Constantine:

        Believe it or not, he has charm: an elusive smile and a cool
self-confidence worthy of a cat. He's not particularly impressive
physically--a little taller than average, but still at least an inch or
two below six feet. His spare build might give the impression of being
athletic, but that's more coincidence than anything else. Age-wise, he
looks to be somewhere between thirty and forty. His voice, when he speaks,
suggests South London, outlined by Liverpudlian origins.
        Malleable hair blond enough to be nearly yellow carelessly frames
his slim features, rarely staying in a single state for any long time. One
minute it's sleek and neatly in place; the next it's tousled, almost wild,
as if it were restless. In either case, he pays it little attention. To
match, his eyes are that intense, striking shade of blue that usually gets
compared to the sky, which means that in reality they're nothing like the
sky most of the time, but might echo it on a clear autumn day. Considering
all of this, it really shouldn't be surprising that his sharp, finely
chiseled features look like they're made to be illustrated.
        A cheap white dress shirt and light blue pants make up the main
body of his outfit: a three-piece suit with the jacket left out. A red tie
adds another color to the ensemble. Black boots finish it below and a
single silver stud of an earring finishes it above: he has a rough, base
kind of class.

Kitty:

        As stunning young women go, this one - isn't. Young, yes, early to
mid twenties or so; female, yes, with a slim and athletic build; stunning
...  no.  If she grew her hair out and took any effort at all with
cosmetics or dress, she might manage attractiveness, even beauty of the
unassuming sort that doesn't stand out in a crowd; as it is, she's just
there, and not looking happy about it. Her chestnut hair is cut just long
enough to curl, still too short not to harshen the lines of her face.
Large brown eyes are hidden behind larger, round glasses that do nothing
to remedy the problem. Her jaw is set with an almost predictable
stubbornness, her mouth a thin, annoyed line.
        Still, she's not dressed with the militancy that might be expected
to go with that haircut and expression. A black T-shirt bearing in white
the words "Go away or I will replace you with a very small shell script"
is tucked neatly into new blue jeans, making her look a little taller -
that is, making her look average height rather than on the short side. A
plain brown backpack is slung casually over one shoulder, and she sports
(if that's the word for it) tennis shoes on her feet. She wears three
pieces of jewelry: a silver Star of David on a chain around her neck, an
unobtrusive dulled-silver ring on one hand, and a charm bracelet jingling
on her left wrist.

Pete Wisdom:

Rather tall, but standing with an eternal slouch, Wisdom carries with him
an aura of disreputability even when he's shaven and his clothes are clean
and pressed. His left eye is covered unceremoniously by a black patch, a
nasty scar running from above his eyebrow through down to his nose; other,
lesser scars appear elsewhere. His remaining eye is a distractingly bright
blue, and reflects an amused cynicism, and it's apparent from the lines
around it that he's likely earned the right to be jaded. The man's face is
thin and pale, and his nose looks to be a bit thicker than it should be at
the top, as though it'd been broken before but set correctly. His hair is
jet black and somewhat long on top, though it's been cut recently and is
short enough in the back; it has a tendency to fall into his face and
shade his expression.

Suits look absolutely natural on Pete, which is good, because it's all
he'll ever wear. The one he's wearing now (which bears a remarkable
resemblance to the one he wore yesterday, and the day before that, et
cetera) is black, made of a fairly respectable fabric, and cut to a
'modern' style (which isn't the same as a modern style). Both the jacket
and the trousers look almost streamlined; their lines coincide with
Wisdom's. The lapels are narrow and point a bit upward, there're three
buttons down the front instead of two, and his tie (made of matching
material) is narrow. Around his neck, sometimes visible, is a thin silver
chain from which conflicting pendants hang: a silver Star of David, smooth
from age, and a tiny St. Jude medal.

Steve Rogers:

        The man is tall and muscular; the build of a professional athlete.
His blonde hair is shorn into a crew-cut. Ice blue eyes, a square jaw, and
angular features contribute to a face that is attractive in a rugged sort
of way. Tan and fit, he seems to be in his early to mid twenties; a
vigorous young man by the way he moves. He carries himself with
confidence, and a wary sort of tension infuses his gaze and his posture.

