"Sort of. Adopted. She left." Constantine keeps walking, trying not to
think of the pain and the blood and ow ow ow. Ooh! Think instead about how
you're going to get Lindsey killed! "Shit. Lindsey. She's going to kill
him. Gotta tell Wisdom to ring him and warn him..." He trails off.

Whisper's face tightens a little, "Oh, good. Who signed the League up for
Psycho-of-the-Month-Club?" She heads toward Pete and Kitty's. "Why?"

"Because--" Because I tried to use him to get to Marley and it didn't
quite work. Or it worked too well. "--of something I told her,"
Constantine finishes. "I didn't realize just angry it'd make her." He
glances up along the street, looking for Pete and Kitty's apartment.

Whisper groans, "Look, John," she half-jokes, leading him toward the
apartment and trying to take his mind off things, "when a woman asks if
she looks fat in jeans, you say *no*." The doorbell gets thumbed.

Constantine rolls his eyes. "I'm not *that* bloody stupid," he mutters,
half-joking in reply. Then he steps back, away from the door. "You'd
better warn them first." A drop of blood slips off his arm and hits the
floor of the stairwell, spreading into a strange stain.

Whisper eyes it for a second, like some sort of Rorsach thing. Ooh, it's
the meaning of life! Or not. "Hard to break this sort of thing gently, you
know."

It doesn't sizzle, at least. That's one plus. "Look, just let them know
I'm out here bleeding all over everything." A trickle of blood gets to one
of the remaining bits of his pants. In a few moments, it is no longer
remaining.

There's a brief silence from the far side of the plain white door, but
then, it's late enough that it's almost early. These things are to be
expected. No matter how problematic they make things for ... bleeding
people.

Whisper eyes Constantine for a second or two, "Right, will do...dear
Lord." That, presumably, is about the blood. "I don't even want to know."

"Never," Constantine explains, his tone quite reasonable, "get a blood
transfusion from a demon." She *said* she didn't want to know, John.

The lock unfastening makes the usual quiet sound, and the door eases open;
the Kitty on the far side is, while fully-dressed, also a rumpled mess.
Curls matted and tangled, T-shirt with a seam ripped open across one
shoulder, that arm abraded and elbow skinned, and a bruise just starting
to develop on her jaw - in short, she looks a /hell/ of a lot better than
Constantine does. Particularly since, at least for the moments before she
sees what's going on outside, she's also looking decidedly pleased with
herself. "Barbara?" At this hour?

Whisper notes, dryly, "I'll keep that in mind." And then the door opens
and she blinks at Kitty. "Hi. Er..." How to sum this up. "I'm selling
wounded Brits. Can I interest you?"

"You get free acid damage to your floor as part of the purchase," comes
Constantine's voice from just out of sight.

"Already got one," Kitty replies, looking initially amused at Barbara.
"But he's -" And the expression shifts to a pained one, and she steps back
out of the doorway, clearing the way. "/Again/? Tell me you're /not/
trying to set a record, will you?"

Whisper shrugs, "Well, you can collect them. Be the first on your block to
have a complete set! Amaze your friends! Delight your neighbors! Let us in
before he runs out of clothing?"

Constantine moves into sight. In a way, it's not as bad as before--none of
the wounds are from bullets, and none seem to be worryingly deep. But
there are a lot of them, all over his upper body: long, relatively shallow
gashes made for the express purpose of drawing blood. And they've
succeeded quite well in that purpose. His shirt and suit jacket are
entirely gone. Fragments of his pants remain. Be grateful for the small
mercies? "I almost had her convinced," he explains, looking frustrated.
"Almost. But then--whatever it is that's possessing her decided that it'd
be better off slashing me to bits."

Kitty is already back, holding the door open - and her grip on it tightens
when she sees Constantine. "God. Do you /always/ have to do things the
hard way? I'll get you something to bleed on. /Pete!/" No, she's not
making an invitation, as usual.

Whisper heads in, shaking her head, "Oh, she's possessed now? Great. I
*was* craving pea soup."

