Celliers:

        His face posesses that overbred sculpting generally only found in
the lineage of old nobility: refined almost to the point of absurdity.
Almost pretty more than handsome - this ivory-skinned young man's features
are delicate and androgynous, though with enough strength of bone and line
to keep him from looking entirely effeminate. The large eyes are a strange
shade of blue, like shadows on glacier ice, set deep under finely drawn
brows; the beginnings of crows'-feet etch their corners, if their owner
had spent a good deal of time squinting off into the far distance. His
nose is long, thin, and slightly arched, almost beakish; his cheekbones
are high, with hollows underneath that give him an air of perpetual
starvation. Under a thin, mobile mouth, a stubborn jaw ends in a pointed
chin. Since he's no longer under the blazing Indian sun that originally
bleached his hair to tow, at its roots it's started to revert to its true
deep honey color - it's recently been cropped back to only a few inches
long.
        Six foot two, and thin as a rail. He'd appear frail if it weren't
for the muscled shoulders and narrow waist. He moves languidly, as if
lacking energy, though he gives the impression of being quick enough when
need be. Only the long, delicate-looking hands, with their calluses from
rein and whip, are never still.
        So much for the carefully tailored suits - he's given them up for
the moment, though the glossy riding boots remain. Instead, he wears a
plain heather grey t-shirt, indigo jeans, and a black leather motorcycle
jacket - the golden shield ring is noticeably absent from his finger.

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 curls are at the length best
described as 'mop' for the moment, not quite long enough to gentle 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 pale green tank-top is tucked
neatly into denim cutoffs, 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.

Seishi:

        Diminutive by most people's estimation, this Asian woman stands
only a little over five foot two and, though very fit, has a light build.
Her face is smooth and angular, bones a bit strong for magazine-cover
beauty, with a small and expressive mouth and a stubborn jaw; her eyes are
true black, and distinctly Oriental. She wears her gleaming black hair
pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, with fine wisps
framing her face.
        Her build is that of an athlete, all lean, understated muscle; she
carries little extra weight. Not only is she fit, but she moves with
uncommon balance, as though constantly aware and in control of her own
body. One would expect, looking at her, that she exercises religiously.
        She's dressed casually in faded blue jeans and a pale yellow tank
top that leaves her shoulders mostly bare, exposing the faint puckered
line of a scar along her left collarbone. Her shoes are a pair of white
sneakers that have a bit of wear to them but still look fairly new, and
seem very comfortable. A small silver earring dangles from her right
earlobe; those who can read Japanese may recognize the character
"sei"--"life." Her only other piece of jewelry is a bracelet on her left
wrist, polished triangles of jade and turquoise in delicate-looking silver
filigree.
        Her hands are deft, slender, and artistic, and she frequently uses
them to emphasize her words. An experienced observer might notice that she
keeps her fingernails trimmed neatly short, and that her palms and
knuckles are callused from consistent and thorough work.

Timothy:

A young Caucasian man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He is relatively short
(roughly 5'8") and sports a lean and muscular build. His copper-red hair
is cut short in a utilitarian, almost militaristic style. His pale blue
eyes stare out from behind a thin pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He is
entirely clean-shaven, and his general complexion is fair, not to mention
mottled with freckles. His face as a whole is highly expressive...whether
he's happy, upset, angry, or anywhere in between, his emotional state is
on display for all to see...or so it would seem.

He is dressed casually, at present, wearing a loose-fitting pair of black
slacks, a grey long-sleeved shirt, a black denim jacket, and black tennis
shoes. His clothing as a whole is not obviously expensive, or possessed of
a designer label. Nonetheless, it does appear well-made, and is free of
any obvious worn spots or tears or the like. The edges of a gold (or
gold-colored metal, at any rate) wristwatch peeks out from beneath his
left cuff.

Whisper:

She's thin, yes, but in no graceful magazine-model way; this young woman
is all sharp angles and straight lines. A face with a blade of a nose,
narrow lips, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a sharply pointed chin
continues the impression. Her skin is pale except for freckles, and her
dark brown eyes stand out against it in a slightly disconcerting way.
Auburn hair with a bit of curl to it falls to just past her shoulders.
 She's dressed for considerable heat today: all light colors and all
cotton. A pale yellow top bares her arms and collarbone, the neckline cut
in a modest V-shape. It's tucked into a light blue skirt, patterned with
flowers the same color as the top and falling just to her knee. On her
feet are flat white sandals with straps at toe and heel. Her hair's pulled
back into a neat ponytail, but fastened with a simple blue band, and small
earrings, fake silver and manufactured topaz, catch the sun.

