Pryde and Wisdom's Flat - The Main Stretch

        The flat's up one flight, off of a musty-smelling stairwell; it's
a nice size, not tiny or particularly ill-kept, but almost entirely empty.
The scent of ashtray and stale cigarette smoke is, perhaps predictably,
faint but pervasive. The walls are bare but for an enormous black Jolly
Roger flag in the space above the couch. Yes, a pirate flag. There's a
small television on an overturned milk crate in the corner, facing a
rather tatty second (or third) hand couch. The layout of the place is such
that the kitchen sort of melts into the living area, and there's a table
and a couple of chairs over kitchen way. The table is occupied by a stack
of library books on top of a stack of newspapers, next to which is a
laptop (open, screen saver showing shifting fractal patterns), and across
from which is a half-full ashtray. A half-open door leads into the
bedroom; the bathroom's through there as well. Like the smoke, the clutter
is also faint but pervasive ... stray bits of paper, an empty cigarette
pack, a mostly-empty mug with traces of this morning's coffee. Conflicting
forces of Stray Junk and Persistent Tidying.
        In short, the place is in many ways /distressingly/ normal at
first glance. Till one notices that the blinds are always closed, even if
one of the windows is usually left partly open from the top; or the
astonishingly well-stocked medical supplies kept in the bathroom; or the
habit things have of getting knocked over, mussed, or actually vanished
when nobody's in the room. And that's without bothering to search the
place.

Outside, the storms are fairly impressive - it's not actually /raining/
just now, but five or ten minutes from now is likely to be another story,
just like fifteen minutes ago was, and the thunder and flickers of
lightning have been a force to be dealt with for a couple of hours.
Kitty's laptop is, therefore, neatly shut down for once. Nor, after a
certain recent incident, is she out haunting rooftops. Instead? She's
found another foe to pit her nervous energy against. Namely, the dishes,
one sinkful of which is already sitting meekly and cowed in the drying
rack. And she's made ominous noises about tackling the floor again - she's
been a little touchy on the subject ever since Constantine was over last.
For some reason.

Out out damned spot. Pete's been silent for a good ten minutes. "I should
get takeaway. Do you want takeaway? It's not raining. If I go now it'll
only rain on the way back instead of both ways." He's been silent for a
good ten minutes and he's been in one place the whole time. The teawater
isn't boiling yet. He's standing next to the window, which is open; he's
smoking, which is common; he's trying not to pace. He's doing a good job.
"Seishi hasn't been yet. Was she there? I couldn't get that from what
Barbara said. If she was there and she hasn't been yet, I should probably
go get takeaway, shouldn't I, we should probably go over there. Maybe you
should go over there." Who gave him caffeine? "If I go over there I'm not
going to be popular, considering what my opinion had been. It'd be bad
taste. Rubbing salt, and - chicken and cashews? Or General Tso's Chicken?
Or not chicken at all?" No one ever give him caffeine again.

There's a soft, stealthy step outside the door, accompanied by a certain
vitreous clinking. Someone's there who doesn't want to be heard.

Kitty tips her head to the side, half-turning as her hands still - did she
hear something from the hallway? The possibility is probably all that
keeps her from lobbing a sponge across the room at Pete. Her glance flicks
back toward him instead. "Chicken and cashews. She was probably there, but
I don't know if she saw it." Conversational tones, cheerful, everything's
normal - did you hear that?

Yeah, I heard that. And, well, fuck if I'm unarmed at the moment. Well,
not conventionally, anyway. Eyes flickering red, Wisdom answers before he
walks. "Chicken and cashews it is. Fried rice or white? Eggrolls? Or
should we fear the eggrolls? And if she was there and saw it you /should/
go, if she didn't see it I'll go with. But maybe she'll be by." He
gestures at Kitty, keep talking; silently enough to be completely
inaudible over the hum of the fan in the window, he walks to the door, one
hand glowing dully. Stands with his back to the wall next to it, opens it
with a jerk.

And there's Jack, wearing an expression more appropriate for a deer in a
semi's headlights than a former British officer. It's only there a moment,
before he wipes it away into a deadpan. In one hand is a brown-paper
package - whence the clinking. It's thrust at Pete abruptly, as he
asserts, all solemnity, "I found this on your doorstep." Sure. Call me a
liar. I dare you.