"What," comes a mildly disgruntled answering call from the back. That's
when Pete finally wanders out, holding a damp washcloth to an apparently
split lip. Good show, Kitty. He, too, is rumpled and bruised and sweaty
and torn. In approximately the same shape as Kitty, except that, well,
there's a little bit of blood involved here. Just a little. Nowhere near
as much as John. He stops in the doorway, just sort of staring for a
moment. "Well, for fuck's sake," he grumbles, eyeing John. "This time
remind me to lend you a shirt when you leave. All right, someone pull a
chair over to the sink. John, sit."

"What, for me to bleed on? Don't you think he'd mind?" Constantine can't
quite resist asking Kitty as she calls for Pete. Oh, he's okay. He can
make bad jokes. He steps inside, trying not to drip too much blood on the
floor. "Make sure it's a chair you don't like much."

Whisper takes a convenient seat somewhere or other and watches, "Er, I'm
guessing bandages wouldn't be a lot of help here?"

At the moment, the apartment is also partly a disaster area anyway -
papers scattered, table knocked over. Kitty does the usual
close-and-lock-door routine behind them, and aims a glare at John, but -
no further menacing at the moment. She moves to right a chair and drag it
to a place by the sink, absently stepping through the counter on the way
so she doesn't have to push past the injured Brit. "Not that kind of
possession. Unless John figured out something different - the evidence
we've got says alien, not demon, but I'm not sure the origin... and
bandages, uh, well. Give him something to soak the stuff up till he stops
bleeding, pretty much." That last is a little resigned. Stupid demon blood
transfusions. Grr.

"More or less," Constantine agrees with Kitty's explanation of his blood
and banadages. He drops into the chair, wincing. "I don't think any of
these are that deep." He grimaces. "Well, it didn't seem like demon
possession--she was too obsessed with being a saving angel. Although I
wouldn't put that sort of thing past *some* demons. If you say it's alien,
though, I can believe that. Oh," he adds, a shadow of guilt passing across
his face, "and someone'd better warn Lindsey. It's after him."

Whisper quirks a smile, "At least we have some variety in our evil, I
suppose. Kitty, where would rags be?"

"It's /been/ after him," Kitty mutters, victim of misinterpretation. "In
case you didn't notice the framing for attempted murder -" She shakes her
head, straightening up and stepping back. "Bandages in the bathroom with
the other first aid stuff. I think Pete's getting them, but he might be
able to use a hand." There's a trace of embarrassment at that last. And a
return to the ongoing theme: "John, what did you /do/?"

"That's not what I meant, it's--" Constantine cuts off at the question and
sighs. He'll explain about Lindsey later. "I went looking for Marley. I
found her. I talked to her, got her worked up, tried to set her up so that
I could have her walk into a trap." He shakes his head. "The...the alien
thing took over then and decided it wanted to 'cleanse' me." A beat.
"Guess how."

Whisper gets up and heads for the bathroom, shaking her head again. "Blood
is impure, huh?"

The door to the back thuds slightly as Whisper approaches it, and then it
gets toed open by a Pete that is carrying rather a lot of bandages. And
something black. He inclines his head slightly at Whisper, with his
eyebrows up, and indicates the bathroom with a slight twist of his head.
"There's a box between the wall and the sink - a black box - it's got
disinfectants and such in it. If you could get that, I'd be much obliged."
He starts making his way out with the unwieldy bundle of stuff.

Kitty says dryly, "Well, /his/ blood is, Barbara," shaking her head.
"John, you realize she's got this whole thing about protecting people from
sinners? You're lucky she didn't kill you on /sight/." She leans back
against the counter for a moment, resting her face in her hands.

Whisper nods and extracts the box, making disgruntled noises from inside
the bathroom as she hears the news. "Obsessed with--and how long has this
been going on? And how do we stop it?"

"Blood is impure when it's part from a demon, yeah," Constantine tells
Whisper dryly. Then he glances at Kitty, his expression going rather more
serious. "She likes me. She doesn't see me as a sinner." He does grin now,
a sardonic and not very pleasant expression. "Got a bit of a blind spot
there, she has." He shrugs helplessly at Whisper (then winces at the
movement). "I don't know. I wish I did." He glances at Pete and makes a
note: ask what happened with his eye. When neither one of us, or anyone
else nearby, is bleeding.

