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Constantine Augustus Meyac

"Don't worry, they'll remember. I'm sending them your finger as memorabilia."

0 · 795 views · located in More Phenomenal Earth

a character in “Good Evening, Monsters! Good Evening, Abe!”, as played by TheFinalOne


"Don't worry. they'll remember. I'm sending them your finger as memorabilia."

R A C E : H U M A N ; P O S S E S S E D

N A M E: C O N S T A N T I N E A U G U S T U S M E Y A ʗ

A G E: 25



Height and WAITJUSTASECOND! It is important to address the issue of possession before we talk about his sexy body and his cool eyes and his great, axe.

Here's the lowdown; Constantine here has been possessed by two demons. Yes, that's right. It's like a party in there. Unfortunately, they do not control him. It is the other way around, somewhat. Well, it's complicated. It's not you, it's me. Remember one thing though, the real Constantine will never be seen. Everyone will interact with either Ramirez or Ezekiel, the two demons.

Possession has the following effects:

1) Marked improvement in marksmanship, granted by Ezekiel. Constantine is, on his own, an okay marksman but add Ezekiel's skill (which he learned after years of possessing people who were good with the gun, and dangerous.) and Constantine can qualify for the Olympics if need be.

2) Energy requirements are higher because now the brain and the rest of the body are working for three different souls.

3) Fatigue/Stress is easier to achieve but not as quick as to warrant further fitness training. Same cause as 2.

4) Wounds heal faster. Granted by Ramirez and Ezekiel. Demons have higher stamina, better healing powers, and faster reflexes. While everything is granted to Constantine, the stress of having three souls in one body diminishes these positive effects.

5) Individual personalities are affected after prolonged exposure. For example, one soul might have an urge earlier only seen in another soul. Traits and behavioral patterns are also transferable (This is how Ezekiel got most of his marksmanship skills.).

6) Perspective: While one soul concentrates on the enemy up ahead, the other can concentrate on finding a way out/searching or keeping tracking of other enemies. Of course since there are only one pair of eyes, what this other soul is trying to see will be blurry, as the eyes are focusing on the enemy ahead.

7) Increase in psychical strength.

8) The demons can go through the memories of each other and of the real Constantine, but Constantine cannot do so. Ezekiel is better at this because he has doing this for about two hundred years now.


ImageHeight and Weight: "I'm as tall as the devil and as fat as De Vil." 6 feet and 78 kilos.

His father stood at six and a half feet. So when, on his fifteenth birthday, Constantine was only 4’8", his dad decided it was time for radical measures (as always...); swimming classes. Whether it was the swimming classes or not, Constantine's growth gained momentum and by the time he stopped growing at the age of nineteen, he reached six feet.

But surely because of the swimming classes Constantine's weight did not accelerate as fast as his height. He is 78 kilos. Never has he crossed eighty kilos. Before the possession attempts, his weight did once huff and puff to eighty kilos, during the holiday season, but afterwards the stress of three souls caught up and he lost weight. Even with the real Constantine’s temperance towards alcohol, Ramirez’s beer drinking habits had him gain a kilo of mostly fat. He is not out of shape as of yet but it will get to him.

Complexion: "Let's say you go to Alaska. Once you are there you are awed by the glistening pristine white snow. Suddenly, you get a call. "Get back some snow. We'll pay you," the caller offers, a hotel owner who wants fresh snow for his special margarita. So you get back the snow. Unfortunately, a dog poops in it. What the -- stupid dog. Instead of throwing away the snow, you just mix the snow and the poop, hoping that Hilton would not notice. That is how my complexion is."

He is not as white as an average Scandinavian, nor as dark as an average Mexican, but somewhere in middle. When he was young he used to be much fairer but his outdoor training has given him a tan. The complexion of his face is slightly darker than on his chest, noticeable when one squint ones eyes, but the difference between his face and legs is noticeable. He used to train in the nearby woods, usually with this shirt off but never his pants.

He does not wear a watch and so the skin on his left hand is uniform in color. His skin used to be a tad oilier than average but on Ramirez's insistence that oily skin is not good for his "fashion style", Constantine now carries with him a few tissues and a handkerchief.

Body Type and Health: --takes of his shirt-- "Babe, I know you want this."

Years of swimming has not only kept his weight in check but also rewarded him with what is called a swimmer's body; thin with a flat chest and stomach; well toned and strong muscles but lacking weight; half-way between a junkie thin body and a feather-weight boxer. Have you noticed someone drowning? Notice how each muscle is trying its best to keep that someone alive? Swimming is just like, just with more co-ordination (and less dangerous).

His body is the jack o' all trades. He cannot outbox Mike Tyson; cannot outrun Usain Bolts; cannot out-swim Michael Phelps. But if has to defeat a professional, someone who is not world class or legendarily good, in each of these sports? "Elementary, my dear Watson."

If he takes off his shirt, you would surely notice that his arms do not look as toned as his chest or his stomach, like a weightlifter sitting between two average dudes. Rest assured, that is only when they are relaxed. Ezekiel has the habit of moving his stomach in and out when breathing, but on Constantine's stomach it does not show much.

Another thing you would notice is that he is perfectly symmetrical from the outside, something Ezekiel secretly loves about Constantine.

In short, he is fit and fine. Would he be honored with a death threat from the Abe if he was sickly and fat? Perhaps, if he was called Penguin.While Ramirez does have quite a few bad habits, he does not get enough time controlling Constantine to get him addicted or fat. It is mostly Ezekiel who controls Constantine's body; he has his own problems but they don't have much humiliation-in-the-future potential like drinking does.

As for his health, he has never suffered from any disease as of yet. His father was not stupid enough to ignore vaccinations. This is of course, not counting the few days after each possession when he felt sluggish.

Hair and eyes: "My eyes are like black holes sprinkled on milk adorned by streams of blood; my hair like the silken black mistress of the night."

His hair is black. They've always been black. They used to curly when he was small, but his father had them straightened. In terms of feel, near the roots his hair is like the sand in the Sahara Desert; soft if you merely touch or go through them and coarse if you squeeze a handful. As you move away from the roots, they are much softer to touch or squeeze, like a silk sari. Finally near the end they become rougher, due to exposure of vampire-hater (that's sun, not Buffy).

If degradation of hair color speaks about the health of a man, then Constantine hair are not lying. They have remained healthy and black and very rarely does he have white hair. He refuses to dye his hair and plucks the white hair out. Painful, but what can one do?

His eyes are like islands lost in the vastness of the ocean. The iris would be the island, lighter in color near the ocean of white that is the sclera. In the middle they are much darker, much closer in color to a black tuxedo than a navy blue pant. While people would disagree if you say the eyes have a calm and peaceful look about, they would agree they have a calming effect. Staring into his eyes would not be advised if Ramirez is controlling the body, for if he notices that you are distracted, one swift and graceful move of his digits would result in you becoming a wallet poorer.