Kitty fishes a glass out of the sink while Wisdom's talking; it's not much
of a weapon, but she's not much with weaponry to start off with. She
balances it in one hand, tugging it intangible along with her, keeping
just enough in phase to be able to breathe and talk. "Judging by last
time? Fear the eggrolls. Steamed rice as far as I'm concerned, you don't
have to -" And the door's pulled open, and she lets her breath out all at
once, relaxing back into solidity. "/Jack/." What the-?

And Wisdom blinks, red abruptly fading from his eyes, hand cooling and
dropping to his side. "Celli-- what?" He looks down at the brown-paper
package, blinking again, then reaches out to take it while pulling the
door further open. He peeks inside, blinks *again*, and looks back up at
Jack, clearly brilliantly pleased. "Well. Whoever left it there's
marvelous." Lopsided grin. Not going to call you a liar, though I don't
believe a word. Once Jack's stepped in, he holds it up toward Kitty with
the wrapping peeled down a bit - look! A present! - and grins. "Since you
found it, Celliers, it's only fair you give us a hand breaking it in."

Celliers's lips twitch. He can't entirely help himself. "Good evening,
Miss Pryde, Wisdom," he replies, with a rather regal nod of his head. "But
if you like, I shall certainly stay to make sure that it's not poisoned?"
His tone remains that languid drawl, but his eyes are gleaming with
amusement. The bottle proves to be premium single-malt.

A present indeed, and Kitty's eyes widen just a touch - and she does try
to have the glass down out of convenient angle for throwing before
Celliers actually steps inside. "The more people around for that kind of
assurance, the better, I'd think," she replies. "Just in /case/, of
course." Bright-eyed grin back - jolts of adrenaline do quite a bit to
defuse tension, for her. "So we'd hardly chase you off..." Please? Please
stay! Except she can't say that out loud till he's across the threshold.
Stupid city. Stupid neighbors.

Definitely out of the way of the door. Just step over the threshold, Jack,
just through the doorway and we're all good. Pete's pulling the wrapping
all the way off and setting the bottle on the counter, he inclines his
head at Kitty, grinning. "Glasses, love? Mind you shut the door, Jack--"
Also not an invitation, could be either. "Oh, also, you interested in
takeaway or have you eaten?"

Celliers steps in, lightly. "Takeaway would be lovely. Kate is staying
late at the hangar, and I hadn't yet bothered to feed myself after work,"
he admits.

Bothered. Kitty directs that same grin down at her hands as she rinses
them off and moves to fetch those glasses. "We were thinking Chinese. The
place down the street isn't bad." Is, in fact, remarkably convenient as a
compromise between disastrously different tastes in food, but. "Sorry
about the - door issues. There's been a bit of a minor undead problem in
the neighborhood lately." Yes, she saves that last for when the door is
shut.

"'A bit', she says. 'Minor', she says. I'd hate to see a major problem,
Pryde. Any preferences, Celliers? No eggrolls, they're nasty," says Pete,
opening the bottle almost gleefully. Oh, what beautiful liquor. Kitty's
getting the glasses, good; Pete slides a piece of paper over from the
recycle stack and flips it over, then pulls a pen out of his pocket.
Chicken and cashews, steamed rice for Kitty, fried for Pete, "Wonton soup?
Wonton soup." The kettle finally starts whistling and Wisdom glances up at
it, irritated.

Celliers's face has frozen at the mention of the undead. Apparently he
shares the opinion of the Grandfather in 'Lost Boys' about Santa Carla, in
reference to Beacon Harbor. Too many damn vampires. "Undead?" he wonders,
crisply. "And Kung pao chicken, if you please." In an apparently
unconcscious motion, he reaches down into his shirt to draw out a very
plain silver cross on a steel chain. No crucifixes or any of that Papist
stuff for him.

The door has been closed for all of perhaps a minute when, scarcely
audible under the shriek of the kettle, comes the light tap tap tap of
someone's knuckles against the door. "Kitty?" Seishi's voice, oddly
hesitant. "Wisdom?"

Kitty reaches over and turns off the heat under the kettle. Probably won't
be needing you. "I only saw two intent on making trouble, neither of whom
stayed around for long, but it seems likely to be a recurring -" Her
eyebrows go up. "Seishi?" Dr. Scott! "Jack, could you get the -" Door you
just closed. Er.

