Badlands

        Southland Drive leaves the City Circle to the north and begins to
work its way though the thick urban development that has earned the name
"The Badlands" by city residents. Huge towering housing projects, like
monolith of steel and stone, cast long shadows over slum ridden side
streets. Old hotels, once the pride of a grow city, are worn down and
broken, serving as low income housing or rented by the hour. The side
streets off of Southland are narrow, broken affairs, with the occasional
burned out lot along the side standing as mute testament to the problems
this area has. Many businesses lie empty and abandoned, the economic boom
blessing much of the rest of the city seeming to leave this area
untouched. Southland continues south, working its way free of the
stagnating currents of too many people living in too small an area.


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                               Today's Weather:

The sort of bracing weather that makes the song "Winter Wonderland" a true
sentiment. Though the air is crisp, there is no wind, the snow is white
and fresh and the sky is blue. The sun dazzles off the white blanket in
the day and the artificial lights sparkle off it like a zillion diamonds
during the night.

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Almost like some sort of snowglobe, here, if, perhaps, people made
snowglobe scenes of the places the homeless come to hide from the rest of
the world. Here are the veritable dens of iniquity, the termination of all
back alleys and dead end streets, so it seems. No wind, but it's cold
enough, and the lack of it could change at almost any moment, because of
the coming fronts. Fat, wet flakes fall all around, frosting everything in
a thick blanket of muffling white, and the world almost seems so far away
here, with concrete canyons to twist sound back upon itself, so that it's
as though one is all alone in the vast jungle of the Badlands, without
even a toothless drunk by a garbage can fire for company. It's late enough
that dinners are finished, and that now, it's time for settling in,
relaxing, and having a quiet evening at home with those one loves.

Night, in the Badlands. Normally Liam would be on the streets, limping his
way block after block, helping others with sandwiches and warmth and
patient sympathy. But he doesn't trust himself at the moment, not with the
curling wrongness held so carefully at bay inside him. Even if it's less
than it was. If he's alone, he barely notices its presence, so he stays
above, where needs can't pull. Perched on a roof's edge, unilluminated,
he's a shadow of black and white, no flicker of his own light shining to
betray him. Sitting, hands around one knee, he eyes the city, and broods.

It took a psychic kick to the head to get Lorne outside at all, and by the
time he's gotten all the way to the Badlands, the whole thing is looking
far less important. As compared with, for example, not freezing to death.
He backs into a doorway and hugs himself, shivering, staring at the
falling snow. This? Was really stupid.

Evening's crawl sees weary wings on yet another patrol, and these days,
the Badlands get a closer look-over than most other parts of the city. One
particular spot gets a frown, and a quick move on, from the birdgirl as
she passes overhead. She sighs and rubs at her eyes, bleeding speed as she
makes her way just above the rooflines; it's dark, and caution where
things spring up through the gloom is wise, especially with the snow
making visibility that much more restricted. Her gaze is turned up as much
as it is down, and a figure on a rooftop gets a searching frown. Hard to
tell who it is, through the snow and darkness, and she circles slowly.

The door of some particularly vile den of a bar opens, spilling a brief
moment of vicious, disorderly life into the muffled, snow-deadened streets
of the Badlands. Then it shuts, leaving only another silent figure out in
the cold and dark. John Constantine hugs his arms close to his chest for a
moment, shivering slightly. Unfolding them, he reaches into his pocket for
his cigarettes as he starts walking. He suddenly very much wants to get
out of this place.

Near the railroad trestles that are vaulted over these valleys of poverty
and neglect, piles of trash, discarded trash, car parts, rusted out
dumpsters, coils of fencing and the like, and it is here, amongst this
kingdom of debris, that the world can taste its own undoing. Rather than
the smell of dirt and rain and lost and lonely, there is the funereal
smell of roses, and the wind begins to pick up, a faint whisper, a light
moan. Goodnight, goodnight, dear world, goodnight.

The snow simply continues to fall.

Even after the ministrations of the white-winged angel, the other blonde
Englishman still looks like twenty miles of bad road, though the bruises
have faded to the yellow of age and the wounds are now only fresh scars.
He's muffled in that worn parka, limping wearily along the cracked
sidewalks with a clove dangling from his lips and his hands stuffed into
his sleeves for warmth.