Apparent Temperament: "Ya, ya, good for ye."
"I'm shocked people do not worship me yet."

When Ramirez is controlling the body, Constantine is your irritating, goofball friend who gets into trouble with seniors, teachers and everyone who is stronger than him. Constantine's shoulders would be drooped more than average, eyes still, all the body weight on one leg while the leg chills out and hands crossed over his chest or in the pant pocket. He acts like an uninterested Frank the Pug. When in danger, however, he is the ready-to-gtfo mode with his body all tensed up, eyes darting all over the place trying to identifying trouble, and hands outside and ready to protect the face. A more scared version of Courage the Cowardly Dog.

When Ezekiel is in charge, Constantine's actions are comparable to your kind and caring friend who is somewhat creepy. He's sometimes a little too helpful, coming off as someone with superiority complex. His posture is more stable than Ramirez's. Whether in danger or not, comparing his actions to be "I'm ready to rumble" soldier would not be too far from the truth. Ezekiel is perpetually excited, like the dog that covered you in saliva during that long elevator ride.

Facial features: "The Ocarina of Time blew away the sands, revealing me."

The way he combs his hair makes it seem that his forehead is large but that is not so. And because of his relatively young age, he has no wrinkles/lines on his temple (no botox as of yet). He has a square face with a straight nose, and barely any facial hair except his mustache and his thin eyebrows. Average looking ears and lips, along with his roundish chin, complete his face. Over exercise make his temples go red and his ears blue-ish red.

Distinguishing marks: "My sexiness, of course."
If he had any distinguishing marks, he'd be in jail, or in bed with those scar-loving women. Or, shaking his fist while James Bond stealeth his woman.

Casual wardrobe: Ramirez is a self-proclaimed "dressing sense expert", whatever that is. As impossible as it may sound, Ramirez may actually get pleasure from trying out new clothes. No, he is not a shopaholic. He can certainly spend 'his' hard earned money properly. But that does not stop him from trying out all the dresses in the shop and drive the manager mad. Ezekiel "does not have much of a dressing sense." If the dress is comfortable, it is good enough for Ezekiel.

This is all fine and dandy until you realize Ramirez has no clue what he is talking about. "'dressing sense expert', my foot." His favorite attire is is a pink shirt with and blue and green sleeves (that is blue on one hand and green on the other); red, tight leather pants and white shoes. Lady Gaga, competition has arrived. And no, he will never wear that dress. Ezekiel somehow managed to convince Ramirez that that dress should only be worn to be special occasions because it is so, er, special.

His casual dress depends on the mood and the day, and the dress least dirty. Both Ramirez and Ezekiel have a thing for black and if available black will be chosen.

ACTION TIME wardrobe: Nake- er. It all depends on what action we are talking about. If the job requires protecting someone, it will normal day-to-day clothes. It makes it easier to spot potential threats but larger weapons cannot be hidden effectively. If it is to kill someone, it would easy to throw, brand-less clothes that are easy to dispose and difficult to trace.


"It is very difficult to explain stuff without knowing the cause behind the effect"™

"Sigh... Here's comes the boooring history lesson... Sigh"
"Wish me to-"
"Devout man was he,
but slightly loose in the head.
One must wonder how he,
got Constantine's mother to bed.

Told his son to kill,
in the name of his lord,
or were the killings,
because of petty discord?

Constantine grew up,
his left half-brain unused,
his daddy's order,
never he refused.

One day came along,
a demon possessing a man.
Killed, Constantine, the man,
for the better of Uncle Sam.

A then came along days later,
a loser idiotic demon,
made everyone's life miserable,
Destroyed the very essence of fun.

"Fuck off."

ImageMost evil people are born on a cloudy day, 'cause the sun is a scaredy cat. But this one starts on a very hot summer morning. The sky was clear and the sun beating down, walked inside the hospital ward, a new father. His name was Edward Rhineheart, son of the infamous steel tycoon David Rhineheart. David had died many years ago, in the hands of drug mafia who felt he was too cunning to be trusted.

A son had been born and a mother had died. Constantine, this boy's name would be; Constantine Augustus Meyac. And the very day his name was chosen, was chosen also his occupation; killing in the name of God. For Edward had left behind his sanity years ago, when his father was sent to jail for murder and lost everything (David was killed two weeks later, just days before he would was posthumously acquitted).

But Edward knew what puberty did to children, made them rebellious. And so, from day one, Edward made every single decision of Constantine. This way, thought Edward, Constantine would be rebel. Truly, never Constantine, but this would bite them both later.

And so began Constantine's life. Deprived of decision making and being controlled a wheelchair bound mad sadist had some adverse effects on our poor Constantine. But, at least, he was doing what his father always wanted him to do (what a lovely child!).

It went well for twenty years. Two years prior, Constantine had made his first kill, a priest who sheltered minorities and people of other religion in the church when a flash flood struck. Now, on his twentieth birthday, his third kill was being chopped up in wood chipper a unsuspecting friend owned. But, tragedy struck.

"It is lung cancer. You should stop drinking and smoking, Mister Edward," said the doctor, four months before finding himself being fish food for the very fish he had gone to hunt a week earlier, three dimensional piranhas off the banks of a tributary in Brazil. Edward calmed down only when he 'realized' that god wanted him in his palace for his service. But still he didn't want to leave just yet, not before killing that man, that traitor, that blasphemer, that demon...

For the next two years, the battle of the two evil was on. Finally, it hit Edward; he wasn't going to win. For a fleeting moment, despair angered him. Then, a bulb lightened somewhere in his sick brain. He remembered a old acquaintance of his, a certain old man who went around using the name Ebenezer.

A few phone calls later, Constantine was, as Raymond Keen would say, "sold off" to Ebenezer. A then a few days, Edwards was dead. "No great loss," humanity spat.

Though Abe does feel burdened by Constantine has come to use to him twice. During one such incident, one became three...

The Angel and Demon incident::: One day, Ebenezer asked Constantine to kill Deaf Leopard, a drug dealer. Meanwhile, a demon was tracking this person too, he too wishing to kill the body's inhabitant. Over the next few days, Constantine tracked the drug dealer's every move, trying to find a pattern. Finally, he found a way to get him off the streets. For some reason, Deaf Leopard was very condescending of bad people, yet trying to help them. Using the help a faux kidnapping news, he lured this drug dealer in an abandoned chemicals factory.

When he killed him, a demon, Ezekiel, emerged. It had been possessing this drug dealer. But Constantine hadn't notice this demon and went about of his usual destroying evidence business. Appalled by the excessive-ness of this business, a happy-to-help Ezekiel tried to possess Constantine and if one has been paying attention, the result would be as clear as the distilled water used for the "boiling a frog to make an idiotic point" experiment.

