fella and you blacked our or passed out? Was there chanting? Regular tattoo shop or you went into a trance and walked there into some monastery with spinning prayer cylinders waiting for you to spin them and go 'I-I-I said I want the tattooo…..pleeeease?'" And on today's list of unexpected things, John Constantine recreates Eddie Murphy's the Golden Child.
Mack's form is boyish, so even if her tee weren't covering her lady bits, there's not much to gawk at. The tattoo is far more impressive. There are little scars here and there, the result of working in a dangerous profession since she was a teenager, but the tattoo seems to disregard them entirely. "Normal shop, at least it looked like it. Name was Inku which is just Japanese for ink I think. But instead of a tattoo gun, the little old guy used the old-fashioned hand tools. The ones you tap to set the ink in. I think I fell asleep, there was chanting of some kind, I thought he was just singing something." She frowns and looks over her shoulder at Constantine. "I'm guessing he wasn't?"
Constantine arhes that eyebrow high, "Sooo you went to see a man you've never met before, who speaks a language you don't understand to let him doodle whatever on you witha rat-a-tat-tat…and not once did it occur to you to go you know, this bloke's either on drugs or in a bloody cult?" Hindsight man. Still as incredulous as his tone is, somehow it lacks judgement. He sighs and shakes his ehad. "Hate it when that happens." Oh does he ever. Taking a long pull from his bottle he says, "Well you can put your clothes back on," Even he pauses at the oddity of that statement. Man he is getting old, "And way I see it is we should find this friend of yours because he sounds the one in trouble. We help you figure out how to manage all…of this," The bottle in hand makes a figure 8 at her indicating her condition, or the sot might be able to use a beer bottle like a wand (and really if he couldn't do that who better?) "And last? I think we both have questions for thisHyroti or whomever this bloke is."
Mack tugs the shirt back down and puts her hoodie back on as well, before she slumps down into her bench seat again to frown at her food. "It seemed all legit, and I liked the idea of getting something inked in memory of my granddad. He owned the boat before me. Taught me everything. And he's standing behind you smirking over the fact you didn't even try to look at my tits." She smirks at the ghostly image of Frank Linden leaning in the galley doorway to her sight. "Yeah, I can see ghosts but can't seem to, you know, chat with them to see what the fuck they want." She shoves chili in her mouth.
Constantine considers this looking around. Sucking on his eyetooth he nods thoughtfully, "Ink carves intentions in blood and flesh. It's a living sacrifice. Believe me, it can carry some powerful intent else my sorry ass wouldn't be sitting here still telling you this. So," Reaching into his pocket he smirks with amusement to himself. "Well see about this. I'm…going to have one of these dead blokes with nothin better to do follow me back, and tomorrow? Yoooou will practice by following them to find me. That'll be lesson one. Well-" One eye squints and his head wobbles, "Okay first lesson might not be don't let strange blokes in a body show that are soundin like they're rollin on molly make modifications to ye without some asking. Two? Would be when following ghosts remember they don't give two shites about traffic laws. Need you alive, luv. Don't get hit my a taxi. Last?" He makes a circle with his finger like round up. "Three is get comfortable following these dead fuckers around because if we are going to see there being fewer sailors joining Davy Jones' bridge club you're going to need to accept this is what we gotta do." Finishing the chili he nods to her giving her a once over with a slow nod, "Damn fine chili. You have the card. Call if something comes up. Try not to have an existential crisis before noon?" Because it's just bad form to try to make a man move during hangover hours.