i_estrange Falling Apart [Constantine]
It was getting stuffy in the Sanctum Sanctorum; even without the company of his right-hand man, Wong, and his disciple, Clea. Night after night of research, spell incantations, conjuring this and that and with little to no avail. And Dr. Strange was beginning to feel the effects of weariness and cabin fever. That and half of his spells blew up, fizzled out, or just plain didn't work; a tragedy he was beginning to associate with the bizarre magical workings of the City.
Or perhaps it had just been that he was trying to accomplish a task in the wrong area? More than likely he was just in need of a break.
But for Strange, a break was like giving up, and since he had a duty passed down to him, an obligation to the dimensional realms that he swore to uphold, even his breaks were working on finding a means to an escape. Which was why he was standing in the rank alley outside of the building that made a near perfect replica of his home on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village.
He'd taken up smoking again; not a very positive habit for a former physician but there was little else to calm his nerves short of stabbing his brain with a mystical sedative every few hours. He was staring at the brick wall across from him, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and wafting the smoky cloud above his head. It was damp. And the water from a broken downspout was trickling along the alley floor catching dirt and trash along its way and dragging it out to the sewer gutters.
He could pull it apart. Separate the dimensional wall. The barrier. See what was on the other side. Maybe it was different. Maybe it had more answers.
Or he could continue to stand there and get his cloak dirty.
Sadly, neither option appealed to him at this point.
A large man in a heavy quilted coat shoved some scraggly little blonde man past the alleyway, then grabbed him by the arm and swung him around until his shoulder hit the scrabbling bricks with a sickening thump.
"Look, you really don't want to do this," said the blonde man, more resigned than threatened. He wasn't even looking at the thug as he pulled out a 9mm Glock.
"I said, FUCK you! Fuck your faggy brit ass, man! No one plays me like that, dogg! NO ONE!"
"Well, you might want to change your reputation, chum," he sighed and started towards his pockets.
The gun shot was muffled, but still loud as the blonde man was shot point blank in the gut.
"FUCK YOU-"
Something else was going on. Some undercurrent of mystic energy that came from somewhere other than lay lines, channels, dimentions or higher powers. This was something Dormammu would not touch. This was something the Vishanti didn't see. This was the edge.
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/12/2006 19:30:44
Strange didn't need to hear the altercation or the verbal attack from one man or the other. He didn't have to see the gun or know that it had been shot. Because somewhere deep beneath the mystical realms that he was held accountable for there was a waver. A disturbance. And it immediately brought him out of his trance like stare, cigarette falling from his lips and extinguishing in a puddle of filth at his feet.
And the Eye was on high alert, already prepared to react at Strange's initial flinch to the alteration of energies in the nearby vicinity.
Without giving himself the chance to weigh options, Strange was scrambling out of that alley and peering out into the street just in time to see the bullet escape the barrel and head for the blonde haired figure.
It hit him square and the man gave out a cry of pain... or disappointment. Like when you drop the roast on your foot.
"Augh!," he heaved, hand shooting towards his stomach as the dark red stain covered his fingers and created a interesting splotch on his dirty dress shirt. The thick thug aimed again, looking to finish the man off when--
--and there was the enegry, something dark, primal, self-derivative if someone could peel portions of their own soul to force it against the mystic laylines like so much silly putty, like shaping tinfoil with your teeth--
-- the blonde man lept forward with a grace and strength that were not normally found in those who were suffering from a gut gun shot wound. His bloody hand thrust forward and caught the shooter in the face and he screamed, loudly, honestly, and full of fear.
"YOU DIDN'T WANT TO DO THIS!," the blonde man shouted, accent still in effect through clenched teeth as he drove his attacker to his knees, then the ground...
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/12/2006 20:17:35
This predicament was a double-edged sword as far as Strange was concerned. If this had been New York. If this had been his world and his realm of existence, then he might have done more to interfere. But if he had learned one thing since arriving in the City, it was that the occupants had their own set of rules and guidelines of behavior.