A few weeks later, the demon tracking Deaf Leopard and now behind Constantine, Ramirez, realized that Ezekiel would not get out. Constantine had to die if Ezekiel was to ever come out. So, he too tried to possess Constantine. Strike 2. Demons 0-2 Humans. 9th innings. Can the Demons make a stunning comeback to win the Super Series?

FAQ time: One asks, "Does Ezekiel ever try to get out like that Ramirez does?" Well, Mister one, no. He wants to change Constantine.


"Personality? Mine? How about we talk about yours while I go sleep there."
"Overwhelming sorrow now absorbs me as the pen begins to trace my darkest past. Signs throughout my life that should have warned me of all the wrongs I've done for which I must repent. Bow before me god, and perhaps your wishes may come true."

Constantine's mental state is like clay, infinitely malleable. This is because his father made every decision for him. He does know what is right and what is wrong anymore; he never did. He merely follows his father's, now Abe's, words, requests and orders. His father realized that generalizing something would be bad, like "All XYZ are bad." otherwise Constantine would go on a murderous rampage against XYZ. As a by-product of this, he neither judges anyone nor has any stereotypical beliefs.

Luckily for humanity, he was told to be good with everyone. Constantine is a kind, helpful and merciful person. But like his father, he does find happiness in the misery of others, but rarely shows it. So, if you go to him, say, "Bad things happeneth to me," and find him with a slight smile, it is not a "it's okay" face; it is a "Hehe" face. His job in the church gives him enough opportunity to be sadistic than having to create some misery on his own. So, never will you see him go on a random rampage.

Consider him a loaded sniper rifle, but with a twist. Instead of one trigger, there are five. One allows you to kill your target, the other four will cause the gun to explode in your face. And you don't which is the correct trigger. Caution when giving orders is advised. But, this description is only for Abe. He will never anyone else unless Abe wishes so; probably, not even then.

But, rarely will anyone interact with the real Constantine. And since, personality shown depends on who is controlling the body at the time, it is only fair we talk about Ramirez and Ezekiel.

Ramirez and Ezekiel

ImageRamirez is a failure as a demon, or "corrupted by the disgusting Midgard" as he'd put it. Doing evil deeds is not his strong point, much like Ezekiel; unlike him though, Ramirez is not a failure because he is good but because he is not bad enough. In the sense of having a drinking problem, being extra sleazy or acting like douchebaggle, he can be called bad. But, in the sense of evil overlord Hitler-esque crime commiting then laughing maniacally while stroking evil white fluffy cute :3 kitty and ordering the death of the brave, sexy usually whiteheroes? No. What I'm saying is that if he went to Hell's Got Talent, Satan wouldn't be too proud of his fellow Hell-ian.

Ramirez is your Chihuahua that barks like a German Shepherd. He is aggressive when he sees the opportunity; he will also be domineering, excessive, cold-hearted as when he feels he can get away with it. He is Braveheart without being brave or having a heart. He's the child of the Damned, without being a child or being damned (mostly). He is a rubber ball masquerading as an iron maiden. He is a cute little doggy masquerading as a evil white fluffy cute :3 kitty. He likes to say he is the Phantom of the Opera but seriously, Phantom of the Opera was awesome and it was not Ramirez.

Where he comes from there was no drinking and it was only after coming here after been assigned the job of killing
Ezekiel (oh how much he pleaded for the job, lowering his already LOW reputation among fellow demons) did he taste beer for the first time. And like all first-timers, he was hooked. Getting addicted to shiz is quite an easy task for our dear Ramirez and he has, over the years here, developed quite a liking to a lot of things. Be it the coffee served by that dude on the corner of 1st and Amistad or the kebab served by that old Afghani immigrant just outside Chinatown. This used to be before he tried to capture Constantine's body (He thought by possessing the same body as Ezekiel, the body will die faster forcing Ezekiel to come out so Ramirez can kill him. Oh well, that worked out as planned.). Now, his urges are not that strong. Possibly, an after-effect of his lack of getting to do these things. Maybe, he has realized that it is not important to have a beer or eat that scrumptious kebab. Or maybe, he will explode if he is stopped any longer.

Ramirez, as you can guess, is weak willed. In his true form, he will be able to beat Constantine one-on-one but he is easily intimidated. He also does not harbor any ill will against anyone for long. Of course as long you keep insulting and deriding him
(I'm talking to you, his fellow demons. Shame on you.), he will hate you. He will create extremely intricate plans to destroy you, to make sure you burn in Hell for eternity "like the vermin you are", but will never act on them because he knows if you find out, you will beat his ass.

As one can correctly guess, peer pressure is the answer (to what you ask? How exactly did you guess then? Sigh, fools. To "why is he a douchebaggle?", it is the correct reply.). He always wanted to be like those awesome jock demons but never had the skills to do anything. He--"I don't know what shiz he written about me, but they all lies. I'm awesome and that's all you need to know."

ImageEzekiel is also a failure as a demon (what the hell, Hell. Do you send all your failures here? No wonder life is illogical.). He is a good demon or at least, good in some ways. He too like Ramirez has a problem being evil. He has lived most of his adult life on Earth and has realized chaotic nature is not the true form of anyone. He is more at peace with himself and has traveled the Earth trying to help people (that is, before he decide to posses the Constantine.). You want teh proof? Well, the dude he had assumed direct control (harbinger-style) of went from being "Lil' Wayne bad" to "Tupac Shakur bad". Much more loved, yet still bad in most eyes.

He is kind and gentle to some extent. After that extent is crossed, he is just as ruthless as any who wants to see his vision of the world coming true. People who are good are noticing the real person behind the mask we wear daily will smell superiority complex and distaste for actually good people. He wants people to be bad so he can change them. He wants you to try and kill that man so he can come in at the last minute and save that dude and then explain to you, nicely, why what you are doing is not cool. He wants to worship him after that, but he will politely decline your feet-kissing. While he does love being showered with attention, for some reason he shuns it (Social Anxiety Disorder?).

In times of normalcy, when nothing is happening and the people are just chilling out, he does get agitated. "Why aren't they doing anything?" he asks. But he will never willingly get anyone in trouble or cause any problems. He is too scared to get caught. If he sees an old lady, he will help her cross the road even if they are in the middle of freaking nowhere, in front of a one-lane road, them the only two souls for miles. But even if only with a slight push his help would be needed, he won't do it.

Ezekiel loves symmetry. Not even he knows why but for some reason, symmetry excites him. He is not as excited about symmetry as Death the Kid and hate for asymmetry does not exist in him, but still. "Left be right, up be down, front be back, smile be frown."

While Ezekiel may love bad people and hate good people, he absolutely has not respect for those who will not change their bad ways. Demons and Werewolves, he gives absolutely no shit about. He will ignore them. Sometimes, he does acknowledge the existence of some werewolves, if only to laugh "at their pitiful existence". Ramirez is not included in this "to-ignore" list; fighting between these two is not uncommon. Usually results in
Ramirez backing off, because after all, Ezekiel is elder to him by about a hundred and thirty years.

