Down where the dead men go

[constantbastard]

Outside of the physical, time and distance distort. They stretch and collapse and the grand vastness of all that exists is clear, as is the smallness, chaos and fragility of it all. That's enough for existential thinking, though. Perception may alter, but it's no more the answer to the universe than a handful of mushrooms or a few tabs of LSD will

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[molotovmartinis]

To start with are the most mindless of responses, scavengers interested in the faint breath of living spirit. Ravening but cowardly presences shudder at the edge of perception, small and dark with endless circles of teeth; but there's someone among them providing some kind of order, the persistent echo of guttural demonic haranguing keeping at least the tiny predators from John's heels.

That order-keeper isn't far. He's eventually visible along the red way, reclining into a hillock of viscera and ash, looking almost at home... except he's leaking innards all over his expensive pinstriped suit, and the shard of bone he's turned into a crude needle just isn't doing the job at sewing them back up. The monstrous, ratty thing crouching over him and providing the sinew that serves as thread makes agonized, happy noises.

"Constantine," the man says, incorrectly and hoarsely: human, soul and flesh. His familiarity is tenuous, punctuated by a nervous flicker of tongue at the corner of his blood-flecked mouth. "Looking for real estate?"

[constantbastard]

The lack of sudden and frequent attacks and 'tastings' upon his person comes as something of a surprise. He took certain precautionary measures to be less 'obvious' on his visit, but he expected attempts on his mortal soul as standard fare. The feeling that something or someone is letting him waltz right into hell is a little unsettling. Call him paranoid.

He loves it when the damned get all dressed up for him. This one seems as though he's seen better days, though. He wonders when he became so well known among even the mortal in hell. Also, what sort of clout this bastard has that he's been ordering the scurrying things about.

John looks around, as if the man is surely addressing someone else.
"Me? No, squire, jus' sight seeing. Y'seem t'ave a bit of a leak, there."
He waves a finger at the bowels falling free from Balthazar's gut and smiles smugly.
"An' it's Constantine. Bit like Valentine. Satan not screaming it loud enough these days?"

[molotovmartinis]

His smile is a ghoulish flash of amusement, improbably white teeth showing in an echo of predatory ease.

"My mistake. I used to know a man like you by that name." He's often wondered what they would make of each other, and hoped the answer was something like 'punchings'. "And yes, well done." Oh, and snotty too, like he isn't the one stuck in hell with a bunch of scavenger imps for company. "You're not here to smartass at me. You're here to do something. Aren't you."

There's desperation behind his words, and it agitates the demon, who screeches/squawks loudly. Balthazar grabs it by the ... well, what is possibly the 'scruff' of its ... 'neck' ... and shakes it once, which silences it.

[constantbastard]

"Did you? Prob'ly a right bastard."
He's heard of a yank alternate with his name said all wrong and dark hair. Used a gun too, if he's not mistaken. The world is a strange place, stranger if you consider all the variations. John's not surprised to find the Hell's bleed together. Never has been the most ordered of places, even with angels set to rule over it.

"You caught me. I'm 'ere for business, rather than pleasure. Whot is it gave me away? The lack of tour guide or the less casual footwear?"
John is growing impatient, but his curiosity has him. This man knows him, or a version of him, and wants something more than his limbs drawn apart by horses. It could be worth hearing out.
"Whot's that t'you, old son?"

[pearl_noir]

Jack and Pearl are.. less guarded then previously expected. In fact Hell has left a large berth around them where tiny things skitter and then go poof or just turn into something kind of fuzzy.

The demon's original experiment (nothing detailed or dramatic more like, what would happen if true love entered Hell?) Plan B to just eat the lovers if nothing interesting came of it- has created this:

On a dry red plane surrounded by darkness and screaming is a space of nothing like that of a moat and then a small picket fence and cottage covered in roses. The tiny house looks like it's carved out of porcelain or some kind of rich white chocolate. The roses climb up the walls flourishing in white and red flowers the size of fists. What used to in this place was a rock formation shapes like a syphilis ridden cock of death and covered in scorpions. It has since changed.
Love has arrived in Hell.

[constantbastard]

There's a tentative look around a bit of rock and down into that little gorge, then another to be sure of what he's seen. Then John slips down against a rough outcropping of rock, gripping his sides and laughing.

"I'll be buggered... I thought the idea wos a bloody joke! ha! An' 'ere I wos worried bout them...."

[molotovmartinis]

"Ugh. Talk about tacky." Balthazar has his arms clasped across his stomach -- for the usual reason -- but it also makes him look almost ill at ease at the setting before them, like he's going to break into a cold sweat or something.

[constantbastard]

"Gets no sort of points on style, no. Still...quite the trick."
As much as it pains John's bitter, jaded heart to admit that 'love can conquer all every now and again', it's amusing to see.

"Let us go restore the flow of the decor, shall we?"
He starts carefully making his way down the steep incline of the rock face. He hates this hiking bullshit.