And he highly doubted that there was anyone behind bars at the local prison. Most villains, and some protagonists he assumed, that caused any sort of ruckus -- like this fellow here -- were probably no longer of the living and breathing.
And then there was also that energy. Dark. Black. But more ancient and primordial than what he was accustomed to coming up against in the Dark Dimension. And mystical power was not something one just walked right up to and threatened the authority of, even if one was a Sorceror Supreme.
Why, for all he knew, this blonde man was his counterpart in another world. Uncommon, but not at all unheard of. But there were so many channels and so many broken fabrics of time that --
Well, it could happen.
So he stood. Waited. On guard for whatever might occur. The Eye sparkling its goldish hue above his chest.
It was an ugly scene. The thug pissed himself as the blonde drove him down, something... sizzling, smoking from where his palm pressed into the man's face. Limbs fell limp, the gun clattered to the ground and still the man pressed on. As if the matter was personal.
Eventually they stopped moving, some strange tableu. The blonde in his dirty shirt and ratty trenchcoat and bloody dark hand leaned away from his assailant, crouching there as she just shook his head. He muttered something under his heavy breath, hard to understand, and flopped his hand about as if to shake off the stained color.
Then he rifled through the thug's pockets.
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/12/2006 21:11:13
His initial response had been: Wow. That looked .. painful. But that probably wasn't the best reaction to have upon approach, so he tried to shake it off before stepping out from behind his concealed alley corner to walk towards the blonde and the body of the attacker.
He kept a considerably safe distance, of course. Arms hung harmlessly at his sides, though mostly concealed by that long maroon-colored cloak. One of those international, but not always interdimensional, signs of meaning no harm. Unable to prevent the Eye from performing its glowy ritual, he just let it alone and watched as the man dug through the gunman's pockets.
John was sweaty, but he'd found a good roll of bills tucked away into the man's heavy jacket, which he pilfered for himself. After all, he had been shot. It was the least the man owed him.
God, did it hurt. But John looked over the man's blistered and smokig face with a less than interested air. In fact, John looked a little sick. But that might have been the internal bleeding.
Something tickled at the back of his neck, raising the hair on the back of his neck when he turned slowly to see...
A man. In a cape.
"Fuck me," he sighed tirely.
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/12/2006 21:38:30
It was a cloak. Not a cape. Superman wore a cape. Batman wore a cape. Dr. Strange wore a cloak. A levitation cloak to be precise. Not that he couldn't levitate without the cloak. He could. This just made it all the more easier.
And he rather liked the coloring and thought it was somewhat dashing.
Besides, it was a time-honored tradition. So who was he to go against the norms implaced by the predecessors of the Ancient One?
"No, thank you, I'm trying to quit," Strange replied in his version of dry sarcasm.
Realizing how this looked, his hands in an unconscious man's coat, a gun lying nearby, him bleeding profusely, a mess of a face, he was pretty sure Mr. Cape thought the same of him. He looked away and tried to pick himself up, stumbling to his feet as the bloodied hand went once more to the nasty wound.
"Evenin'," he croaked out, trying to be casual . Let the looney just walk away. Just *walk* away...
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/12/2006 22:00:58
Yeah. Not a lunatic. Not a cape.
And Strange was an understanding man. He realized there were reasons for why people might act the way this fellow did. That there was always the possibility of standing up despite severe wounds and traumas. He could give this guy the benefit of the doubt. He didn't look like the culprit afterall.
The other man had the gun.
He cleared his throat with a cough and scratched at his goatee.
"Are you going to need help with that?" He asked, motioning to the man's bleeding stomach.
"Naw, naw, guv', jus' fine," he slurred, the world starting to go a little spinny.
God, what an idiot he was gfor getting shot like that. What a stupid stupid man he was, and now, for his crime against better judgement, he was going to bleed out over in some nowheresville town with a faggy guy in a cape looks on.
This was a sad, sad way to go.