        The t-shirt he wears is a plain black. Not even a little man on a
pony of the left breast. He's muscular enough that it's pulled tight over
his chest and around his biceps. He's wearing a pair of sweat shorts, cut
off an inch or so above the knees. The pants look a little large, cinched
tight around his tapered waist. His legs are as muscular as the rest of
him, further adding to the impression of athleticism. He's wearing a pair
of brown leather sandals that look a little rugged.


Feng's Bar--Chinatown

        A dark little hole in the wall place ringed with paper lanterns. A
tiny bar, whose only charm is the small jade accents attached to its
carved wood sides, stands crushed against the left wall. The musty,
shallow shelves behind the bar are crammed with exotic and ancient looking
bottles, all with labels covered in various kanji. Buddhist gratitude
cards, yellowed with age, are plastered to the walls by the hundreds,
along with charts tracking Chinese astrology and the course of the stars
into time unforseen. Chinese dragons, cut out of paper, curl around the
slat-covered windows, protecting the bar from evil spirits with their
fluttering crepe breath.
        The saki here is generally held as the very best in the city,
although that fact is not highly publicized. The walls are lined with
cramped, two-person booths, the shoulder-high backs of each miniature pair
carved with scenes from the oriental countryside. There are no tables
here, only booths, stools and standing room around the miniscule bar. In
the far back left corner of the room, just beyond the end of the bar, one
might notice a good sized trap-door, but if you ask Feng, the owner of the
bar, about it, you're likely to just get a dirty look.



It's the sidewalk outside Feng's, and it's somewhere around nine at night,
just recently dark, still muggy and kind of nastily hot but far less so
than earlier in the day. Animated in the heat as only he could be, Pete
Wisdom walks ahead of Kitty Pryde and John Constantine, jacket gone and
sleeves rolled up, tie loose, turning around as he walks every so often to
make sure that his victims are paying attention. "And no, you can't meet
her, we're trying to keep her away from the city at large until she's on
her feet. At least somewhat. But for fuck's sake," he says with a note of
disgust in his voice, spinning around again to swing open the door to
Feng's, "at least Braddock - you wouldn't know him, John, and thank every
god you know for that, the bloke goes by 'Captain Britain', chrissake -
doesn't have an analogue here. Meggan, poor love, would get caught all up
again." He's loud, he's English, and he's quite clearly opinionated. And
far more comfortable in this weather than anyone has any right to be.

A trickle of sweat makes it's way down from the almost shaved hair on the
side of Steve's head, toward his jaw where he wipes it away
absent-mindedly. But he looks cool nonetheless. He's been in much hotter.
Arabia in the summer of '46 was hotter then a the til at a cat house on
two-for-one night. A faint look of distaste on his face, the big blonde
guy is looking around as if a little lost. That's when he hears 'Captain
Britain' and 'Braddock' nearby. Hard /not/ to hear Pete one supposes.
That's all he catches though. He makes a line toward the little group at a
brisk pace. "Excuse me. Did you just say something about someone named
Braddock?" A little rude maybe, but he's got the smile and easy tone of
voice to get away with chatting up strangers on the street.

Constantine is following Pete as best he can, looking considerably weighed
down by the heat, even if it's cooler by this hour--his sleeves are rolled
up, the first couple buttons of his shirt are undone, and his hair sticks
up in a sweaty mess. He's smoking and paying (apparently) most of his
attention to Pete and the rest to glancing around occasionally. "What, and
have her be knocked off her feet once again the instant she's exposed
to--" he starts to ask dryly. Then he catches sight of the guy coming
toward them. He fixes a thoughtful, curious gaze on him, but lets Pete do
the explaining on this count, at least.

Kitty's usual resort of jeans-and-T-shirt, plus just plain being too
skinny to retain much heat, mean that she's not doing /too/ badly in the
current weather. Mostly, she's hanging back by Constantine for the sake of
keeping him company - or possibly making sure someone notices if he
wanders off. If she has to suffer, apparently, she's not going through it
alone. Her incipient glare at Constantine is derailed quite nicely by the
perfect stranger coming up - not that it was all that annoyed a glare to
start off with, either. "Something like," Kitty offers - not an English
accent; Midwest. "Pete, is this another one of your weird friends?"