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.




Elm Hollow Road

        At the intersection of Corner Lane and Tidal Street, where Tidal
street heads north to Willow, Tidal Street turns and intersects East Main
to the west. Here, the busy traffic keeps the place in constant activity,
even at night. The homes along these streets are a little more worn, a
little less polished, than those found to the in the neighborhoods to the
north. For most in the city, this is viewed as a less economically
advantaged neighborhood. A strange disease devastated the maple trees that
once lined the streets here, and while there are a few here and there,
they are a rare sight.

Outside virtually every McDonald's is a little outdoor space with little
plastic tables intended to be occupied by your little plastic food.
Kitty's taking advantage of a break between thundershowers to sit at one,
her backpack swung up onto the table's surface; she's slumped at an
awkward angle to rest her head on top of the backpack, turned so that she
can still watch passersby. Somebody's been skipping a little too much
sleep lately.

Whisper doesn't look precisely great either. She makes her way along the
street, hands in her pockets, shoulders a little too straight, like she's
holding herself upright mostly by force of will. Kitty catches her eye and
she turns, then stops.

Jack, by way of contrast, is in offensively good health and spirits. He's
even singing softly to himself, in a surprisingly tuneful tenor: "Bei mir
bist du schon," specifically. But he breaks off when he spots Kitty, to
patter in her direction.

Timothy is (big surprise) running, absolutely and utterly drenched from
the rain. (In other words, he didn't even have the presence of mind to
make his nifty shapeshifting clothing into something more appropriate to
the inclement weather.) There doesn't seem to be anyone (or anything)
chasing him any more, and eventually he figures this out. He comes to a
stop conveniently near said McDonalds. He doesn't spot Jack, Kitty, or
Barbara...but then, he doesn't really know them well enough to recognise
them if he did.

And, of /course/, wandering up the street behind Timmy - having watched in
massive entertainment as he sprinted past - is an equally drenched, more
warmly clothed, yet somehow far cheerier-looking black-haired man with an
eyepatch. He actually has an umbrella. It's swinging at his side,
completely useless for the intermittent rain, which isn't, at the moment,
raining. He's headed for junk food. And Kitty /called/ him. For junk food!
Signs and portents.

Kitty did. Therefore, clearly, the signs and portents say 'Kitty is out of
her skull.' But it's Whisper's bright hair that catches her eye first, and
she pushes herself to sit up straight and lift a hand in a sudden wave.
Yes, over here. Oh please. She'll even get up if necessary to catch the
other woman. Neither the Englishmen (do they always come in plural?) nor
Timothy actually have her attention, yet.

Whisper heads on over, smiling a little at Kitty, "Hey," she says
cautiously. "You called?"

Celliers is quite contentedly without an umbrella, as he falls in behind
Whisper. "Evening, ladies," he greets, though he doesn't sit down, not
without an invitation.

Timothy trudges a few more steps, before stopping near Kitty's table. He
pants a few times, looking behind him, even though his other senses tell
him that he lost his pursuers some time ago. His eyebrows rise a bit as he
spots Eyepatch Man. Faint recognition there. Then he leans down, hands
against one of the chairs, taking a moment to catch his breath. And
probably being unspeakably rude, but hey, that's just a bonus. He finally
looks up at the others who seem to know each other and smiles a
(hopefully) disarming smile. "Oh, hi there. Uh, if you happen to spot
three large guys with enough IQ points between them for one small child, I
was never here." Pause, before he adds, just in case, "And if you happen
to spot a huge fire-breathing dragon...well, run, because, hey, dragon.
But I was never here for that, either."

And the world converges on Kitty! Yes. Well, a bunch of people, anyway.
Including Pete, who finally makes it over there, leaning over to Timmy on
the way and saying quietly and irritatingly full of good cheer, "I think
you lost them." *I* know you. I saw you in the pub just before Christmas.
Izzy was there. He says none of this, though, just kinda goes past, yeah,
and thunks his umbrella on Kitty's table. "Your fanclub, ready and
willing. Call us the Blue Blaze irregulars. After I get chips. And fish.
Because."