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/16/2006 20:02:50
"Uh huh, sure, fine," Strange replied with an obvious air of disbelief.
Despite the scene that had just passed, he braved the distance between the two of them and canted his head down a little bit to observe the wound.
"It's a wonder you're still standing."
Then he paused, not about to perform any medical assistance or healing spells if the man was going to lash out and try and shove his head into the pavement like his previous attacker.
"You're not going to try and send me to some other dimension if I help you, are you?"
John backed up as the peculiar man got too close, still clutching his stomach. The color was drained from his face and movements sluggish. The pain was killing him now, but still, she wasn't here. He kind of wished she was by this point. Her and the whole bleeding marches of Hell itself.
Heh. Bleeding. He chuckled lightly, then stumbled to one knee.
"Ow," he said numbly
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/16/2006 20:30:51
And that was enough for Strange's surgeon side to kick into high gear and make all decisions for the both of them.
"I'm going to need you to lie down," he said, helping the man onto his back. Which wasn't too difficult once he'd fallen to his knee. "This will only take a moment, and you might feel a little bit fuzzy. But you'll be right as rain when you wake up, so try to remain calm."
Strange flung his cloak over his shoulder, allowing more space for arm movement. He placed his hands together and muttered a few long Tibetan phrases until a soft yellow glow emanated from his palms.
John should have felt sleepy and a little dazed as the sorceror called upon the dimensional energy of both himself and their surroundings -- which had more than enough to spare -- to place the man in a trancelike state.
Once Strange was sure that the man was properly 'out', so to speak, he placed one palm on John's forehead and the other on the center of his chest; both warm from the kinetic energies necessary to pull off the healing spell. Then Strange closed his eyes and continued with the chanting; words passed down through the Vishanti.
It was about a five minute process, wherein the area of the wound blended into that soft glow and began mending itself. Until, in the end, all he was left with was the blood stain on his shirt.
Strange removed his hands, halted the chant, and like a showman hypnotist, snapped his fingers in John's face.
"'ey, heeey!," John tried to complain, but his vision was narrowing down to a short tunnel and he couldn't manage to move his arms without causing his innnards to fall out. He was shot. Oh god... he was shot...
The caped older man came at him it seemed and he tried to squirm or struggle but there was something funny on his chest... something glowy and it *stared* at him with an eye-- the hell? -- and he was well warded enough to kept from any extradimentional harm but man, was he just hallucinating? It made sense, he was going to leave a pool of himself just lying in the gutter, again, but that *eye* what *was* that thing? And why was it looking at him like he owed it money?
It was a queer feeling to being lying in state on the street while a man in a very butch mustache and floaty cape chanted over him.... John Constantine knew that this had to possibly the gayest situation he'd been in yet. He wanted to get up, he wanted to smack this fucker, he wanted his intestines *inside* his body, he wanted the hole to be gone and he wanted a smoke. He'd been in his fair share of trances before and recognised the signs, but remained rather resistant to whatever ju-ju this old queen was trying to use on him--
-- and then it was over. Something snapped in front of his face and John reacted quickly to grab the man's index finger and twist. Not enough to break it, but just enough to get his attention. "Who the FUCK are you?"
From: [info]i_estrange Date: 01/17/2006 17:14:35
Granted, Strange could have responded to John's finger-grab with some impressive display of mystical power, but that would have defeated the purpose of just helping the man. And there was no need to show off. Not unless he absolutely needed to. Which, if the man didn't calm down, Strange might have to do of necessity on his own behalf. If for nothing else.
Attention, however, was caught and Strange peered at the man with narrowed eyes. Displeased at this reaction, especially after he'd just drained a considerable amount of energy just to heal his wound. And the Eye continued to glow a vexated response to John's behavior. If he didn't still have that conscience of being a doctor he might have given the wound back to the man.
"Dr. Stephen Strange," he replied in as calm a manner as John would allow him, considering that his hand was twisted in such an uncomfortable position. "Sorceror Supreme and Guardian of the gates between dimensions."