"/My/ weird friends? Look who's talking. Besides, most of my friends are
dead," says Pete to Kitty, letting a bizarrely quirky grin intrude by the
very end. Someone's having deja vu and feels like inflicting it on whoever
it'll work for, apparently. And John got interrupted, so. The scruffy
black-haired one-eyed English spy turns to regard the Rather Large
Newcomer and presumably address him, but he pauses, squinting. Feels like
he should know the guy. Doesn't. Can't place him. Irritated by this, but
stifling it because there's a possibility he gets to complain some more
about Braddock to someone who hasn't heard it before. "Ah. I had, yes.
Braddock. Why d'you ask?" Because you're clearly not the lager lout in
question.

Trying his best to relax, letting his shoulders slump a little, but
keeping his back ramrod straight, the big fellow stays quiet a second. As
if trying to decide what tack to take. To that end, he looks over the
motley crew and finaly speaks. "Brian Braddock, by chance?" Definitely
American, but one of those accentless voices. Realizing his manors he
extends a hand. "Sorry, I should introduce myself, not act like some SS
goon. Steve Rogers."

"At least they leave you alone," Constantine mutters under his breath in
response to Pete's comment. Then he returns to eyeing the newcomer. 'Some
SS goon'? Odd comparison. He keeps his mouth shut, though--best not to get
into this conversation until he has at least some idea of where to stand.

Kitty's expression goes through one of those must-be-irritated
not-going-to-laugh moments, which does a little more to help her miss the
content of Constantine's mutter. She lifts a hand to resettle her glasses
and peers at Steve through them. "Pleasure and all that." She hopes. Her
tone is perhaps a little more dubious than most people's might be; that
was a mildly unnerving choice of words on his part.

Taking the hand, eyebrows up, Wisdom shakes it - grip a bit stronger than
someone as skinny as he is looks like he should have, but not by much; his
hand is feverishly hot, but entirely dry. Always a dead giveaway, because
he certainly doesn't /act/ like he's deliriously ill. "Brian Braddock,
ye-- aha." Now the guy's grinning; the odd reference on Steve's part makes
sense, suddenly, as does his interest in Meggan's irritating husband. In
the back of his mind there's a brief flicker of part of a song - 'Watching
the Detectives', if anyone cares - but he buries it because one generally
doesn't offer aliases to new immigrants. As Rogers must be. "Pete Wisdom.
Bloody hell, what're the odds of you catching just that just then? Good
job I didn't say Britanic." He's glancing back at Kitty and John as he's
saying the last, a look that says it's fairly all right. Possibly quite
entertainingly so.

Shaking the hand, trying not do one of those macho squeeze until the other
guys bones grind together type shakes, Rogers lets go. "Nice to meet you
Pete. And yeah, what are the odds?" He looks to the other two, then at
Pete again and shakes his head. "I'm obviously interrupting your supper
here, just figured I had to check and make sure I heard correctly."
Immigrant maybe, but he's trying to walk the line and not just come right
out and say it. "Don't let me interrupt."

Constantine gives Pete a *look*. He hates it when other people know
something he doesn't--and Pete can be so annoying about it, too. Rather
than complain, though, he just says, "The odds? Around here? Bound to
happen, mate."

Kitty pushes short curls fairly needlessly away from her forehead, giving
Constantine another sidelong glance - funny how it looks just a touch like
the look he's giving Pete, actually - before admitting, "I'm starting to
think the laws of chance got redrafted just for this city, yeah." The
difference between her lack of recognition and Constantine's is largely
the amount of faith she has that Pete will, eventually, explain. Sometime
in the next several weeks. After, if necessary, getting kicked a couple of
times. "Among the new variations being 'you can never just walk anywhere
without something happening.'"

"That one can get a bit annoying, yeh," says Pete, leaning over to reach
for the door again. "And listen, Rogers, I'd prefer it if you joined us.
Feng's is all right. Don't know Cantonese, do you?" He tosses John a quick
grin that goes a little bit smug when he realizes exactly what sort of
look he's being given. Then he points out, in all reasonability, "The
pavement's shite for a conference." That's when he actually pulls the door
open and gestures toward the inside once more.

