IVY (toxikinesis) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-10-24 21:46:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !rooms: one: day two, dc: comics: pamela isley / poison ivy, dc: constantine: john constantine |
Who: Ivy & Constantine
What: John comes looking for nicotine, Ivy shares some of the supply - if he agrees to drop his ass down a tunnel, no big deal
When: Day 2
Where: The Conservatory (then ~secret passage~)
Rating: Fairly low
Status: Complete
If things were as they should be, Ivy would have turned the conservatory into a veritable rainforest by now. But since things were decidedly not how they should be, the world-renowned botanist had to work with basically nothing. She had nothing to work with because the ripple and shimmer of whatever malevolent magic trapped this house in its web had the audacity to make her human, and humans were useless. Completely and utterly. Stll, she did her best. On the second day of entrapment, she went to the conservatory and observed the wilting flowers, some of their petals scattered like grotesque confetti along the various paths. She soothed them with her words - it’s okay, babies. It’s not about the colors, your looks - it was about the love. They would be safe with her. She watered them, adjusted the light in the room, immediately knowing what her children would need - there was a particularly large flower about to bloom as well, she could tell, so she paid this one some extra attention. It was an unfamiliar plant but still lovely. In the middle of tending to the babies, wearing a dress that hung loose on her, most of the buttons undone and definitely barefoot, she heard someone enter and immediately bristled. Who dared to come in here? If it was either a network complainer or a shiny do-gooder, she’d punch them in the throat. Ivy was tired of hearing tales of woe. They thought they knew what pain was? That they knew injustice? They knew nothing of either, of what it was like to be killed and transformed again into something so sensitive, where everything hurt because you felt the pain that the rest of the world ignored and turned deaf ears to - the pain of the plants, and their suffering. She identified more with vengeance and bitterness. Concepts Ivy understood. “What do you want?” she asked whoever entered, her voice all sugarcane and tree sap, so sweet. But with a warning etched within. In his defense- or in some kind of defense, anyway, because John really did like to have an excuse at the ready for any possible scenario in which he might be at fault (or not at fault, or presumed at fault, or just nearby and therefore guilty by association) John hadn’t intended to find the bloody conservatory. What he’d wanted was that hookah lounge he’d spotted while wandering through the house the day before, because he was positive it smelled like smoke, and that meant some kind of tobacco product, and if John didn’t get his hands on something that would burn, he might try lighting the fucking candy canes upstairs. So. Whoops. His sense of direction was shot in this funhouse, and he’d ended up in somebody’s half-hearted attempt at gardening. Or mulching. Both? Neither. John had no green thumb of which to speak, so what did he know from plants? “Easy,” he replied, showing both hands as he came to a wary stop. His gaze swung over the plants, the grimy windows, and the woman who looked thoroughly prepared to eviscerate him at a wrong word spoken, and tried on the rakish tilt of a smile. “Only doin’ a bit of exploring. You haven’t spotted a hookah room on your way through, have you? Or… any room that might be hiding somethin’ suitable to feed a bloke’s nicotine habit? I’m not picky.” He wiggled stained fingers, demonstrative, and cautiously lowered his hands again. Nothing to see here, no harm intended. Such a charmer. Someone pass her a bucket to vomit in - he sounded fresh from the dirt and sketch of Liverpool and oh wait. A blasphemous smirk, an aura of black magic and corruption - Ivy knew who this one was. Vaguely. Justice League Dark wasn’t really her bag, but she kept tabs on fellow Gothamites as best she could. Sometimes she dipped a verdant finger in to either stir up trouble or assist, depending on which way the wind blew, but most of the time Mother was content to keep out of the way of their ridiculousness. “Spotted a hookah room?” She smiled knowingly, lacking an exaggerated sway to those dangerous hips when she stepped closer - no thanks, she had no time for that now, and he probably had herpes (normally she was immune, but now? Don’t mention that). “I live in there. There are lots of packs of cigarettes in the cabinet. Unfortunately, it’s a no boys allowed room.” Meaning no estrogen, no entering. However.. “Perhaps I could grab a couple of packs for you?” Because it wasn’t like any of the lovely ladies sprawling on pillows in the room that looked like the inside of a genie’s lamp would indulge in something so nasty. “If you do something for me.” Oh. Of fucking course, someone had claimed the space and planted their proverbial flag, because that was the situation here, wasn’t it? Every man for himself, except