Liam's gaze traces over the skyline, occasionally flicking to the street
below as some movement calls his attention, but for the most part he's
focused on nothing in particular. The marks of bruises are lurid and
purple on his throat. Snow, falling on his hair and shoulders, dusts the
darkness of his unfurled wings. Kess' circling does draw his eyes, and he
peers for a moment before a sigh breathes out. Go away. I don't want to
talk to anyone right now. Except -- then there's the scent of roses, and
the angel's whole body stiffens.

The muffled sounds of wingbeats, and the world is not full of them, not
even plagued by them--it's really only this city, really only this place,
where the shadows are thicker, darker, more vicious. John may remember
when the shadows on a cave wall thickened and seemed to come alive.
Perhaps Seishi will remember the scents of roses, and that feeling that
the world has somehow 'moved on', and left a piece behind. This piece. And
certainly Liam can /feel/ them approaching. Certainly Lorne can hear the
faintest flits of teasing music. If one could call it that. At most, it's
a twisted mockery of even threnody. And dear Jack--he'll remember their
voices, won't he? All of those touched, those who haven't even been called
yet, been summoned by something to which it seems even Synchronicity bows.

To counter them, others approach, the sweetness and light and peace of
love, and they are born on wings of white, their sapphire eyes holding
grace, dignity, comfort. Salvation. If 'impending' had a taste, it is what
the falling flakes of white would taste like; it's what the very air would
be. Impending.

Jack's head jerks up from his contemplation of the icy sidewalk, the
better to turn into the wind like a hound trying to trace a scent. Very
deliberately, he reaches around to the small of his back to slip the
pistol into his hand. There's the tiny sound of the safety being taken
off, sharp in the frigid air. But he's taken on that distant, longing
look, the expression of someone attending to some sound only he can hear.
He does, however, start to move towards the source as well.

They're coming. Liam scans the sky, scans the street -- and Lorne isn't
wearing a hat, so it's easy to spot the demon's familiar features even
from above, and his eyes widen. Muttering something short and unpleasant
in Gaelic, the little angel slides off the roof and practically divebombs
the ground, wings whipping out at the last second to catch him, to send
him landing just in front of Lorne. Eyes flaring sapphire. "Get away.
They're comin'."

Seishi is frequently to be found on the rooftops - if not in the Badlands,
then elsewhere in the city. Lately it's nearly a nightly habit of hers,
the route varying but the routine always the same. Tonight is a little
different, but the only outward signs of that are her taut, faintly grim
expression, and the tachi belted openly around her waist. She creeps over
the roof of a building not too far away, staring around her into the
darkness, senses stretching out for - something. Anything. What she sees
and hears and smells and feels draws her toward the area near the railroad
trestles, moving stealthily and with great caution to lean down over the
edge of a roof looming overhead.

Stopped in his tracks, Lorne blinks at Liam in slow puzzlement. What are
*you* doing out here? "I know," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing
in the world. Duh. "I could say the same thing to you, peachpie." He moves
to step around the angel, faintly annoyed.

Kess' chin lifts, sharp eyes searching for the incoming angels, no joy,
happiness or relief at seeing either side. So they come. She shifts her
grip on the ring, slips a finger through it and sweeps the chain up over
her head, to flick around her hand, silver glinting over gloved knuckles.
She moves to wherever the angels seem to be heading, seeking a position
close enough to watch and intervene, because maybe she's spoiling for a
fight, just a little.

It takes Constantine a minute of walking before the strange dark smell of
roses sneaks through the smoke to him. He pauses. Maybe he's just
imagining it--but he can't afford that risk. Instead of doing the sensible
thing and turning the other way, though, he quickens his pace as he
approaches the train tracks.

A somber, dark, peaceful ev- "AND IT'S SO PERFECT I'M SO PERFECT YOU'RE SO
PERFECT YOU'RE NOT HERE, I HEAR THE CHANGING GEARS", well, so much for
that, as a certain extra-legal automobile comes to a stop, music blaring
from its tinny speakers. "THIS IS THE OPEN ROOOOOOAAAAAADDDDDDD..." Door
opens, and out steps Timothy Beckett, Master of Stealth, "SONG! God, I
just love the old classics." So far, he is utterly oblivious to anything
out of the ordinary.

