I only speak the truth [OPEN]
Who; John Constantine and OPEN
What; See John drunk. See John passed out, in a rather bothersome spot. Poke with a stick, kick to the groin, splash with a bucket of water...wake up, John, wake up!
Where; Anywhere your character happens to be walking, an alley, whatever, the gutter, outside a shop...there is a head of dark hair, or a shiny black ( Read more... )
What; See John drunk. See John passed out, in a rather bothersome spot. Poke with a stick, kick to the groin, splash with a bucket of water...wake up, John, wake up!
Where; Anywhere your character happens to be walking, an alley, whatever, the gutter, outside a shop...there is a head of dark hair, or a shiny black ( Read more... )
Hell, she'd been there, although she hadn't made a habit of it and certainly had never lacked enough self-respect to take it into public.
All the same, rather than the usual bit of hard-nosed condescension she'd felt in her younger days, there was a spot of pity in her chest when she came across this particular case. Considering where they were, a person could hardly be blamed for getting drunk enough to fall over in the street. It was better than some alternatives, a darker part of her noted.
Even so, Jill was cautious from both knowledge and habit, and remained well out of easy reach as she stopped and circled around to the stranger's front (or what would have been his front if he stood). She didn't bother keeping a hand on one of her guns as per the usual cop routine.
"Hey," she tried, voice firm but not unfriendly. "Still conscious?"
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If she cared to take a closer look, John's ass was sticking in the air solely because he had fallen asleep on the very vodka bottle he'd nearly drained. As uncomfortable as that was, John had snoozed for several hours now, and it seemed he was pretty much up for doing that until he either woke up with the urge to take a leak or possibly from inhaling a spider, being chewed on by a rat...
Firm voice or no, there was no moving from the wino on the ground, not even a twitch that he'd heard her.
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And even when it did, he was horrified. Few things horrified John-abusing a woman in any form was one of them.
And even then, Jill being Jill, it would be more than easy to stop him. As soon as he realized he was being rolled over, that's as soon as he realized he really needed to fucking wake up and do something.
The idea being, of course, that his pocket was about to be picked. And there were far, far more valuable things in John's pockets than cash, coin, or jewelry.
A hand went out far too quickly for a drunkard, grabbing the ankle and fully intent on pulling the leg attached out from under the shithead who'd decided to ruin his slumber. Nothing was said, however, just a bizarrely quick reaction from the seemingly unconscious man on the road.
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Jill's own reflexes aside, there was another instinct always on edge these days: a faster, more defensive speed to her muscles that thought only of self-preservation before anything else, that noticed small things Jill normally wouldn't and observed details at a faster rate.
It was this reflex that reacted a full half a second before her training did. Jill, given the instant to think, would have used her weight to jerk back -- that lingering, ingrained thought pattern of P30 was a little more drastic. Rather than risking her balance, she instead moved with the motion, letting her leg get pulled out from under her; one hand met the pavement long before she could actually hit the ground, though, and she balanced on it easily as her free leg swept a heel-kick at the wrist of the man's hand to break the hold.
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"Fuck!" came the pained cry as the obviously well-trained heel made contact with the wrist, scarred and bearing only a watch with broken glass, which didn't seem to heal up at the kick in the least.
Sobered completely, he sat up and held his wrist, fingers outstretched and yet completely clenched at the first knuckle, hissing in pain at the result of his instinct's shenanigans. "Fuck, fucking...shit," he murmured out, face strained.
He didn't even look over at first, but as he caught the trail of longer hair, he couldn't help but turn his head slightly to her, offering her something he barely offered a soul, damned or no: "...oh. Shit. Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't-fuck."
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She didn't ease up at the reaction, but it did make her inwardly pause. She wasn't about to let her guard down -- not when the guy had had reflexes that quick -- but all the same she didn't snap at him like she initially intended.
"...You okay?" she asked, her voice stiff but calm. She hadn't meant to do any real damage, but a well-placed kick to the right place could crack a wrist like glass -- and she had trouble estimating her own strength lately. One thing at a time.
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He hissed as the pain seemed to leave, though the wrist would be sore and possibly swollen for a few days. He didn't make a move to stand, however, already rifling through his suit jacket for a smoke, lighting it up with his other hand, wrist covered in scar.
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She let her hand slide from where it had perched on her hip, just above her righthand SMG. "Pretty good speed for a drunk man," she commented, some of that tense authority leaving her tone. The suspicion stayed.
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Smoke wafted out of his nostrils, out between yellowed teeth, his mouth slightly ajar. His stench was one that would be hard to place-alcohol, chlorine, blood, death, sulfur, and brimstone. It was hard to shake the smells of Lu and hell, even when he'd been out of it for a few days now.
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She watched him openly, the look calculating, and then shifted her weight as she glanced at the discarded vodka bottle. "...Which is another reason not to pass out on an open street," she finished coolly. The tone wasn't reprimanding or even gracing the line of professional; the advice was said simply, casually, but pointedly.
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His head cocked to the side a moment later, just after he noticed the gun on her hip. Well that partially explained it, but it also made it that much more infuriating. "You the law around here or some shit?"
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The question brought a subtle shift to her expression: something vaguely reminiscent of a smirk, maybe, although she kept an easy hold on it so that she remained mostly stoic. "Would it bother you if I was?" she asked coolly.
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Of course, John didn't believe the majority of the stereotypes out there, but that didn't mean he couldn't slap them in the face of those who denied that they did, watch them take offense, rile them up.
It was good to be a bastard.
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She'd faced plenty of sexism in her lifetime, usually of the sort that had the big boys skeptical of her ability. It was a stereotype that never lasted long when she moved into a new position, and it had been years since it really bugged her; even if it still had, Jill considered herself too professional to let it show, present company notwithstanding.
She made a thoughtful sound as she tilted her head, eyes narrowed skeptically. "A judgmental bigot," she mused, as if considering the words for the first time. "Somehow, finding you wasted and alone suddenly makes a lot more sense."
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Either way, that was just, like, her opinion, man, and he'd tell her as such.
"Yeah, I'm a regular NASCAR dad. Voted Bush into the White House and all that. You got me down pat, lady."
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