#perfectedingbadideas

Doggett slid the card across the table. “This is you, right?”

And true enough, in clean lettering read the name JOHN CONSTANTINE, as well as the rest of his absurdly intricate title. It looked like the card had been kept in supremely good condition, tucked away somewhere nice instead of shoved and crumpled in someone’s pocket for five years.

“‘Exorcist, demonologist, and master of the dark arts’. All of those things?”

It was pretty dumb to be as excited as he was for ice cream, right? Syl pondered this as he also pondered his supposed levels of maturity. But he had the cello case (staff) in his back seat, and John was with him and in one piece, and to be honest, he was so stoked to have him around he didn’t really care if it made him seem twelve years old.

Once John was done with his job in Lincoln, Syl had all too happily let him stay at his place to rest up and get his bearings back. Now that he was back at a hundred percent, though...

[Text Hipster Disaster]: We’re passing that title back and forth.

@perfectedingbadideas​

When it came to hunts, unless they were specifically passed onto her by her - admittedly limited - number of contacts, Cara had to go with her gut. She’d search newspapers, police reports, chat rooms, anything that might lead her to her next job. But very rarely were things black and white. Very rarely did things scream ‘a supernatural creature was here.’ Sometimes she could find patterns, anything from odd weather to killings that had happened over centuries. Other times, she read or saw something, and it just felt... off. Like the police either had no clue what was going on and didn’t want to come out and admit it, or they made up a story rather than facing the supernatural head on. She couldn’t really fault them for the latter. Most would rather bury their heads in the sand than admit that this entire other world existed alongside - no, as a part of their own. And that it could reach out and take them at any moment.

Which was why when she read what was clearly a concocted story about a crazed man with a knife, she knew she needed to investigate. If it turned out to be nothing, no harm, no foul; she’d move on to the next job. But if it was something, then hopefully she would show up just in time to stop any other lives being lost.

She was currently carefully inspecting the crime scene, having jimmied open a side window instead of going throw the door that was still covered in police tape, when she heard the sound of someone approaching from behind. In an instant, she spun, gun raised and ready to be shot only to find - well, what appeared to be - a man standing in front of her. His words didn’t tell her much. He could just be a curious onlooker. Or one of the creepy types that liked to collect stories of the dead. Gun still raised, she demanded, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

@perfectedingbadideas

What was the phrase? You’re not paranoid if they’re really out to get you.

And ever since government agents had come looking for her and Ryder, ever since they’d fled their home and gone into hiding with other mutants, she knew they were really out to get her. And that feeling - that need to constantly look over her shoulder, to wait for the next attack - increased a million fold when their mutant safehouse was raided. When Ryder was killed.

She had intended on moving to a new safehouse, on staying hidden with other mutants, until she lost control of her powers. And not just in a way where she was upset or afraid, but in a way where she knew that something was wrong. That something within her was being altered. That she was changing. And that there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it, especially without Ryder. Her balance in all things. The calmer of the hurricane.

So she took off. She’d been living on the streets for months, constantly moving to avoid police, government agents, or what seemed to be the ever-present mutant hate groups. And she did pretty well most of the time. She wasn’t visibly a mutant and - other than when she had no choice and lost control of her abilities - she avoided using them altogether. Still... Someone was following her. Had been following her. And while she really wanted to believe it was someone who wanted to steal her shit, or was just being a creepy asshole, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to get that lucky. “Why you’re following me.” She saw no point in beating around the bush. “Look, if you think there’s anything of value in my bag, unless you want an old sweatshirt, or a half-eaten stale bag of cheese puffs, or an old, dead i-pod that will get you next to nothing at a pawn shop, I’d suggest you find another target.”

@perfectedingbadideas

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Sara replied, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip straight from the bottle before asking, “How did you find me anyway?” She had a handful of hideouts throughout Starling, but few knew where they were. Maybe he asked Oliver, or Felicity. Or maybe he used magic, the way he had to bring her soul back from the hell it had been trapped in. Either way, she warned, “Might want to take a step to the right before moving any closer.”

The hole-in-the-wall was sparsely furnished - an old dilapidated couch that doubled as her bed, an uneven table she used to clean and sharpen weapons, and her go bag sat beside it. But that was what could be seen. She had traps rigged all over the room, always believing in using her surroundings to her advantage, in being prepared for whatever fight came her way. This time, it just happened to be the saver of souls with a bottle of whiskey.

“Pretty big favor,” Sara commented, knowing better than to ask what it was. Oliver liked to talk about his past about as much as she did, and she didn’t want to put Constantine in the position of sharing his secrets. Still... To risk what he did, it must’ve been huge. She took another sip of the whiskey before offering it back to him to take a drink of his own, “But I’m gonna guess you didn’t come all this way to bring me whiskey - or to finally get the thanks you were owed. So what’s up?”

It was rare that Famine heard humans talking about demons, but the word seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Even the newscasters who Martel watched in the morning before work joked about recent misshapes being the cause of demons. Had it only been mentioned once or twice, something Famine overheard from a friend group’s conversation at a cafe, she might disregard it, but it was like the word was following her. The horseman was determined to find out why, if only to cure the boredom of laying around Martel’s house while he was at work.

The demon rumors had led the horseman to an old, abandoned hotel. The building was mostly rotting wallpaper and molding furniture, but people claimed to see demons in the windows, or to have encountered them on clandestine visits into the decaying structure. Famine was willing to bet the problem was much more human, but she could be surprised. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Famine made her way into one of the various hotel room and let out an unamused sigh; empty, like all the rest. Her footsteps padded on old carpet as she moved slowly about the room. She was almost to the window when a noise in the hall caught her attention. Muscles tensed as Famine whirled, looking to the door. The weight of her blades under her jacket were a comfort as she stepped back into the hall, peering out into the dark. Where there had once been empty hallways, there was now a man. 

Raven wasn't sure when she started drinking. She had solved a minor problem in town and had rolled into the bar. It was her second home besides her car.

She'd been flirting with the blonde most of the night. Upgrading his whiskey as her Russian blood proves strong. But it doesn't mean she isn't laughing and feeling tipsy from the alcohol.

She wasn't sure when she had yanked him by his tie over and begun kissing him, but he tasted like cigarettes and whiskey, her favorite. She hummed against his lips as her lithe little frame pressed against him.