It's okay, Pete can pause in his scribbling for a moment to reach back and
get the door again. Seishi's not being sneaky so she doesn't get glowy
eyes and threatening hands, even if she's not bringing single-malt Scotch.
"Sei, good, we were hoping you'd be by. Orange, chamomile, green, black,
or oolong? And, any requests for the Chinese takeaway down the road?"
Normality. Our friend. Come in, even if I don't say. Have a seat. We'll
love you and hug you and call you George, or just give you tea and
sympathy.

Celliers steps out of the way, looking for a place that's not more awkward
than where he already is. "Seichan?" he wonders, turning to look back at
the door. "Evening," He's looking at her keenly.

Seishi tries a smile as she pokes her head in through the open doorway. It
comes out crooked and a little wan. "Yeah," she answers, edging in and
closing the door behind her, with a newspaper tucked under one arm. "How
about you make that Mexican instead?"

"You can negotiate that one with whoever's doing the fetching." Kitty
leans on a patch of counter, keeping reasonably close to the hot water.
The sinkful of dishes can wait. "Tea? Or vanilla Coke? How're you doing?"
A touch more concern in that than usual, but like Pete, she's leaning
heavily on the normality bit.

...hey! Pete eyes Jack for a moment, then eyes Seishi. "He's allowed to
call you that? I'm not allowed to call you that. I don't know where the
closest Mexican place is. If you tell me I may be convinced to switch." He
pockets the piece of paper and his pen, but not before quickly writing
down Jack's choice of Chinese and glancing at what he's got out of his
pocket. *Then*, he pours three roughly-doubles of Jack's
tried-to-be-anonymous gift, and starts in very carefully on his own.
Because it must be savored.

Celliers reaches over to delicately pick up his share of the gift, before
shrugging, "I'm entirely amenable to Mexican, if that is what the rest of
you would prefer."

Seishi blinks at Pete, momentarily diverted. "You're not? When did I--"
Abruptly she remembers, and laughs a little and rubs her eyes. "That was
when you were a scary teenager who turned it into about half a dozen
syllables. Vanilla Coke would be--really nice," she adds toward Kitty,
heartfelt. "I'm not set on Mexican, but, ah, I'd rather you guys didn't
spend any more time in Chinatown than necessary." She wanders across the
apartment, uncomfortably, finally stopping to lean against the back of the
chair. It's Jack she looks at as she says, in an almost apologetic tone,
"Things are going to be bad there for a while, I think."

Kitty shakes her head at Seishi, as if to reassure. "No - there's a place
just down the street." Nice and safe. Relatively. Except for the VAMPIRES
oh wait. She glances aside to Jack as well, though, and she really /is/
starting to mirror Seishi's expressions much more often than is probably
good for anyone's sanity. "Vanilla Coke it is." Which she will fetch from
the fridge and deliver to Seishi by hand before doing anything regarding
the Scotch. She has /her/ priorities in order. On the way back to pick up
her own glass, though, she does steal the chance to give Wisdom a
decidedly amused look. Scary teenager mangling Seishi's name? Tsk, tsk.

Celliers eyes Seishi a moment, before noting, "That would explain why
random firearms are being deposited about the area? OR would you like to
go into more explicit detail? Since I do, oh, _live_ in Chinatown."

"Well if you're not set on Mexican I'm getting Chinese," says Pete
reasonably, sipping again. "Because, yeah. And the undead leave me the
hell alone, so I'm going to get it." He just looks kind of pained when
Kitty's eyeing him, and turns the glance to Seishi. "So I don't mangle
your name /now/, and now I'm allowed? Or d'you just want me to keep on as
I have?" Names are important. "Oi, did I really boot someone in the head
that night?"

Seishi quirks half a grin. "Not that I remember," she tells Pete wryly.
"Some things are a little hazy right now. Call me whatever you want. I'll
tell you if I don't like it." She drags a hand over her hair. "If it
doesn't entail someone taking a trip into Chinatown, I'll cast a vote for
beef lo mein and some crab rangoons. But look, you guys need to know about
this--especially you and Kate," she tells Jack. "Did any of you read about
what happened at the Lucky Dollar a few nights ago?