So imagine a normal schoolyard basketball court. Some guys are playing while some are on the stands, if you can call it that. Do you see that guy sitting quietly on the top of the stands that the girls some benches below keep looking at and giggling? That's the real Constantine; mysterious and creepy till you talk to him (just creepy afterwards). Do you see that a-okay basketball player who spends more time flirting with the ladies, trying to look cool, instead of playing? That's Ramirez. Do you see that guy near the baskets who could be a good player if he plays but he is only there because he is friends with the players? That's Ezekiel.

FAQ time:
Q:Is there anything common between them?
Answer: Indeed, indeed. Neither of will give a straight answer, even if they are in dire straights (gawd). Ramirez's answers are always lewd-ish, while Ezekiel's answer depend on what book he has read that week. If he read Stephen King, he will like how he did in the Complexion section. Right now, he is reading "Lemmywings: A Trial of Worthlessness" so his speech will be more arrogant and unclear, like the Hair and Eyes section.
Q: Shouldn't this be in the Temperament section?
A: Shut up, Thor.

Speech: The real Constantine is well mannered. Lying, abusing, swearing doesn't come naturally to him. Hey, just because Constantine's father was an absolute lunatic doesn't mean he wasn't perfectly gentlemanly. After copying him, to a terrifying extent, Constantine has become the man he is today. Ramirez, however, does have problems with controlling his urges to talk back, insult and be lewd. Ezekiel is just as well mannered as Constantine, some of the time.

Pet Peeves: Ramirez has a bunch of pet peeves. He hates people who always sniffle and people that interrupt him when he is telling a story, especially if they continue to tell him their story and then ask him in an uninterested tone to continue on with his story when they are finished talking. He'll start picking apart their stories when they do that. Ezekiel really hates women, or men, who use a lot perfume, or deodorant.


Even with money troubles brewing (a loan shark came one day. Got his ass beat), he has managed to spend some money to buy a car. It is a second hand 1970 Chrysler 300-Hurst hardtop coupe.

It was sold to him at a low price by the widow of a man he killed because she wanted everything of his to leave her presence. 1970s was the age of the muscle cars and this Chrysler is quite high on the best list. At first it gave him trouble but after a costly engine change, it was rearing to go.

In its cabinet lie two pistols, a CZ 95b and a Beretta 92FS, both 9mm. It also contains paper and pack of condoms and cigarettes. One special thing about the car is that it has a special hiding place between the underside of the car and the carpet of the floor (that guy Constantine was sneaky bastard, using this hiding place to sell at sorts of things.) It now contains an AK-47 and a M4A1 Carbine with sufficient ammo.

He has a tool belt which he keeps in small trunk like appendage at the back of the car. And of course, he has a pager.


ImageFavorite color: Ramirez, after a brief attempt at stalling you with retarded comebacks, will say black if he thinks you are possessed by a demon who is testing him. Otherwise it is red. For Ezekiel it is blue, symbolizing for him the peace after he has stopped a man from doing something bad. Yes, they both have a liking for black, but it is exclusive to clothes (and hair color of women, for Ramirez.)

Hobbies: By this time you may have already guessed what Ramirez likes to do. No? Anything and everything really. His normal behavior towards new things (that catch his eye) following this route: discovery, addiction, obsession, disinterest. That "dressing sense" thing I was talking about? That is in the addiction stage right now. Ya... obsession is yet to make its appearance (Republicans hath no idiocy like a Ramirez let loose.).

He has had a lot of hobbies over the eighty years he has spent on Earth. Collecting stamps, coins, tickets, buttons; knitting, drawing and singing are just some of them. For him it is quite easy to gain and loose of hobbies, so to say. (He once used to collect bottle caps. When obsession time arrived he possessed a worker at the Coca Cola factory and stole bottle caps even before they were used, and by the thousands.He is the main supplier of bottle caps to team Rocket.)

Ezekiel loves being the man everyone would turn to in times of despair. His hobbies show that love. He is a frequent vigilante (with at least four people he possessed.), rescue worker, volunteer to save the kitty and social worker. His favorite pastime is finding people to help.

  • Whatever he is currently addicted to.
  • Ezekiel. But he will deny it and hate you if you ask him.
  • Women; beer; cars to some extent; slapping people in the face a shouting, “Yo faaace!”; sex; 1984 (only because of the ending); Mafia and Yakuza and Pulp fiction; sleeping; thinking of good comebacks (he is not good at this and usually only manages to leave himself open for a soul destroying comeback.)
  • money
  • power

  • Helping people.
  • Bad people.
  • Reading books of all kinds. Romance preferred.
  • just like all demons, he fancies women, drug, sex and such.

  • anything he was addicted to.
  • Everyone who can see through his mask of aggressive and are not intimidated.
  • women with colorful hair (--smells of a relation gone sour--)
  • The way Ezekiel talks now, after reading the book Lemmywings.
  • Ramirez, because he is a demon.
  • money and power; however he tries, these things distract him from his true purpose.
  • Good people.
  • Werewolves.
  • bad people who won't change.

ImageFears: Ramirez's greatest fear is failing his mission and then being the butt of all jokes (more than he is now. "Hey look! There goes Ramirez the pansy. Pansy boy! Pansy boy! Can't even kill a man properly!"). He will also be removed from the Brotherhood of Evil as they call themselves. The biggest problem is that if kills Ezekiel then he will become the least evil demon.

For Ezekiel and goths, for different reasons, it is the one that makes normal people happy: utopia. No, not Utopia, that gym with the cruel, sexist, pervert trainer; utopia. Utopia (not the gym) do not scare him to the point of allowing people to use that to abuse, but still he is scared some Batman-Jesus may come along and ruin everything.

Homeland: "I'm from your lover's mother's womb--smirk--"
"Shut up, smarty-pants."

Constantine is from a small mid-western town but his father and he shifted just weeks after he was born. To New York.

Day job: Constantine works at a church on the outskirts of New York (no Mr.Alien-who-wants-to-take-over-Earth, anything outside Manhattan does not qualify as outskirts. Now will you stop ruining Manhattan? The rest of New York feels abandoned.)

General Agenda: Constantine's father said, "Son, this man will guide you from now on. Call him Ebenezer."
Ramirez is like your generic anime heroes, be it Luffy, Naruto or Ash. He wants to be the best, or rather worst, demon. And he wants his third grade bully and now Jock of the demonic world, Albert Einstein, to apologize to him. "After he apologizes, I'll takes his girlfriend, his house, -an hour later- his nail-cutter, his other pink handkerchief..."
Ezekiel has this vision of the world. A dystopia where he is the boss T H E B O S S .

What keeps you a Monster?: Constantine's inability to judge right or wrong and his inability to make a decision for himself are the major contributing factors that keep him a monster. also, he is like the big brother of Sade so he likes doing these things.