for how they were meant to be all kumbaya spirit and teamwork to solve the grand mystery. John hadn’t gotten around to solving a bloody thing yet. His focus had gone straight from sleeping quarters (not that he’d slept) to nicotine fix, no stops between. Well. Maybe a single stop. But that was neither here nor there, not yet. Early days. “And what’s that then, poppet?” John asked, wary. Brows arched and his head tipped to one side. He wasn’t agreeing to a single thing until he knew the stakes. Maybe his brain itched for a smoke, but. This place was no joke and he wasn’t some white knight, ready to leap to the rescue without looking first. “Nothin’ with these plants, I hope. Not an area in which I’m likely to be much help, let’s go ahead and get that right out the way.” “I’m aware - no one is as skilled in that area as me,” Ivy replied, and she wasn’t tooting her own horn. It was a simple fact. Even without her connection to the plant life, that special, almost mystical connection, she knew what was best for her babies. She also wasn’t letting just anyone in the conservatory either; there were approximately zero cares given as to the ‘rules’ of the house, when it came to laying claim. The space with the plants was hers. They had to ask permission to come in here, to pluck a flower or snatch an herb. If they didn’t like it? By now she knew more than a few places to stash a body. There was a morgue drawer with any irritant’s name on it. She waved on the new, useful sack of bones and muscles. “Come this way - “ And it was the wicker furniture she headed for, a cluster of seating that she’d examined when she first prowled the room. The loveseat was pushed aside with a nudge or two of her hip, the action kicking up a fair share of dust and grime. “There’s a trapdoor here. I want to know where it leads and what’s down there.” Because like hell she was going to just wander into a potential fire pit - besides, Ivy didn’t fare well in darkness. If she got stuck down there, she’d be dead. In general, she was more plant than human and required sunlight to thrive - currently, it was perhaps not a problem but she wouldn’t risk it anyway. Well. Humility clearly wasn’t the name of the game here, then. John only barely swallowed the retort that jumped to the tip of his tongue, didn’t quite contain the eye roll, and followed behind the lady with only a vague sense of misgiving. Bargains, he understood. Give. Take. Bid. Barter. Try not to sign away a soul. The basics, and luckily there was not a crossroads in sight. What they did have was enough allergens to make an ENT doc weep with joy. John squinted through the haze of dust that wafted up when she moved the furniture, then transferred that dubious look to the door set below. That looked like a guaranteed messy death, didn’t it? Or maybe just an undignified one. Sucking on his teeth, John weighed his options. “And what’s that exploration gonna net me, then? Because I’m not riskin’ my neck unless we’re talkin’ supplies enough to last as long as we’re stuck in this bloody house.” He paused, tacking on a dry, “My standards, by the way. No flimsy rations.” “Well, I can’t vouch for the quality of your craved tobacco,” Ivy said, folding slender arms across that ample bosom, hip jutted out to the side. “I haven’t tried anything in the cabinet. But...hm.” She considered it - there could be something of importance beneath the trapdoor, and Harley did say she wanted to work to solve the stupid mystery. Ivy promised to help her dearest friend. If Harley weren’t here, however, she’d just offer up a ‘see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya’ to the blithering idiots and let them figure it out on their own. Her electric lime eyes glittered; they were the only green part of her, and she hated that. “Fine, you can have whatever you want from the cabinet.” She didn’t care who else might need or want the various flavored cigarettes - no one in her room staked a claim, ergo. It was alright. “Even if it’s awful, it’s probably better than nothing?” she asked rhetorically, bone-china fingers tapping her elbow. Come on, sweetie, you know you want to make this deal. John made a face. He didn’t know what the contents were- not quantity, not quality, not whether or not they might poison him outright. Or. Well. Okay, cigarettes were doing that already, he supposed, so what was one more chemical in the mix? Might as well go big, right? Right. “Mm. Right,” he sighed, shrugging out of his coat. Might as well have what little range of motion he could manage, since he had little scope on what might be below that door. “I die, there’s a twitchy lad upstairs that gets the goods instead.” There. Good deed done. And for an added measure, he snagged out that stupid little phone, tapped a quick message to Richie informing him that stupidity was pending and to come looking this-a-way if he failed to turn up again for another delightful evening of sugary slumber. “He’ll know to come in and ask.” Setting things aside, John knelt down and hauled the door up to reveal… darkness. A tunnel, maybe? Definitely a hole. Hot air whooshed out, musty and thick, and John rubbed a