"Matter of fact, I speak it and Mandarin." Rogers offers in reply to Pete.
He's got enough sense to realize this is somebody he needs to speak with.
"And I appreciate the company for supper." He smiles and raises the bag on
his shoulders back up a little bit. Whatever's in the bag makes it rather
well rounded.

"The laws of chance aren't enforced very well," Constantine comments,
almost cheerfully. But he's still keeping his contribution to the
conversation to a minimum. With another irritated look at Pete--you'd
*better* explain this once we're inside--he steps into Feng's.

Kitty actually cracks a grin at Constantine's comment, and ducks in the
door that Pete's so conveniently pulled open. Apparently, she's first.
Whether or not this makes her a lady is debatable.

"Well, good," says Pete, then adds under his breath, "that'll be one more
who'll be able to listen if someone's plotting to kill us." This said, he
keeps the door open with his foot, pulls a cigarette and a lighter out of
his pocket, lights it, and follows Steve, John, and Kitty inside. Yes,
small booths at the back, but that's fine - he drags a barstool over and
steals an ashtray, and sits there. Now no one can kick him under the
table. Looking inordinately pleased with himself - oh god help us all -
Wisdom finishes the introductions. "Rogers - this is Kitty Pryde, and John
Constantine." A beat, and a *look* at Cap, while ashing his cigarette.
"You may as well know that if you don't tell them now, I will later, but
it's still your call if you want it on the table while we're talking.
We're all right." Collectively, for the implied purpose, at least. "I came
through roughly seven months ago, for reference."

Settling into a booth, with his back to the wall as much as possible,
Steve just watches Pete a minute. He finaly nods. It's a little bit
awkward getting the shoulder bag into the booth, and it makes a soft clang
against the wall. "Nice to meet you; John, Kitty." Pondering just how to
present it. "I don't suppose you folks have heard of Captain America?"
Last time he announced that name he just got blank stares. Evidently,
Wisdom recognizes him. Or an analogue.

Constantine sits down in a corner of the booth in question, opposite from
Steve, and flicks his finished cigarette into the ashtray. He's not
altogether pleased with the fact that he can't kick Pete under the table,
because at the moment he's very much wanting to. He eyes the shoulder bag,
then lifts his gaze back to the man who was carrying it until a moment
ago. At the title, he just blinks. "Captain America," he says, voice quite
neutral. One corner of his mouth twitches slightly. "Can't say I have."

Kicking Pete under the table is Kitty's privilege ... okay, at the moment,
it's not /anyone's/ privilege. She settles for slanting a glare at Pete -
like he hasn't acquired immunity to that by now - and dropping her own
backpack on the floor beside her precarious perch at the edge of the
booth. Which puts her between Wisdom and Constantine; this is probably not
a coincidence, if only because it means the vehement non-smoker gets the
maximum secondhand smoke. Grr. Still, she's too busy being faintly bemused
at Steve's question to put real vitriol into anything else. "What, is this
my official week to meet Avengers analogs?" she comments, mostly under her
breath. That's probably another 'yes'.

Oh god, Pete's trying so hard not to laugh right now. The combination of
John's reaction and the source behind Kitty's question is, if he keeps the
response in too long, going to make him choke on the lungful of smoke he
currently has. And that'll be messy. So he very, very carefully, very
slowly exhales, covering both good eye and patch with hand, not hiding his
grin. "Yes. Was one native to my - oh Christ, I still can't say this with
a straight face - my home dimension. Feel like I'm in the fucking twilight
zone, every single time. Never worked with him. Bit too visible an outfit,
when I was in the States. /Not/ going to talk about Braddock after all.
How long've you been here?"

Letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Believe me, buddy, I
still feel weird not having everybody and their sister know who I am on
first site." Steve looks at Kitty a little blankly though. "Avengers? Who
are they?" Turning back to Pete, studying him a minute. "If you did black
ops, and you don't know me...cause I sure as hell don't know you, then I
don't think I'm the same Steve Rogers." He sits up straight, wrists
resting on the edge of the table just so. He moves his arm sto fiddle with
the silverware, straightening things up. And tries to stay away from the
could of cigarette smoke.

Constantine slants a glance at Kitty. "The Avengers?" he mutters in
response, a little incredulously. He digs around in his pockets for a
moment, comes up with his cigarettes, and lights one. There's a tiny smirk
on his face--he can't quite resist. All the same, though, the look in his
eyes as he scrutinizes Steve is essentially serious. Time in Beacon Harbor
has taught him that even someone called 'Captain America' can be
dangerous--or useful.