Kitty agrees to Whisper, "I called," placing one hand on her backpack. "I
think we finally got a break, so to speak -" And that would be a Jack. And
a, hello, complete stranger. "Evening," she answers Celliers, and ...
okay. Glancing down the street anyhow at Timothy's version of greeting:
oh, good, no huge fire-breathing dragons. Or visible small ones, either.
"/My/ fanclub? Can't it be hers?" Another nod to Whisper. "I don't want a
fanclub. Then you have to dodge photographers, instead of just ... huge
fire-breathing dragons." Bemused expression, just for a moment. "Or
whatever it is today."

Whisper's eyes narrow and she leans forward toward Kitty. "You did? What?
Where?" And a glance at Timmy, a little shaken, "Oh. All---right."

Celliers turns to peer at Timmy, then quickly surveys the sky aobve them.
Just in case. "Was it the flying sort?" he wonders, urgently, already
reaching in to his jacket, just to make sure the Sig is riding in its
accustomed place. Not that handguns of that calibre would be much good
against dragons.

"Flying...no, they were on...oh, right, dragons. No, that's really more of
a hypothetical." Timothy pauses every few words for breath, before he
looks back at Pete. "Yeah, looks that way. Just hope they don't find me
again. They're slow, in every sense of the word, but they don't need to be
fast to tear me into little tiny...er...fanclub? I'm in a fanclub? Do I
get a decoder ring?" He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "Oh, uh, sorry
to disturb you folks, don't know where my manners are." He shows no signs
of actually leaving, though.

That's fine, anyone else who's that irritated with dragons is fine by
Pete. "Not a hypothetical in this town. Fucking dragons," mutters the spy
before glancing up to greet Whisper and Jack properly. "Oi, Celliers.
Barbara. Good to see you're here in one piece." Then he pokes hopefully at
Kitty. "/Did/ you get me anything?"

Kitty bats at Pete's poking with a hand. "Not yet. Back off. Behave." Her
conversations with that man scarily often sound like someone talking to a
pet dog. But the declaration of the dragon as hypothetical means that
Kitty's relaxing a bit, if still glancing askance at Timothy. Does
somebody know this guy? No? Oh dear. "You get a decoder ring, but it's
invisible and intangible. Annoyingly difficult not to lose if you're not
careful. Um -" Quick, helpless glance at Barbara and Celliers.

Whisper turns to give Timothy a quick look, not hostile so much as curious
and perhaps a little wary. Definitely tired. "It's a mental decoder ring.
You can, um, mentally decode secret messages."

Celliers is quietly eyeing Kitty, Pete, and Whisper, as if wondering which
wing of the asylum they escaped from. Decoder rings, clearly, are entirely
beyond his purview...and he's not going to ask, this time.

Timothy looks disappointed. "But I can do that already," he says, not
entirely seriously. "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, I should get out of
your way." Though he looks as though he'd much rather sit down and have a
bit of a rest.

Giving Kitty a disappointed look, Pete sits down at the table next to her,
then gestures broadly. "Feel free to have a seat - Tim, was it? by the by,
have you seen Izzy at any point in the past two, three months? - everyone,
sit. Because you're all making me bloody nervous. Have some cola, Tim,
just don't mind us if we /do/ talk in secret code." He glances at Kitty
again, eyebrows up. Shakes his head.

Kitty doesn't have so much as cola herself, so at least she's not holding
out on Pete. Celliers' expression gets a fair grin itself, though. Poor
man. Whereas Pete's invitation receives a fairly-well-concealed pained
look - generating secret code on the spot that other people can understand
doesn't /work/ most of the time - but no overt complaints. Despite how
desperately she wants to talk to both of these two. "Izzy?" she asks.
"Never mind. I probably don't want to know."

Whisper takes a seat, shrugging a little at Kitty, "Nice girl. Got turned
into a teenager." And then we pause to figure out Secret Code. "So, should
I go and...buy detergent...now, or did you see it for sale somewhere
else?"