hand over his jaw. Fuck, this was a bad idea. Really bad, in fact, and John knew from bad. Aw, wasn’t that sweet? Leaving the tobacco stash for the nearest and dearest. “Twitchy lad upstairs,” Ivy nodded, because sure, she’d humor him. He was about to bite it, after all. “No problem. My name’s Ivy, by the way - you’re Constantine, aren’t you?” How did she know that? It might have to remain a mystery, because the trap door was catapulted open and even the plant goddess had to blink back surprise - the air was dank, musty, and smelled odd. Satan’s breath fanning across one’s face. She couldn’t place it yet, but it definitely did not seem inviting. Well, she’d leave the door open in the meantime - if he needed her, he could scream. No guarantee she’d come down after him, but there may be a fifty-fifty shot. John’s chin jerked up and his eyes narrowed sharply. “S’me,” he agreed, guarded. He didn’t know Ivy from the next bird in the house, but apparently she knew him. Or she knew his reputation. Neither was ideal. John had been vaguely relieved not to see anyone he knew loitering around this house, complaining along with the others, but he supposed he couldn’t claim that anymore. Thanks to Ivy. Another rub of his jaw, a long look into the darkness below the door, and John exhaled heavily. “Right, let’s do this.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves and took the tie off entirely- better not to give some unknown the ready means to strangle him- and then lowered himself down. It was uncomfortably warm already, getting narrower as he sank into position to crawl. “It’s a tunnel,” he informed. Guess he’d be seeing where it led. John began creeping his way forward, trying not to breathe too deeply as the air got thicker. A tunnel. How quaint. So like disappearing down a rabbit hole - the thought of getting on her hands and knees, scurrying like a rat, was not very appealing. Good thing she found a willing volunteer - or someone desperate for a nicotine fix, either one. “Are you okay?” she called down there. Echo, echo, echo. She wasn’t sure how long it was, or where the other side led to but, well. Guess they’d see. A larger man- broader in the shoulders, more muscled, with any kind of girth- wouldn’t fit in this tunnel. It became apparent that the further he crept along, the tunnel was getting more and more narrow, closing in on all sides. Maybe it was meant for children? Disturbing thought. The heat was a lot. John was beginning to imagine himself being slow roasted, squeezed into this tiny, dank little space. Sweat beaded on his face, rolled down to dampen his collar, stuck the itchy material of his shirt to his back and his belly as he wiggled through. “Somethin’ like,” he called back with a look over his shoulder, sounding as strained as he felt. That was punctuated by a wordless shout a beat later when he twisted back around and found himself staring at a face, looming out of the darkness. John jerked, smacking his head into the top of the tunnel, but there was nowhere to go. Forward or back were the only options. He screwed his eyes shut and kept crawling ahead. “Something like,” Ivy muttered to herself because that (followed by the yelp) sounded a little...ominous. Not great, but not a life or death situation either? If she had her usual array of tricks up her invisible sleeves, she’d have closed her eyes and really listened to the murmurs and whispers of roots, deep below the ground, even beyond the stale death trap of the tunnel - they’d have told Mother what she wanted to know. But she was flying blind here. Just as blind as new pal Constantine (she’d never really been friends with him back in Gotham, but she’d had spats with Zatanna here and there and those two were a stupid rollercoaster) happened to be. She ducked to call down into the depths. “You’re not dead, are you?” Not like she expected him to answer, but just checking. Even if he was probably too far into the tunnel. Christ Almighty, was he? John honestly couldn’t tell anymore. With his eyes closed, the scent in the tunnel became sharper, stinging his nose. It reminded him of the showers in the last psych ward he’d inhabited; kind of damp, a little like mold, a lot like bleach. Had someone been cleaning down here? Was there plumbing? Where in the fuck was he going? Risking a peek, John opened his eyes and swore when other faces loomed out. He couldn’t put names to them, but he’d seen more than a few of them upstairs. They were vaguely familiar and shouldn’t be under here. He was alone. This wasn’t real. He wiggled further and bumped up against… something. Swallowing heavily, trying to get a full breath that didn’t taste like a gym, John reached out to trace the shape of… “A door,” he breathed, shoving hard. He was getting out, no matter what new horror might be waiting. Another push and he emerged, squinting and sweaty and smudged in grime, to find himself in the lounge. “Huh.” Well, now. John clambered out, gripping at the sofa to help him manage his balance. Unexpected, but at least he was still breathing and all of his limbs were intact. No answer. How disappointing. Or was it? Truthfully, Ivy only