Kitty replies to Constantine, low-toned, "Don't blame me. Not my idea, not
my group, and apparently not his, either." She grimaces a little and does
the inevitable wave-of-hand in the usual futile attempt to direct various
mildly toxic chemicals away from her own lungs. Vaporized asphalt, how
pleasant.

Now Wisdom looks up, unwrapping his own sandwich, finally. "Not remotely,"
he says cheerfully, then takes an enormous bite. Chromph. He chews for a
moment, swallows, and /then/ finishes answering. "Not even in the
conventional sense. London. Of an alternate universe." A beat. "I still
think that's a stupid way of putting it, but it can't be helped."

Yum yum tar, yum. "Avengers. What the outfit you were with in my place
/and/ Kitty's called itself." Wisdom smiles a little oddly, bringing up
his feet and hooking them on the middle rungs of the barstool, elbows on
his knees and hands clasped with cigarette, by his chin. "Very, very,
/very/ visible. Cultural icons. Revered by your entire nation, so far as
we could tell. Every time you died, America wore black, if you believed
the media." There's only a hint of irony in his voice, and most of the
rest of the humor is gone. He's watching Steve very, very carefully now.
"And no, you're not the same Steve Rogers. If there was a Pete Wisdom in
your universe, I wasn't him, either. /Everything here is different/." He
studiously doesn't look at either John or Kitty - keeping his monocular
gaze on the big man taking up one side of the table.

Shaking his head a little, Rogers just snorts through his nose. "Don't get
me wrong. You should see the flag I was wearing when I first dropped in.
But that was for public missions where we wanted to be seen. Not
everything that needs doing needs to be advertised though. If you
understand me." He keeps a few details to himself though. Not metioning
who the others are. Looking down at his hands, which can't seem to get the
knife perfectly straight the way he wants it. "I'm starting to realize
just how different it all is. I mean, we even /won/ here. World War Two I
mean." He looks at Kitty then, his eyes fixing on her Star of David but
not saying anything.

Constantine lifts his mental estimation of Rogers's capabilities a few
notches. The man is clearly not just some transplanted toy hero whose main
purpose in life was strutting around and making himself and his country
look like an idiot to everyone else. (Yes, that was one of John's first
guesses upon hearing the name.) "Must make a bit of a difference, that,"
he says softly.

Kitty's hands have dropped back to the table - not her lap; fingertips
resting just on the table's edge, a little out from her sides, and both
the annoyance and the hint of even dark humor are gone. Her gaze is a
touch sharper behind her glasses, and yes, there's a little tension in her
shoulders. And she's sitting straight, but she was doing that to begin
with. "You've been reading up on local history? Good. Gets most of us at
first."

"I find /most/ things that need doing don't need to be advertised, if
any," mutters Pete, looking away and tapping a long ash into the tray.
They /lost/ the Second World War? England would have fallen quite neatly,
then, among so many other things. And yet Braddock was using that name.
One wonders. He passes off to Kitty until further notice; she seems to
have a better handle at the moment. A glance at John, trying to interpret
his expression, and Pete sets the ashtray on the table.

Steve Rogers shakes his head at Kitty's question. "Just a few things that
a couple of nice young ladies told me when I first got here. I haven't
checked it yet." He looks to John then, finaly assessing the man, his blue
eyes narrowing just a touch. Then back to Pete with a shake of his head.
If his hair were longer, it's ahke. "No, no. We had to sign a treaty in
'48. Left them with most of their gains in Russia and Europe. Brittain was
still free along with us and parts of China that the Khoumen Tang managed
to hold onto against Japan and their 'Greater Eastern Coprosperity
Region'. Braddock though..." He pauses, not sure how much to tell. "Well,
let's say he wore the union jack but they buried him under a swastika
around '85 or '86. I don't remember when we did that one exactly." Pete
ought to recognize though, that Steve's giving a lot of information. But
it's useless information.

Constantine's expression is one of cool appraisal; anything else he might
be feeling is neatly hidden. His jaw tightens a little at Steve's words.
John's no patriot, and he finds the idea of a "Captain Britain" pathetic
in any case, but he has at least enough national pride to be disturbed by
the idea being described. "And you worked with him?" he prods cautiously.
Let's see if we can find some useful information.