Celliers folds himseld down delicately, still looking bemused. This is
nearly as bad as Seravina and the marshmallows. But he quirks a brow
enquiringly at Whisper, before flicking a glance enquiringly between Pete
and Kitty.

Timothy has a seat, grinning gratefully at Pete for just a second or two.
That grin fades a moment later. "Huh...no, I haven't seen her since the
whole teenager thing. Suppose I could find her," and he puts an odd subtle
emphasis on the word 'find', "but I figure if she wants her space, far be
it from me to interfere." Though he can't say he hasn't been a little bit
worried. "Oh, don't mind me. I'll be out of your hair soon enough so you
can talk about whatever it is you wanna talk about. Just really need to
catch my breath. And yeah, it's Tim."

Oh, dear. Pete's got his hands clasped behind his head, grinning like a
total jerk. Back straight, pretense of stretching. Drops his arms to the
table, leans forward, and props his chin up in one hand, watching everyone
with this ridiculously amused expression on his face. "Oh, no no, Barbara,
it's definitely on sale elsewhere at the moment. Beside the fact that the
cleaning lady's extraordinarily late for work, and we can't get started
with the washing until we've got her." Without lifting his head, he turns
to regard Kitty, eyebrows up. "No, you don't want to know. Feel a bit
responsible, though. You remember the teenaged thing that was really
remarkably embarrassing? She had a lot to do with it. Wasn't her fault. At
least, not entirely." From there, he looks at Timmy thoughtfully. Finally
sits up. "I don't know. I leave it to your discretion."

Got turned into a teenager. Oh, hell. Kitty gives Barbara a startled look
even /before/ the buying-detergent business, but - no, not asking. Very
much not. "Yeah, if you could keep holding off on doing anything drastic,
it'd be good," she says to the other woman. "We still need to watch the
situation - and I need to talk to you about anything you've dug up on it -
but I found an issue of Consumer Reports you really need to take a look at
before making a decision. Somebody came up with something that might
help." Can she /get/ any more vague? Pete, she's going to kill you for
this. And not the teenaged bit, either. "And Jack, if you've got any free
time, can we recruit you to help? Some of this might suit you."

Celliers just gives Kitty a very pointed 'What the hell are you all going
on about?' look, but replies, utterly noncomittal, "Oh, surely. I'm a dab
hand at washing."

Whisper lifts an eyebrow at Pete, "Cleaning lady? I don't know, Kitty,"
she says, lips a little thinner than usual. "Holding off on doing anything
just seems to leave us with more and more dirty dishes, and all because
some people are really fussy about brand names."

Timothy could, perhaps, draw a few basic conclusions even from all this
circular discussion. But, in truth, he doesn't really care enough to try.
Besides, the last thing he needs is to be dragged into yet another crazy
set of circumstances. That would be Bad. So he stands up, saying, "Thanks
for the use of your table, ladies and gentlemen, but if you'll pardon me,
I've got some halfwits to outsmart." Pause. "Such a life I lead." And he
starts to head down the street at a brisk pace, though not actually
running this time.

"Flee while you can!" calls Pete. "Sorry, by the way. Feng's? Tonight?
Nine-ish?" Then he glances back at Whisper, shaking his head. "Holding off
on doing the washing just now is a good idea /because/ of the cleaning
lady." Timmy on way, yes, okay. Pete's voice lowers and he - rather
conspicuously because he /is/ being a jerk - leans forward to explain.
"Melanie. The nurse? Missing. If we do something about Ballantine before
we find her, we may never. Which is what we need you to work on, Jack, if
you can. Finding her. The trail's a month old now, and for that I
apologize. We should have been watching." Then he sits up, making motions
as if to go inside. "Wanting the chips, now."

Kitty refrains herself from actually bruising Pete mainly by commenting
aside to him, "And you're buying for the two of them, too," nodding her
head irritably toward Whisper and Celliers. Do this thing, Wisdom, and you
may survive to see your flat again. "Barbara," quiet but not leaning
forward, and after Pete's done, "holding off got us a fair bit more
information. Ballantine's /not/ the only person involved in this; there's
at least one more. Going after him alone ultimately won't get us anywhere.
We need to solve the whole problem, not just that part of it."

Whisper eyes McDonald's with some trepidation, "I can't say I'm sure about
this food any more, but I'll have a Coke, thanks, and a box of cookies."
They can't do anything to those. She nods once, slowly, at that. "Well,
*you're* being practical about it, anyway."