had it in her pea-sized, black diamond heart to really care about one or two people at a time. Harley was always at the forefront, so a magician from Gotham that smelled like a chimney and sounded like he’d gargled with glass? Maybe, maybe not. She didn’t want him to die though, she’d say that much. “Be right back, babies. Mother’s got to run an errand,” she told the plants, giving them a bit of water to tide them over until next time. Then she slipped her feet into her shoes (how she hated shoes) and headed out of the conservatory. She’d just go back to the lounge and gather all those cigarettes. Probably would drop them off in his candy room, for whenever he returned to it. Fair was fair, after all, and if John was still alive then he could feel free to kill himself again with a smoke-induced asthma attack. It was all the same to Ivy. It took a minute or two for John to regroup; to catch his breath, to find some kind of composure. He’d been hallucinating, maybe. Probably the heat, nothing at all to worry about, but there was absolutely no chance he was getting back in that tunnel. He gave it a baleful look and shut the trapdoor on top again with a decided bang. “Fuck you,” he muttered, to no one in particular. Sighing, he started back for the conservatory. Better let Ivy know that he’d accomplished his assigned task, for all the good it would do her to know that all the tunnel did was lead to another room that was by far easier to reach by foot. Less grime, definitely, and no chance of being stuck to smother beneath the house. Color him surprised when he found her in the hallway. “Ah,” he greeted, waving a grimy hand. “Just comin’ to find you. So your mystery tunnel leads to the lounge. Pops up right behind the sofa.” He looked flushed and a little wild around the eyes, but the grin he flashed was all smug satisfaction (and only half of a lie). “That’s it?” Well, color Ivy disappointed. She was expecting something a little on the side of exciting, but given the mad scientist look in John’s eye - it spoke to a bit more than a ridiculous maze, anyway. If only she had her truth serum, produced with the rest of her toxins, she’d administer a little puff-puff - but alas, she only had the word of a man. Either way, she wouldn’t be going down there herself. She’d tell Harley everything, and exercise caution. No matter what, it didn’t seem safe. “There was nothing else in there?” she asked, disbelief coloring her tone. “Feel free to elaborate - and come with me to the hookah lounge if you want your cancer sticks.” “Heavy dose of claustrophobia, but that’s it,” John confirmed with a careless shrug. Or, it was meant to be careless. He was kind of sore from his efforts, so he aborted that motion halfway through with a grimace. Now he was going to have to risk the weird candy bathroom because he desperately needed a shower. Also a change of clothes and about a pack of cigarettes. Though he couldn’t promise his hands wouldn’t shake if he lit up right now. He tipped his chin, indicating he’d follow her, and slid hands into his pockets just in case there were tremors. Better to hide them in mixed company. “S’hot, smells a bit like a laundry… dunno what else to tell you.” “Intriguing,” Ivy drawled, and no, she wouldn’t be heading down there. If anyone else wanted to then they could feel free - but she cared little about what happened to the residents. Only Harley. If anything hurt Harley, she would lash out like a motherfucking snake in the grass. It wouldn’t be pretty. To the hookah lounge she went. The sign on the door clearly stated ‘no boys allowed,’ but once she checked to make sure her roomies weren’t in there, she pushed that door all the way open. “It’s the cabinet in the back, just take you what you want,” she said, waving him inside. “Though don’t touch the pillows.” Those were beds, thanks. And she didn’t want to say it, but the smell of the tunnel still lingered. “Cheers,” John muttered, picking his way around pillows and doing his utmost not to touch anything along the way. No reason to ruin the goodwill he’d earned by playing patsy. Ivy seemed like she had no patience already, and John was rapidly running out of what amounted to his natural charm. Shucking out of his grimy button-up (still decent, thanks, since people apparently believed in layers in the forties and he had another shirt beneath), John poked into the cabinet and collected everything that would fit into his makeshift bag. It all looked questionable at best, but. Questionable was better than nothing. He slung it over a shoulder, flashed a lopsided grin, and slipped out of the girls’ little clubhouse with a falsely cheerful, “Pleasure doin’ business with you.” “You too,” Ivy smirked, leaning against the door and playing lookout while John raided the tobacco cabinet. Some of it might be good, or ‘decent’ if not decidedly old - maybe fruity or spicy flavors - but then surely you’d have something like peanut butter and jelly tobacco. A flavor that had no business being tobacco at all. It wasn’t really one of her interests, so, losing a good chunk of the supply was no skin off her back. “I suppose I’ll see you around.” |