Pete dumps the armload of stuff on the couch. Rather a lot of bandages.
They did stock up after Kess, after all, and indeed there are some
clothes. Pete glances up at Kitty and John, then glances at the door to
the back as Whisper makes strange and irritated sounds. "Don't throw your
back out," he calls to Whisper, slight grin tugging at the side of his
mouth that does not contain split lip. Then he looks back at John. "Out of
curiosity, *can* you take a normal blood transfusion any longer? I don't
think you'll need it, but it's good to know just in case. I'll try not to
make this sting as much as last time," he finishes quietly. He's
separating the stuff he's tugged out, and it turns out that underneath the
bandages and underneath the clothing *is* a box of heavy-duty latex
gloves. He glances at Kitty again, eyebrows up, then squints at John.
"Where did she *not* get you?"

"I think that blind spot's bigger than this entire /state/," Kitty
mutters, shaking her head. She straightens up again, glancing toward the
back and Whisper's voice, and settles into her usual expression and tone
for business. "Going on? Since - uh, June second was the first article I
found when I was checking back in my files, but there's some stuff that
could've been related from the end of May. Stopping it? That's,
unfortunately, still a really good question. It doesn't seem to have many
vulnerabilities - certain sonics, definitely, /possibly/ fire but that's a
guess and I don't know what it's based on - and there's the distinct
possibility that Marley's not really in charge, the symbiote is, and the
whole question of getting it /off/ her. It's a real mess."

Whisper carries the box in, glancing down at it, "What exactly is this?
And, lovely. I could knock her out and we could check," she offers, albeit
slightly reluctantly. "I mean, having her running around knifing people is
an issue."

"June second? The end of May?" Constantine just shakes his head. "Bloody
hell." He shrugs at Pete, lifting his (rather blood-stained) hands. "I
think I can. Not sure. Dunno how it works--really, there shouldn't be much
of that blood left in me by now. But it's still there." He sighs, a quick,
frustrated sound. "Magic's a real bastard sometimes." Many people who know
John would agree. "Uh--anywhere below my waist. She was nice about that,
at least." He appreciates it, really. "But other than that...very
thorough." He glances back at Whisper. "I don't think it'd be very easy to
just walk up and knock her out."

"Nooooo," says Pete in thoroughly mock surprise, dismay, disbelief, and a
whole mixture of sarcastic tones. "Magic? A bastard?" Such a disgusted
look, as he continues to sort through the various stuff on the couch. He
glances up at Whisper, indicating the box again, pointing with his chin,
because goddammit people can point with their chins. "That's just a first
aid kit. It should probably go on the counter next to John there. I'd
really rather you didn't try to knock her out, Barbara, because I really
don't want to know what would happen if the symbiote took *you* over. And
if Marley has no control over it at all, it might very well look for a new
host." He looks at Kitty again, holding up the box of latex gloves, "Pryde
- catch. Wash up and start dabbing, I guess," he says with a shrug. Then
he picks up the clothing. The black stuff that had been mentioned before.
He grins lopsidedly at John, holding them up. There's a very familiar
T-shirt. And a pair of really normal black pants. The grin gets wider.

Kitty catches the box when Pete tosses it, and sets it down. "And yes,"
she adds, "there is evidence the stupid thing can switch hosts. If not for
Lockheed, I could really get to hate aliens. Why do they all have to have
built-in weaponry?" She washes up, pulls on gloves - because she continues
not to want to find out what touching John's blood feels like, thank you -
and regards John with momentary half-despair before picking a random place
to start. One arm will do.

Whisper eyes them for a second, "I feel that this constitutes a
genre-switching that I find very weird. We've been horror up til now,
maybe a little fantasy. Suddenly we have aliens? What will the critics
say?"

"Yeah, imagine that," Constantine replies just as sarcastically to Pete.
Then, to Kitty, "I'd see if I could find out more about the thing, but,
well," he nods toward Whisper with a brief, bleak grin, "I've always been
more into horror than science fiction." Then he goes just a teeny bit
paler than he already is, and not from blood loss this time, as he sees
what Pete's holding up. "But, that's--I don't--that's your Clash shirt,
that is! I can't wear that!"