Ramirez and Ezekiel are monsters.
Ramirez's general agenda keeps him a monster whereas Ezekiel's way of going about things and his vision for the world keep a monster. Also, biology.

Notable experiences since then: "Since when?"

Opinion of Others: Ramirez
Vampires: "Blood sucking ugly, doofuses who don't understand that when I say, 'Nothing, babe,' I was actually thinking of nothing."
Werewolves: "Bullies. Why don't they pick someone their size? 'Cause they scared."
Demons: "My idiotic brothers and lovers."
Witches: Towards the younger witches, he is openly and unashamedly flirtatious, "Mm-Hmm, you got a fiiiinnneee arse." Once upon a time he used to say, "Your ass, my lap," but Ezekiel butted in with, "Don't crap." Ramirez has never been angrier.
When talking about the older witches, he likes to keep his opinions to himself, because he is scared. But of course, he will deny that, like the celebrity representative that he is.
Ezekiel: "That lard-ass..."
Abe: "Abe. That's a dumb name... Oh, you mean Mister Ebenezer. Right, right... no comments."

Vampires: "Their perpetual lust for the red life-force excite me, tingles my very bones. Possess when I one, cured for his thirst he will be."
Werewolves: Ignored to some extent.
Demons: Ignored to some extent.
Witches: "Their lack of eternal beauty confounds me. Slaves of fetishes, with their warped mind and their appalling deformed bodies."
Ramirez: "That nefarious miscreant..."
Abe: "A being of infinite power, infinite evil, yet an old soul[sic]. When he dies, the world be poorer[sic] of changeable[sic] malleable[sic] evil."

Criminal Record: "Once, when boredom took over me, through his memories I went. No affairs with the police."

Etc:: "I'm sexy."
"Right, right. No one believes that."
"Your mom did, yesterday, when we did the deed." Smirks.
"So you're a necrophiliac? No wonder all the demons hate you. You can only do the deeddead."
"I hate you."

Specialty: He is a jack of all trades, except in the field of computers and marksmanship. Computers and its applications go over all three 'heads' whereas his marksmanship is in the league Hrachya Petikyan, gold medalist at the 1992 Olympics.

The supernatural: Constantine was told about the existence of the supernatural beings by his dad. His father said, "Dear son, in times like these one must know about everything science can and cannot prove. There are beings out there, beings like us. Anybody could be one of them, like your friend James is." He then proceeded to tell Constantine about everything from Vampires Werewolves to Leprechauns and Godzilla. Unfortunately, his father does not know which were real and which weren't. ("Leprechauns are fo' realsies!")

His first encounter with supernatural being was the Angels and Demons incident. He knows a few things about them (a scared Ramirez was the culprit).

Ezekiel knows everything there is to know about these supernatural.

Social Standing: Being a man of religion and science, of kindness, of mercy, of love, he is loved by one and all. But it wasn't always like this.
When he was smaller, he was teased by the other child because they thought he was a retard. The elders thought he was some mute deaf freako. One night his father asked him how school went. He told his father, in a serious tone, how people called him names and laughed at him; not complaining, just informing.

Right then, Edward knew that Constantine would stick out like a sore thumb if manners and etiquette weren't taught to him. And so he did just that. From then, he seemed more friendly, instead the creepy look he had before. As he grew up, people accepted him even if they thought he was from some different planet. By the time he was asked to help in the church at the age of sixteen, he was a respected person.

Even strangers have been amazed at how nice he is to them. Once a woman came to him for help. Said her ex was troubling her. Some days later her ex apologized to her! While most other church members would have followed protocol and asked her to go to the police, he went and threatened, in a very nice calm sweet voice, the man. He said to the man, "Please do not trouble her." When the ex had some problems with agreeing, out came ("If the bad guys don't listen, right hook") a right hook. The man is now living a nice quiet life in Colorado (The woman does not know Constantine helped her. She just has one apology letter and an extra pound of fat from the chocolate box).

Social Stealth: Very few outside of his neighbors and Ebenezer's men know of him. And if they know him, they don't know him. If the authority gets to know how he disposes, there will be hell for him. Of course, they will find any proof, so let us not worry about that. Also, no one will believe him that there are three souls in his body, if he never decides to reveal that.

1) Ba-bang!: It has been told that no man can hit a target 20 meters away while both are running, unless he is Dirty Harry. While Dirty Harry is no Constantine Constantine is no Dirty Harry, Constantine does know a tricks and the trade, for example, ducking and delivery. Before Ezekiel came along, his shooting was much more haphazard. Out of ten bullets perhaps three or four would hit the small ring at the center of the dummy's face; most would be near the edge of the plastic cut-out. Not bad for someone who does bother using guns, but not good considering in real life, the target would not just stand there, waiting for Constantine to put him out of his misery. He would be running, jumping, hiding and shooting.

Then came along Ezekiel, who had acquired his marksmanship skills from the four atrocious killer and that sniper. Now, when Ezekiel is controlling the boat, five or six go through the bull's eye (still not Dirty Harry enough).

2) Yoda: Constantine, never one to be distracted by stuff like playing outside, making friends, or partying, found himself with a lot of free time. "What now, father?" he asked after his training for the day had finished. Whiskey in his hand, television on, cigar in his mouth, said Edward, "Go read something."

So, Constantine read. From reading he realized that leaving the body behind would get him into trouble (Thank You crime fiction writers!). He knows a few thing about computers and medicine, enough to know why the computer has stopped working or why his dad is coughing up blood after every cigar.

Ezekiel and Ramirez, being old (200+ and 80+ years old, respectively), know a lot about supernaturals. They know how to anger a witch (lmao @ your fetish), how to keep werewolves away (dog whistles, pepper spray, axe to a bottle of Axe, etc), how to dance, etc. So, knowledge Constantine is surely (Constantine is not ready to believe that when his father said that vampires have no reflections on the mirror, he was wrong).

3) Mac Guffin?: Stemming from his habit of reading books, his training (which included a special course on how to act like a repairman) and the skill improvement that Ezekiel and Ramirez brought to the table, comes his ability to be the Jack of most trades. Though asking him to be the best repairman ever would not work because he didn't hours everyday for that, he can do fine enough job. Consider him Ezio Auditore (who is a fighter+rogue+archer+shooter+demo-man+free-running-enthusiast+playboy+tower-defense-master. Possibly an assassin too, though that is just a rumor).

4) Hannibal: No, not talking about how senseless Ramirez is. Talking about how death and gore has no effect on Constantine. Whether it was watching snuff films with his dad or the lack of most emotions normal people possess or his latent sadistic behavior, one would never know. You wouldn't see him turning away from a Saw movie or the likes; not even a blink.

5) Good or sad: Much for the same reasons as his de-sensitivity towards death and gore, he has no moral compass. It's not like he won't save someone from being mugged, but he only does his father says he should do, not because it is the right thing to do. And to, he waits for some time, enjoy the scene before running the attacker(s). But after Ramirez and Ezekiel possessed him, very rarely does Constantine bother to help anyone (Ramirez is scared he might into trouble, Ezekiel feels until the attacker knifes or shoot the victim, the crime is not crime enough).