Celliers replies, with as much aplomb as he can muster, "A Coca-cola,
please? But none of those little bits of squashed chicken, thank you. So?
What information do we have on this Melanie's disappearance? And any
advice on the best way to go about finding her?" he wonders, setting about
lighting one ofthose black cigarettes with his usual finicking precision.

Pete Wisdom stares at the three. Just stares. And stands. "Right, then,"
he says gamely, heading into the McDonald's and occasionally glancing over
his shoulder at them, dubiously. Until he's inside.

Kitty calls over her own shoulder at him, "And I want cheese sticks. And
/fries/." Either she's been replaced by a clone, or it really hasn't been
her day. Turning back to the other two, she replies to Jack, "Melanie was
last seen at the hospital, about seven at night, the evening of June
fifth. She was wearing her nurse's whites, and had with her a black
raincoat and a large leopard-print bag. It's not absolutely certain that
that was the last time she was there - there are a few people who aren't
sure - but it seems likely, since early that morning she'd gotten Sera out
of the hospital again before Ballantine came on shift." Yes, it's recited
from memory. "I haven't been watching Ballantine directly - I don't know
if anyone else has?" No, she's not accusing Barbara. "So I'm not sure what
his routine is, other than that he seems to be spending a /lot/ of time at
the hospital - I think he must've slept in his office a few times."

Whisper nods at Kitty's question, "Quite a bit. And he's more compulsive
when he's at home." She frowns, resting her arms on the table as she leans
forward. "He talks to himself, and to a picture on the wall."

Celliers's lips thin out into a grim line, as he flicks ash away from the
cigarette. "I see." Whisper getes a sharp look, as he cants his head to
regard her. "What sort of think does he say, when he's alone?"

Kitty half takes a breath - and then Jack beats her to asking. She leans
forward a little, looking much less tired, much more businesslike.
Fascinated. Her hands play absently with the fastenings on her backpack.

Whisper frowns, glancing down at her hands as she speaks, "He calls her
'Claire'. He tells her he's proud of her, and that she's fighting
something well, and that she has to keep being strong."

Celliers notes, more than half under his breath, "He mentioned that name
when Kate and I went there."

Kitty takes a careful breath, and her gaze flickers down to the backpack -
then up to Whisper and Celliers again. "Claire. Claire St. Thomas. I ran
across her in the work I've been doing, trying to track his past patients
- she was a patient of his about fifteen years ago. Same - general profile
as Sera, from all I can tell - an uncontrolled psi. I don't know what
happened to her. Her records are all screwed up; it /looks/ like the
others I've found who died, but there's no actual evidence of her death."

"Has he confused our Sera with this Claire?" Jack wonders, before shifting
the clove to his other hand, and relighting it. Damn things are always
going out on their own. A smoke ring is blown, and quickly whisped away by
the night air.

Whisper's forehead wrinkles as she frowns, "Maybe she was the first, and
he--does it matter? I mean, will it help us find Melanie so we can take
care of this guy?"

Seishi. Timing. Extraordinary. Probably extraordinarily *bad,* because
here she comes down the sidewalk now on some arcane errand or other,
striding along at a brisk clip with her eyes straight ahead, back
straight, shoulders squared, tight and serious and businesslike. It's a
toss-up who sees who first, but there's a good chance it won't be too
pretty.

"Everything we can find out," Kitty replies earnestly to Whisper, "could
matter. /Everything/ - what the picture looks like, if there've been any
changes around Ballantine's house in the last month, where he goes when
he's not at work or at home - how Ballantine thinks, and what /he/ thinks
he's doing. We can do without a lot of it. But the more we've got to work
from, the better the chance we've got." She nods toward Jack, tentative.
"He might've. It'd explain why he reacts ... quite so violently when he
thinks he's got any chance of catching her." For once her attention's too
focused on the people she's talking to to recognize the familiar posture
quite off the bat.

Celliers doesn't miss Sei, though, and stubs out the clove in a deft
motion, before flicking his hand at her imperiously. "Seichan, do join us
for - " a quick look at the food some of the nearby neightbors are eating,
"Sparkling sugar syrup, strange little chips, and strategic discussion?"