Hollow eyes meet those of sapphire, and both survey the land below as the
wrecked monstrosities that were once angels--and the glorious beings that
still are--take to perching on the cracked sills of windows, on the
trestle, on the ground, on rooftops. Nothing stays still long enough for
anyone to get their bearings; in explosions of movement, of sound, of song
and shriek, those with the darkened wings move for all those who dare to
be here, tonight, and those with the white move to try and stop them.
Three apiece for all these lucky travellers. As the wind picks up a bit
more, the faint whispers become distant cries and hollow moans as the
breeze gusts through the winding trails of this inner city of refuse and
memories. Once, this place was beautiful. Once. Then, of course, it was
infiltrated by forgetfulness, slumlords, the poor, the abusive, the
hateful... the tuneless Masters of Stealth.

Now it's a veritable mass of decay and wistful greyness, coloured only by
the grafitti left behind by thoughtless artists, and, so it seems, a
little child with a lot of chalk.

Far and away, a young woman wakes from dozing, and sits up. Looking
glassy-eyed and half-asleep, she pads about, putting on shoes and a coat,
and shuts her little terrier back in the bedroom, admonishing the tiny
whining thing with a finger to her lips.

Jack doesn't raise the gun, but he does turn quickly back, towards the
sound of Liam's wings. The demon and the little angel get a quizzical
squint, and he wonders in a roughened voice, "Liam? And...the Host?" He's
about to ask another inane question, apparently, but Timothy's car gets a
look of pure bemusement. What in the hell is *that*? Then the angels
explode into motion, and Jack aims for the nearest of the black wings,
hands suddenly sure.

"Celliers! They're comin'!" He doesn't have time to ask permission, or
explain. Liam just makes a grab for Lorne, right at the neck if it's the
only thing he can reach, whatever precious seconds he can manage to touch.
Warmth -- no, /heat/, harsh and burning, because he hasn't time to be
gentle. Whatever precious seconds he can manage before the angels are
there, and he has to turn and meet them, wings spreading to try and
protect the demon behind. For all that he understands their cracked pain,
for all that it's in him, too, he shoves it all aside and calls only on
the jewelled brightness within. Flaring to brilliance. Pouring love.
*Here*. Ignore them. Come *here*.

Steel rings out as Seishi draws her tachi, her other hand slipping under
the collor of her sweater to find the ring that, once more, lies there on
a chain around her neck. Her fingers find the clasp and free it, and as
the chain comes away in her hand, she leaps from the roof, dropping far
too lightly down from above to join the others, without a word. Her eyes
stay fixed on the sky, and those in it.

The racket from Timmy's car gets a startled, indignant glance - loud
bastard - and then Lorne has far too much to react to at once. The angels
come down and he drops to a protective crouch, which should make Liam's
job easier. The demon yelps in startled pain - it burns - and is then
apparently willing to take whatever protection Liam can offer, staying
down and staring at the sudden chaos. When did all these people get here?

Forgive. Forget the hate that coils at the sight of the empty-eyed ones,
ignore the shudder that it puts through her, remember the blackness that
crawls through Liam and the pureness beneath. That last thought helps, as
Kess beats wings to gain altitude, seeking to draw the ones chasing her
/up/, away from whoever else is near. Her glimpse down saw flickers of
familiarity, but she'll do what she can with these, first. Hands extend
out towards the trio, right one caught about in silver chain, and she
bottles in a deep breath as they near. Purity, rightness, love, healing...
she doesn't know what she's doing, but she'll try it anyway, concentrate
on it, see if she can turn the black ones white with this damned ring of
hers.

Constantine has time only to catch sight of the angels before they're
rushing at him. Caught off-guard, he doesn't think to run: instead he
flings his hands up in front of him, a useless defensive gesture. And,
almost reflexively, he thinks of the glass heart, and the welter of
emotions behind it.

Timothy's vast array of senses would have given him ample warning of the
impending attack, if his mind hadn't still been in Open Road Song-land as
he slammed the door to his car. As it is, he barely has time to register
that he's somehow, once again, managed to rush in where angels apparently
don't fear to tread before one of the dark ones is upon him. He falls
backwards, instinctively pushing away with his telekinesis (no stronger
than an ordinary person's shove), as he tries to scramble away, looking
for something, anything, he can use to stay alive.