1) I'm tired: Even with his increased abilities, his loyalty towards Ebenezer, his strengths, Constantine's body feels the stress. He may nearly as fit as he was some years ago, but he does not as much stamina. Before he was like a horse, fast and untiring. Now he is more like a Cheetah, faster but more tiring. Sooner or later, it will start to affect his abilities.

2) This is mine! No, this is mine!: Since there are three souls, it sets the stage for some infighting. Each souls wants complete control but none of them have. Sometimes Constantine may even phase out, like Cullen from The Last Stand, while the souls try to gain more ground. Has happened to him twice before, once during a mission. It does not last long, perhaps a few seconds but still. Even if all three souls want to live together, the souls subconsciously will still fight.

3) Ebenezer: Simply said, his complete loyalty towards Ebenezer can cause him troubles. If Ebenezer says, "If you kill yourself, god will be happy," that will be the end of Constantine.

4) Ramirez's distractions While right now he is not addicted to anything (except perhaps wearing new clothes), when he does get addicted be assured that problems will start. He might even manage to gain control of Constantine. He is like that weak ally that you used keep on your side because he can become a very dangerous enemy.

5) Right or wrong?: Not one of them knows what is right and what is wrong, sort of. For Constantine, if his father or Ebenezer said it is wrong or right, it is wrong or right, respectively. For Ramirez whatever he feels is right or wrong, is right or wrong for him. And for Ezekiel, right is wrong and wrong is right if it is wrong enough (it is complicated).


So begins...

Constantine Augustus Meyac's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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Your employer, kindly benefactor, and all-around fatherly figure. You've never seen his face, unless you count the Benjamins (or Queen Elizabeths or whoever mars your currency with their sagely visage).

Folks openly professed to be in cahoots with old Abe, most notably mission guides. The guides grade performance, all in all acting as a pair of eyes away from home. The helpfulness and openness of allies range, however--not all of them will like being useful. You very probably can't kill them without a severe cut in the salary.

Folks openly against Ebenezer or his friends, and likely wanted dead for the effort. Poor jerks. You can try to talk to them, because they will have more to say than regular enemies, but ultimately you cannot go home and do your laundry until you've killed them.

Alliance unknown for these NPCs! They could be smallfry enemies, or they could vaguely want to further your cause.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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#, as written by Deallo
The windows were let down a bit to let the night air rush into the speeding car. Loud salsa music escaped the radio and blared outside of the confines of the powder blue Ford sedan, going 90km/h with no signs of slowing down in sight. Observers who might've caught a glimpse at the speeding vehicle would've thought it belonged to some young reckless driver who just got their license or a thief who might've stolen the car. Of course, they were wrong.

It was the driving of an elderly woman who was all the more glad to be alive and free.

Not the "I'm glad I woke up today" alive either, like some spry elderly gentlemen, but the "I'm glad I didn't get in the shot in the face" alive that criminals often face in a day to day basis. It was because of Ebenezer, even if by accident, that she's managed to get behind the wheel of a car instead of shot, liquified, dumped, and forgotten. Driving was also a joy she enjoyed too much. Back in Mexico, everything needed discretion, driving was off-limits unless the police were a little too close for comfort and an operation needed to be evacuated. Now, she drive free and fast, the way driving was meant to be. Annabelle couldn't understand how people drove so slowly like they were scared. Excruciatingly painful is what it must feel like to drive slow. There was no rush, no excitement, from being able to take control of a strong speed machine, and just using it to trot along the roads. It needed to gallop, speed down the roads, as cars were meant to.

If only it wasn't so dangerous; everyone would've been doing it. Police would've chased her if there were more patrols that night but as luck would behold there wasn't any that had met her. She swerved around cars and turned, nearly running over a young man who was running across the street to get to a bank, cutting off a taxi, scratching it's side, the blue paint scratching off the bumper. As Annabelle was driving away, she noticed the taxi was either following her trail, or going the same direction as her. Obscenities were shouted from the drivers side of the taxi but she was going too fast and was too far to listen in. She eyed the taxi in the rear view mirror, seemingly speeding up behind her, pupils flashing back and forth to the front of the road then to the yellow car.

Seconds were passing away before beads of sweat started forming on her aged forehead and her teeth started to lightly bite her lower lip. Suddenly a loud screeching pierced the air, the smell of burnt rubber crinkling any nearby nose, powder blue Ford sedan ducking into an alley and out the other side. Annabelle turned off the radio and made a few more turns to make sure the taxi didn't follow her. The paranoia instilled in her from years of working with The Cartel were satiated as the taxi was nowhere in sight.

The docks were now in sight but the car was in no speed near stopping. Headlights illuminated the three figures and for a brief moment; seemed like it was destined to run them over at top speeds until the brakes were slammed. The screeching was enough to pain the ears and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. The engine hummed for a moment, headlights illuminating everyone on the docks before the ignition key was turned and pulled. Annabelle took a deep breath and checked herself, padding the Kevlar jacket, and her husbands black trench coat she had on. There were four pockets inside the coat, two on each side, and each had a revolver. Her prized M1 was in a shoulder holster, seeing as how much work she put into it, it was worth it to at least buy a proper holster for it. She brought her white purse along and had it hang in her right hand; not for stylish purposes but just in case anything happened, she could make a quick grab for the M1, which would take one solid movement.

Despite Ebenezer's kindness; paranoia was still creeping up. Rightfully so, at that.

She exited the car door and slammed it behind her before she opened up the back door, the cold bite of the wind rushing over her. "Darn it." Ana silently cursed herself, spotting the luggage bag containing the rest of her equipment trapped under the back seat, where she'd have to force it out.

Her head twisted, spotting the solitary individual on the dock, and moved towards him. Annabelle did look rather odd, suiting black dress pants, a blue Hawaiian shirt with a Kevlar jacket underneath and a trenchcoat. Almost as odd as the man, who at this distance, could see he was sitting on a crate.

In any regular circumstances, she would've tried to pull out the bag herself had it not been filled with munitions and weighed heavily. The Texan didn't see it fit to bother the couple either; as it would've been very rude. She smiled sweetly at the strange man before she spoke to him.

"Excuse me dear but can you help me? One of my bags is stuck in the backseat of the car and I can't seem to get it out. If only a strong man could help me..." Annabelle said, waiting for either him to help her, or wave her away...but right arm was precariously up, holding the purse by the forearm, and across the M1 in case she was speaking to some crazy man.