"... thirty or forty injuries, a third of that - yeah." Kitty turns the
glass in her hand, looking down at it, then glances over at Pete again and
rests a hand on his arm for a moment. Off the hook. "'Archaic' blades, the
paper said. I kind of figured it for the same chaos? - and sign me up for
the crab, too, Wisdom." Yes. You're getting the food. She'll listen.

Celliers nods, though he's still regarding Seishi with uncharacteristic
fierceness. "YEs, I did. And the other night Whisper and I ran off a
sniper from the roof above Howie Lee's, leaving me the richer for one
Dragunov sniper rifle. What do you and Holmes know?"

"That is such a dangerous question, Celliers," says Pete with a wry grin.
He nods to Kitty, looking grateful and then looking surprised. Eyebrows go
up; he doesn't say anything. If she wants crab rangoons, she gets crab
rangoons. He takes the paper and pen out of his pocket once more, briefly
leans on the counter, scribbling, then downs the rest of the glass of
Scotch but does not swallow. He gives a brief mouth-full grin at the
gathering, and slips silently out the door, closing it behind him.

"Not much," Seishi confesses. "I don't know if guns will be any good--I
guess a high-powered rifle might. Holmes-sama's revolver didn't even leave
a mark." She scrubs the side of her hand over her eyes. "It was a close
thing. Closer than I like to think about. All we know right now is that
the three who staged that bloodbath at the club are working for someone
called Yang, and that they're.... I don't know what they are. They vanish
into thin air. Bullets don't touch them. One of them said something about
the Hell Of Being Cut To Pieces. Aside from that..." She spreads her hands
helplessly.

Kitty half-grumbles to Pete as he heads out the door, "I know, I know,
we'll talk my pathetic justification later," but she's half-grinning again
for a moment once the door's shut. And then she looks back up and over,
serious again, listening to the pair of them. "... somehow I'm getting the
feeling this hasn't been a pretty week."

Celliers notes, tightly, "Indeed, it sounds most disturbing all 'round.
Undead here, and something else monstrous in Chinatown. Perhaps another
form of undead, or demonic presence? Has anyone bothered to consult
Constantine about this?" He taps the silver cross that rests over his
heart with a fingertip. "There will be soemething that harms them. The
question is what."

Seishi's breath hisses out through her teeth. "I don't know," she says. "I
know one person who might be able to tell me more. In the meantime,
just--be careful, please? At the moment I think it's all
gang-related--Yang is apparently taking over what's left of the old
gangs--but anyone within reach seems to be a target. The owner of the
Lucky Dollar wasn't affiliated with the old gangs or the Yakuza."

Kitty studies Seishi for a moment, then sips carefully at the Scotch,
still cradling the glass gently in her hand. She doesn't interrupt,
doesn't ask questions, just listens for right now.

Celliers sips from his own Scotch, and expels a long, slow breath. "I see.
ANd is this one person that young man I met you walking with once? What
was his name?"

"Chen Zhen," Seishi fills in. "He's--I'm not entirely sure what it is he
does, but there's a decent chance he might know something more than we do.
At the moment, it's the best lead I can think of."

Kitty leans against the counter, still listening. "And it's certainly
better than nothing," she adds. She glances away for a moment - vaguely,
if anyone's looking closely - in the direction of Chinatown - but that's
all she says out loud.

Celliers's lips have thinned out into that expression of restrained
displeasure, but he nods, quietly. "Do let me know whatever you can, as
soon as you may?"

Seishi nods. "I promise," she says. "I just wanted to warn you."

Kitty murmurs, "Speaking of warnings," and glances up toward Seishi. "I
have another acquaintance who lives in Chinatown. How much of this is safe
to pass on? Any of it?"

With that, Jack rises, a bit gingerly. "I should be going," he notes,
softly. "If you'll excuse me?"

"As much as you need to," Seishi tells Kitty, beofre looking unhappily
toward Celliers. She says, "Goodnight, Jack," but the inflection sounds
more like an apology.

"Good night," Kitty echoes to Celliers. "Take care - and," as ever, "say
hi to Kate for us?" Some pilots are in mind more than others. She nods to
Seishi then, and adds a quicker, "Thanks. I hope he won't run into that
kind of trouble, but - well, sometimes he goes looking for it, a little."

Celliers bows a little, before heading out the door.