"What, you think a little taste will kill you? I think you can handle it,
if you can handle Marley. With the thing. In fact, I think you can handle
it if you can handle Marley, period." Pete wanders over, bringing a
fistful of bandage and - well, the clothes. The clothes he sets on the
counter, and the bandages he brings over to the sink. He tosses Whisper a
grin, "I'm sure the critics have despaired of us long ago. It's good to
have you back, Barbara." That's when he starts washing up, and pulling on
the gloves. We can do without the actual physical contact without John's
blood this time, regardless of the fact that it's probably more sanitary
for Pete to not wear gloves. As he's washing up, Pete carefully doesn't
look at Kitty when he comments on her miniature alien rant. "You know, I
really hate aliens."

Kitty glances up at what Pete's carrying when John identifies it out loud,
and - that's an almost pleased look, that is. "The truth is out there?"
she comments. "There's just as much SF-horror overlap as anything else,
unfortunately..." Clean, apply antiseptic, gauze, bandage. Anything that
will be more complicated than that she leaves for Pete to follow up with.
And then there's /Pete's/ alien crack, and Kitty rolls her eyes and
informs John, "You know, you could probably convince me to /pay/ you to
'accidentally' have something horrible happen to that shirt."

Whisper stands around for a few seconds, since Pete's doing it all, thumbs
hooked in the waistband of her skirt. A grin at Pete, "It's good to be
back. And I dislike vampires. Anyone else got a race? And should I make
tea?"

"You know," Constantine says slowly, a puzzled look on his face, "there's
one thing I don't understand, and that's this..." A little bit of the
seriousness of his expression fades away. "If Lockheed hates you so much,
Wisdom, why hasn't he ripped up that shirt?" Oh, great, give him *ideas*,
won't you. "I suppose he's just afraid you'll finally incinerate him once
and for all." He winces, clenching his teeth for a moment as one gash is
cleaned. Then, without looking at Whisper, he answers her question flatly,
"Demons." Well, duh. Lorne had better not show up any time soon.

Don't worry. Lorne doesn't come home till sunrise, generally. Pete moves
the bandages closer to the sink, wearing the gloves, then takes the
wrapping off one and starts applying it where Kitty has just been
cleaning. He glances up at Whisper again, moderately approving expression
on his face. "Tea would be perfect, actually. In fact, I think there's
actually a box of peppermint on the shelf above the pasta." Pete calmly
continues to apply bandages, securing them reasonably tightly. Basically
just following where Kitty's going. When he answers John, it's perfectly
calm and reasonable. "I was going to make a comment about the dragon's
taste. But he doesn't hate /you/, he hates /me/, so clearly his taste is
in question. But - honestly, I think he's far more preoccupied with
stealing my cigarettes. He knows it irks me a lot more. Kitty, where /is/
the little bastard? I know there's a truce on, but I still don't trust
him." He just gives Kitty an innocent look. What the innocent look
actually applies to is anyone but Pete's guess. And it's not innocent
anyway, so it's a bit moot.

Kitty darts Whisper a grateful look at the mention of tea. "Pete," she
adds, "in case you hadn't noticed, also dislikes dragons. Um. 'People who
point guns at us' don't really qualify as a /race/, do they?" She gives
John an /immensely/ entertained look at his question about Lockheed, and
takes a little more care not to prompt wincing for at least a minute or
so. "I think it's because Pete goes out of his way to frame the poor
thing, personally, but ..." And Wisdom gets a brief mock-glare back. "This
one doesn't look too good, I'm not sure if it needs anything -" Skip that
gash. On to the next. "Where is he? Under the bed, probably? I think he
ducked down there when we started, and I haven't seen him since." She
pauses again, glancing worriedly toward the overturned table. "Unless
something got knocked over on him."

Whisper goes about tea-making, putting kettles on stove and getting mugs
out and all. She doesn't even ask where to find stuff--it's like she has
radar. Or has been here before, yeah. "More a political group, really."