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Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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The Constantine Problem

5 Days earlier.

"Who the fuck calls people at fucking ten in the morning?! Don't you have any fucking better thing to fucking do?!"
Silence. It was if the caller was trying to calm themselves down. "Son." Just one word. A familiar voice; calm and deep, like a seasoned badass movie anti-hero. It was Ebenezer.
Silence; as if the receiver had involuntarily shit his pants. "..... How may I--we--I, help you today Abe?"
"Be at the indiscriminate Docks in 5 days... say ten, ten-thirty in the night? Be prepared to spend a little over three days on a ship... I hope you like boats."
"Sure, boss... For my earlier outburst, I would like t-"
Do you want a shotgun?

Near the Indiscriminate Docks. 10:10 pm.

This is fucking stupid. There's nobody here. What a waste of my time. What was that old grouch thinking? What, did he intend to knock unconscious and then ship us? He did say in the dock, not near the docks. Constantine had reached here just a few moments ago. Three days on a boat for work reasons meant only one thing, no good-looking women.

The dock is a mother whose children are ships. She feeds them fuel and crates of food. She helps them when times are bad. When it is raining outside, she will shelter them. She is more like a whore with unwanted children and a tendency to smuggle in illegal little human whores.

The wind howled with a ferocity that would make a wolf cower in the corner and cover his ears. He did wear a coat, brown and over-sized, but still it felt like how dead bodies and dying men must have felt in the deep freezer. A few minutes later, the wind slowed down and when a husky voice shouted, "Gette fick outta mecaar," Constantine reluctantly got out.

"Me moneh, fuckerr!" shouted the man. Constantine got to the back and opened the trunk. A large bag exploded onto Constantine's arms, clearly stuffed in the trunk with all the might the cab driver possessed. "Me moneh, muddercunder!" shouted the man stepping out of the front seat. Constantine sighed. He hated these kind of men; men who would never stop being bad and abusive, much like the bastard demons or the bastard werewolves.

He removed a stick of bills, about two thousand dollars. It was given to him by one of Abe's men some time ago. Either, a gift for a work well done, or, more likely, a "stay the hell away from us for a while" present. But before he could remove a hundred dollar bill to give the man, he felt cold metal on the back of his head. Greedy human...

"Oll! I want oll!" the man wanted to shout but it was only a whimper. The last thing the man'd want to do would be to alert everyone in the vicinity that he was robbing a man.

Just give him the fucking money. We need to go on a boat and we don't fucking need any money. Unless there is a casino... Constantine turned around looked at the man. The man looked like he was in his late forties but then again, with the crappy job and most likely ten children and a nagging wife that he had to feed, he could be twenty. He had a scar that ran from his chin to the edge of the blue turtleneck he wore.

He didn't have slits for eyes, as most people imagined anyone east of India did. He wore a half-torn pant and sandals. Constantine had read in the newspaper how all Asian were corrupt bastards wanting to steal the freedom and humanity and pride and what not of the Americans. Perhaps, if these people were more like what the bloody newspapers said they'd be, he'd have more fun here...

For a moment he imagined what the life of such a man would be. A crappy apartment in Crappiville, a wife who he forces to stay in the kitchen and then shout at for being such a money wasting bitch. Ten little fuckers, born out of the sexual needs of a poor fucker fucking a poor woman shunned by her family for not being a man, screaming and running around the house and then wondering why their father hates and hits them. Constantine wondered if he could get the man to commit suicide. That'd increase his repertoire in the demon world...

This man would not shoot; not today, not in a million years. If he had any intentions, he would have hit the gun at the back of Constantine's head a long time ago. He was a scared little opportunist, and a bad one at that. One who didn't know who he stood before. And worse, one who didn't know that his gun's safety lock was still on. Greedy and stupid. How much am I reminded of politicians and army generals. Like people, like representatives, I guess.

Constantine wasn't making a move and it looked like the man had frozen, unsure of what to do next. Most people would have given the money. But then again most people didn't carry AK-47s in their bag and didn't kill for money; most people's lives were boring and dull.

The cold was coming back, this time like someone was stabbing Constantine with an ice pick, made of ice. "Don't we all want more money?" A small smile developed. The man started sweating, an amazing feat of pure insecurity. Constantine's next statement came merely after a second of pausing, yet it seemed like an eternity had passed. Was it tension, or as Einstein put it, boredom?

"Here is a hundred dollars. Take either that or a right hook." The man waited too long to answer and Constantine swung his arm. Instinctively, the man dropped his gun to save his face (no pun intended), proving that the man had no idea how to use a gun, or to take a stand. The arm swiped across the air. One could describe it as a train rushing at a soon-to-be-dead man at top speed, or a cheetah nearing a prey, who didn't know that its end is nigh. The man's hands were too weak to gain enough acceleration. They did not reach his face in time and the train crashed into his face.

Time may have stood still, but the man did not. In an instant, he leaped to the ground, unable to open his mouth to even wail. "Have that, you little fuck!"Constantine pushed a hundred dollar bill into the man's pocket and spoke slowly, "Be good and don't complain." It wasn't like the man wouldn't spend the money on prostitutes and booze, but at least he helped the pimps get some money.

Constantine turned towards the road near which the man had parked his car. They were a few hundred feet from where they had to be. Constantine strung the bag over his shoulders. It was large, reaching his tailbone and wider than Constantine himself. He looked like those tea pickers of old, who carried a big basket who thrown the leaves in; except in the case of the tea pickers, their baskets did not weigh a million billion tons. Damn AK-47 and damn AK-47 ammo. Why can't someone else bring this stuff and inform Constantine so he wouldn't have to trudge an elephant who wants a piggy back ride.

But now that he thought about it, he didn't know who the others were. All he hoped that there weren't any irritating demons or werewolves around. That would just ruin everything. They weren't going on a fun boat ride, but it was somewhat of a vacation, however droll it would turn out. Constantine was lost in his thought when he took a step forward towards...

As he half-jumped backwards and tripped over the still-on-the-ground-ex-assailant, words shot out of his mouth, "Fucking watch where you are driving! So fucking nearly killed me!"

It was little blue Ford Sedan had nearly gained a hundred points for running down pedestrian like in that newfangled game the orphans play in the church-run orphanage, on the only computer there. Constantine had bought for himself, so that he could learn and understand the machine, which was touted to be the future. Two days later, donated.

A few more seconds passed. The other man on the scene didn't bother to move. He could move, Constantine knew that. Constantine's right hook wasn't that potent. The guy's gun lay near Constantine... So nearly he had forgotten about it and turned his back towards the man. Just because he didn't have courage when he was face-to-face didn't mean he wouldn't shoot in the back. It didn't matter though. Constantine's hand moved skillfully through the air, like a stereotypical always-knitting grandma's, and seconds later, the magazine out of the gun and in his pocket.

He stood up, brushed off the dirt, picked up his bag and started moving. Five minutes later, he was at the docks.