"GET DOWN, LITTLE ONE!" comes the hellish demand; it sounds almost like a
plea, or even a request--but perhaps only to other angelic ears. "They
deserve whatever we can hand to them," comes the chorus of voices. "So
caught up," they shriek, laughing, hating, attempting to descend upon
anything and everything, their twisted beauty cold and mocking everything
wondrous. "So /needing/ their own tears," they snarl. "We'll /give/ them
something to cry about," is the threat, spoken and sung. "They don't want
to see the beauty? THEY WON'T HAVE TO." Splitting into their vicious
little triads, they center upon those they're trying to reach. Three for
Jack, three for Liam, three for Seishi, three for Lorne, three for Kess,
three for John, three for Timmy, and three more, streaking for the
underside of the trestle, headed for the pillars. And for each of all of
them, a white-winged beauty, attempting to catch them, to drag them down.

Coat and shoes, and she heads down the stairs of her new home, and out
into the snow, purposeful steps walking her right up the street, her
twilight eyes still glassy and half-open.

Two of the dark ones headed for Jack whirl to take down one of the pure,
and drive it to the ground, rolling about over frozen concrete and broken
glass, while the third takes a bullet in the chest, and pinwheels from the
sky, blood fountaining in a gloriously heated arc, steaming as it
splatters over every available surface. The ones going for Liam curl
around him, and the three going for /them/... do as well. It's almost
internal, but the violent struggle can be felt in the air, tasted, along
with a tang like lightning, and the bitterness of blood. Six chase Kess,
three dark, three light, and the three going for Seishi draw their swords
of nothing, while the others bear down, ready to fight, or die trying, and
six advance upon Lorne, three dark, with three light close behind. One of
the three ready to end John is taken down by one of the light, and the
other two are nearly upon him as two more attempt to pull them away. The
first for Timothy is shoved away, but there are two more to take his
place, as the white-winged ones struggle to catch up.

There's the nearly deafening report of the gun, and Jack and his little
triumvirate of attackers are lit starkly for an instant by the muzzle
flash. He's not interested in showing them anything resembling mercy, this
time. The spatter of blood makes him wince away and wipe at it futilely,
succeeding only in smearing it further. With that one down, he advances,
looking for more of the blackwings, seeking out which ones are not already
tangled with one of the redeemers.

"Leave them be," replies Liam in response to angelic demand, with
intensity but without their shrieking screams. It's possible they can't
even hear him. "It's not about them. It's about us." What /we/ see. The
realization is striking and sudden, his own power burning, purifying from
within. A flare of silver and sapphire, before they're on him. He was
trying to protect Lorne. He's been shoved back, touched, lost in patterns,
lost to the world; swarmed, Liam's wings beat futilely in the crush and he
immerses himself in jigsawed, evil pain. Let me help you. I can help you.
I love you.

Seishi whirls to meet her attackers, the bright arc of the tachi coming up
before her to guard, but it's the hand with the ring that she trusts
forward as a weapon, focusing her energy and pushing it up through her
arm, channeling it through muscle and vein and pouring it out into the
ring with all the strength of her formidable will,
love-warm-peace-pure-clean-LIFE.

They encircle the little angel, and Lorne almost moves to try and pull
them away, fury and panic rising. He turns, instead, to face the ones
approaching; he takes a deep breath, and lets go with a high note that's
well past the pain threshold. A piercing, drilling shriek, and unless
somebody physically stops him, he can hold it forever. Cover your ears,
folks.

Altitude gained, Kess comes to a hover, staring down at those rising
towards her. It's not working yet? How the hell does this ring work,
anyway? Jaw clenching, she lets them come, lets air bleed through feathers
to drift down to meet them. She's not afraid of them, won't /let/ herself
be, trying to focus on the image of the bright ones, to *push* it on the
dark. Here is the freedom they seek, the release, the forgiveness and love
that they've lost, the peace she knows they can give. She won't fight
them, will let them come, will let them close, concentration focussed on
that platinum band on her finger. The held-in breath burns to echo Lorne's
sound.

Constantine allows himself a moment to regret not carrying a gun. Then
he's kicking and elbowing and twisting, trying to stay out of the angels'
grip and inflict some modicum of damage on them while he's at it. Not that
he has any clue what he'd do if he got free, other than that it wouldn't
be running--more than a little atypical for him.

