Stephen, meanwhile, was not charismatic. He could put on airs if he really tried, try and emulate the man he was before; Stephen Strange, the brilliant neurosurgeon and high society man. Success was varied. This seemed to be Constantine's bailiwick, so Stephen was happy to let him make up for the areas in which he knew he was lacking. Let each man his field plough and so on.
"If they have anything for sleep. Narcotics, any kind of drug or relaxant. If we can take back some kind of plant, even better."
He decided to hang back then and let John do his thing. He'd watch and listen, of course, particularly for any kind of sign if the magician needed backup. In the meantime, he took another sweeping look across the bar. This time, he looked with his Third Eye-- focusing on the astral and psychic energy of the space. He didn't expect to find much. There certainly was no spellcraft at work. The aliens had auras both familiar and unique from the particulars of their mental biology and processes, Stephen attributed. But there was something else in the air, something that Stephen hadn't expected. It was barely visible, almost like dust that caught the light just so, somewhere between the threads of reality. Was it ambient magic? Something in the atmosphere? Some kind of natural force?
Blinking away his half-distracted look, Strange returned to the then and there. A short bout of dizziness followed. That was the dehydration, he reckoned. He looked back over to John and tried to gauge how the conversation with the barkeep was going...