Kitty's jaw tightens just a touch, listening to Steve, but her voice stays
fairly even and relatively conversational. "I suppose congratulations are
in order; you just got the title for 'most screwed-up home universe I've
heard of yet.' By my admittedly biased standards." '85 or '86. She
would've been, oh, eight. "If we don't order something fairly soon, by the
way, we're going to start getting funny looks." But she also backs up
Constantine's question silently, glancing across at Steve. If he dodges
that one, it'll be noticed.

Yes, Pete realized that that was a lot of information. On the other hand,
the uselessness is only in one specific direction - everywhere else, it's
a flood. Tiny nuances. Use of the word 'us' instead of 'him'. Use of the
word 'they' without an antecedent, where only a very few words would
actually fit. Parts of China were free - because Fascism won, Communism
apparently didn't, even taking the name of the empire forged by Japan into
consideration - instead of a Cold War, they must've had a guerilla war for
over fifty years. "Bet you never even had a Che Guevera, did you," he
says, half to himself, half to see if even that name rings any bells.
Because Christ - you lose a lot, you also end up preventing, don't you.
"Problems in Russia, the area around it? Have, had a Soviet Union? Sorry,"
he says mildly, smiling halfheartedly, stubbing the cigarette out. "Too
much of a temptation to compare shop talk, I suppose." He's not looking at
Cap anymore, or at Constantine - his gaze is pointed toward Kitty, but
she'd be able to tell he wasn't looking at her, either. He wins, yes. "You
order, Pryde. I'm having my usual."

Nodding his head, Steve answers the question directly. "They've got a
saying on the farms in the middle part of the country, you don't have
somebody else put down your dog if he goes rabid." If that doesn't make it
clear he's not exactly a boy scout, not much will. "He was, I think, the
second Captain Britain. Not like his dad though. His dad was a real stand
up guy. Hardcore, you know? But Brian..." He shakes his head again and
spreads his hands as if to say 'what can you do'? "His sister, Betty,
though, she did a good job taking up his slack. I always thought she was
the smarter of the two anyway." He offers a sympathetic smile to Kitty,
then looks for a waiter, he gets caught up though, looking at John. "No.
Nobody named Che Guevera means anything. Russia was divided. The useful
bits were either under the Nazis or the Japs." In other words, yes. Nearly
sixty years of constant guerrilla warfare. When a waiter approaches, he
looks away from the rest of the table, letting his words sink in. "Wan-ton
soup. And water." Ordering light from the man, repeating the order in
Cantonese.

Constantine's gaze sharpens a little as he takes in the things left
unsaid, compares them with some of the things left unsaid before, and
starts to come up with a few intact sections of puzzle. He shakes his head
slightly at the waiter. He's not ordering--he seems to have lost his
apetite. (More likely, he's simply forgotten about it.)

Kitty adds to the order - Scotch for Pete, inevitably, and a flick of
annoyed glance to him as she says it; tea for herself. Yes, appetites
falling by the wayside. Or, yes, just forgotten. "That," she comments,
"makes four out of four so far where his sister's the smart one. Must be
genetic." She's confining her responses to the smaller matters, the
individual ones. Politics and history aren't her specialties, and that
shows a touch. "It's going to be a pretty rough adjustment for you. Social
differences must be hitting every time you turn around. And I don't mean,"
she gives an odd little half-grin of her own, a flicker of a friendlier
expression, "just not being recognized."

Abruptly, Pete's focusing, his gaze goes clear. He blinks at Kitty with a
slightly mock-wounded expression. Whaaaat. /Then/ he looks over to Cap,
dropping one foot to a lower rung, straightening up slightly from the odd
hunched position he'd taken. "Brian Braddock is a wanker no matter what
universe you're in. Apparently. And Betts is generally a gem. On the other
hand, where I came from, Braddock's father was horribly dodgy. Involved
in, oh, years and years' worth of research - and everything that tends to
imply - into inventive new ways to kill mutants using bits of other
mutants. But that's neither here nor there." He straightens entirely, very
briefly, and there's a distinct crack. And then he slouches again.