Timothy moves backwards, crawling on his back as he struggles for purchase
to allow him to stand. And so, he's in a semi-upright position when the
two come for him, and he has a gift waiting for one of them; a blast from
the stasis-gun mounted on his right forearm. As he struggles to his feet,
any hope of an attack mounted against the other dissipates, along with any
sense of anything at all, because his head inconveniently explodes. Well,
that's what it feels like for the second or so of Lorne's shriek he hears
before his instinctive shields against noise slide into place. He's now
moving absolutely silently, for what that's worth. (He's also deaf for the
duration, as if he wouldn't have been deafened anyway.) What did I ever do
to deserve this, he asks himself, and he gets rather annoyed by his
brain's ready willingness to supply him with answers.

 Walking along the sidewalk, her pregnant shadow cast onto the pure white
of the new snow, the young woman takes easy, methodical steps, almost
humming to herself as she makes her way.

It's a complete frenzy of the divine and the infernal, some of the angels
sweetly singing as though to Heaven, some of them cursing as though to
attempt to raise Hell itself. And then Liam's outpouring of unconditional,
pure love, and the rings, heavy and platinum and ever cool in one's grasp,
used in tandem. The high, ultimately painful, ear-splitting note of the
demon and the strange power of the magician that's simply his for being
alive. Synchronicity. Coincidence. And the cathartic magic linked to a
ritual done long enough ago when his heart was broken and in pieces, like
a glass of whiskey, shattered on the floor.

Back beneath the trestles, through where Timmy had to drive to get here, a
woman continues sketching on the pillars with sidewalk chalk, muttering to
herself excitedly, her twilight eyes so wide, so fierce. "Faster, faster
faster. Have to get it done."

The two going for Timmy are knocked back and to the ground, and when
momentum gives up, they stop moving, entirely.

Fighting or not fighting, most of those bearing the shadowed wings clutch
at their heads, dropping like stones. The white-winged ones fare little
better, seeking to land before being driven there. The entire world
trembles with the force of desire, of dreaming, of wishing for purity and
peace. Through the chain-link fences, thorny vines grow, thick and lush
and green, spiralling like some crazed stop-motion, time-lapse photography
into existence, and red blossoms explode into view, the scent of roses
growing ever thicker, like the inside of a hothouse. Those monstrous
beings headed for the artist beneath the train tracks don't slow a bit,
but most of those fighting are slowed as their bodies attempt to right
themselves, and it'll give any of their opponents the upper hand, at least
for now, the glory of light, of sweetness, of peace attempting to
illuminate their pale, hollow features.

Still pad pad padding along the sidewalk, the tall, impossibly thin figure
heads for the wrong side of the tracks. She'll get there soon enough.

The demon's note transfixes Celliers for a long moment, though he was
already half-deafened by the gun. But he has presence enough to track
those that aren't stopped, and head after them, pistol already aimed.
Besides, isn't this the way the angels told him - towards the place under
the tracks, and the door to the Beam? The drying blood's left his face a
set mask, eyes focussed on the blackwings above. He let them have him
once, and now it's utterly satisfying to obliterate as many as he can
manage.

Something's trying to shatter his eardrums. Liam is distantly aware of the
pain, but that belongs to the other world, the one that isn't composed of
endless voids and shattered patterns and things /sucking/ at him. His
light is pure and sweet and unfaltering, reaching for anything and anyone
it can touch. Love. Peace. Acceptance.

The force of Seishi's will falters as the piercing sound slices through
her concentration, doubling her over with the pain of it. She struggles
back upright, focusing through the pain; no time to block it out. Turning
quickly, she focuses on the clearest enemy still moving, the three headed
under the tracks. Tachi flashing in her hand, she leaps after them.

It's so damn cold out here. Lorne stalks right over to the nearest
black-winged angel and kick it in the head. Bastard. Then, and only then,
does he pause the ear-splitting sound to turn back for Liam, ready to let
go again if anything tries to touch him.

Isn't my wishing enough? Kess stares at the angels near her, not even
realising that tears track down her cheeks, and much-needed breath sobs in
her throat. Be alive, be right, be *free*; that, she would wish for
anyone, even these things, even with what they've done. She /wants/ them
to be fixed and loved and loving, doesn't want to be twisted into hate and
pain like they are, and she turns disbelieving eyes on the masses of
bodies below. Why isn't it enough? There's only one set apparently still
able to move, and she pulls away from those near her, folding her wings to
dive towards them and the arch below the tracks, ring held close to her
chest like a second heart, as if by having hers closer, she can pour it
through the metal so much easier.