A minute of walking in and out of the lights of the badly lit dock, and Constantine reached a bunch of people. They were so very out of place, much like Constantine. They looked like fans in a Metallica concert after Metallica went rock and global. They looked like bunch of travelers, travelling to an exotic place; a group of tourists who pooled in their money and then realized Myanmar was more anti-outsiders than the Soviet Union. If they had been dogs, they would look like participants of an international Dog show. If they were parrots, then Constantine might as well be a budgerigar. Of course, all this imagery failed when Constantine envisioned the old lady to be a part of the group. Surely not...

He walked up to them when the skinny Macaw chirped. "
"Yooo, guys! Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?"

Definitely a macaw...

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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“If I threw something in the water, would you jump in, slick?”

Sallie's only regret about the present turn of events was that she hadn't gotten to make the statement herself—it was clever, and sounded like the sort of thing she might have come up with if she hadn't been so busy staring in reproachful confusion at the man who'd approached her. She'd never particularly been one to waste words on a disrespectful stranger, but now that she was going to be forced to work with this one, she wondered if this was perhaps a less than ideal course of action. Sallie rested her hand protectively on the gun at her hip, sincerely hopeful that she wouldn't have to use it this early in the game. With any luck, however, this newcomer would distract the would-be Casanova.

"You'd better take your business elsewhere, pal, or the stick you'll be fetching from God-knows-where will be your own," she thought to herself, but at the moment the urge to have the attention directed anywhere but herself overwhelmed her urge to be smug (which was a rare enough occurrence in and of itself), so she kept her mouth shut.

The newcomers were an interesting pair to say the least, both well-dressed and well-groomed. Dandies, Sallie wagered, though whether she meant in the innocuous traditional sense or the more accusatory modern presumption, she wasn't sure. Not that she was one to judge. The little one was only marginally taller than herself, and in total mass, might have been smaller (at least if Sallie wasn't taking a reality check on her own slight frame).

Conflict among their ill-matched group seemed inevitable, but she supposed someone had to step in to play the role of peacekeeper. Or at least handy distraction. She clutched the case awkwardly to her stomach and pulled herself up using one of the crates. "No need to get testy, boys. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks. Sallie Harris, former FBI. This charming gentleman," the sarcasm in her voice was heavy, "has already introduced himself, but we could start the round all over again if you'd like."

The man (who had turned out not to be a statue at all, though she was surprised to find that out) she'd sat down beneath had taken his leave of matters, which she supposed she envied him for; if it weren't for the case in her arms, Sallie might have offered to help the little old woman herself. Now she had to interact with these upstanding gentlemen (and Wolfgang, but she supposed he was an "upstanding" gentleman of a different sort, as long as the term "gentleman" was used sarcastically), and she hadn't had a smoke in over an hour.

Fumbling with her pocket, Sallie produced a lighter and an open pack of Marlboro red. "You boys mind if I smoke?" The cigarette was already drooping from the corner of her mouth as she spoke; it was more a warning than a courtesy, and if the gentlemen in question minded, well—there was a perfectly good body of water they could douse themselves in, she supposed. Right behind them, even.

Before she had a chance to light up, yet another new voice was added the conversation, this one calling out over the already-abandoned docks. "Yooo, guys! Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?" Sallie squinted in the direction of this new addition, a small woman who reminded her of the sorts of young women she went to college with, sans the slouching hat. Assuming Dorian Gray over there was joining their party as well, the rag-tag bunch appeared to be quite the crowd.

The realization that she would be spending a considerable amount of time in close quarters with this bunch didn't bring Sallie much joy. She lit the cigarette in her mouth and took a long, calming drag, replacing the lighter as she did so. She was even polite enough to aim away from the faces of the men surrounding her—one of them in particular might have taken the gesture as undue flirtation, and that was the last thing she wanted to encourage before what already promised to be a long and uncomfortable boat ride. "Ylaine," she said thoughtfully, giving a wave with her cigarette in hand. The tip brightened and flaked along with the gesture. "Name sounds familiar, but I'm drawing a blank."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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#, as written by Ezarael
Wolfgang „Wolf“ von Krieger

“If I threw something in the water, would you jump in, slick?”

Why did this sort of thing always occur when he was preoccupied with a woman? For some reason he was never able to pay attention to whatever else was going on around him if women were involved. In all actuality it would have been better had he not take his focus off of his intended target, but as they say, "The best laid plans of mice and men.” The woman seemed like a cold-fish anyway, so there probably wasn’t much ground lost to be honest.

The werewolf almost wished he had kept focused on anything else though, because as soon as he let the outside world back into his realm of attention his superior senses were assailed by a cacophony of sensations. The acrid smell of burning rubber, brake fluid, and dead flesh slammed into his nostrils like a brick whilst squealing brakes, chattering women, and obscenities from none too far off battered his ear drums. An old woman with a strange accent was inquiring for some assistance from the dangerous-smelling man, just another reason Wolfgang never wanted to live to a ripe old age, if he couldn’t take care of himself it was time to go.

There was too much to respond to, but first things first. The flowery one with the comments was first up on the list. He reeked of death as the rail-thin woman from earlier, which was simply awful. The German uneasily lifted himself from his seated position, using his right hand to lean against the crate for a few moments until he could regain his composure amidst the overpower stench in the air. The other man smelled of death as well, just great this was going to be an awful boat trip, he would definitely need to pay attention to which way the wind blew whilst on the ocean, and of course he was going to Captain the ship and whatever Abe said be damned.

After settling his knees enough to walk again Wolfgang waltzed his not so merry self towards the one who spoke up, pale and short like all but the one with the dark complexion. When he came within two feet of the tiny man he laid his left hand gingerly upon the other’s shoulder and bent forward to speak in his ear, not much of an easy feat given the putrid stench emanating from him. He spoke very quietly, barely louder than a whisper, he imagined this one might have extraordinary hearing such as his self and if the others did he did not necessarily want to start any trouble right off the bat. He did need to work with these people after all. “There’s a pair of large balls in my pants if you care to find out friend, otherwise let us keep the wise-cracking to a minimum, ja?”

With a hearty laugh and slap on the shoulder Wolfgang straightened himself and gazed upon the others gathering around so far. A strange bunch to be certain, and it seemed the rail-thin woman had something to say, or at least she looked like she did what with the standing up and what have you with a “keep the peace” kind of look plastered on her face. If only she knew he detested violence then she might not have wasted the precious air reminding them of the fact. "No need to get testy, boys. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks. Sallie Harris, former FBI. This charming gentleman," the sarcasm in her voice was heavy, "has already introduced himself, but we could start the round all over again if you'd like.”

“Ah, why ja definitely. How could I have forgotten my manners at a time like this? Wilkommen gentlemen! My name is Wolfgang von Krieger, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

Before he could even being his splendid self-introduction the toxic smell of a cigarette assaulted his delicate nose quickly after the FBI woman asked them quickly, "You boys mind if I smoke?" Wolfgang coughed lightly to clear his throat as the smoke coated his lungs without permission, sure she didn’t blow it straight at his face but that hardly mattered when you were dealing with senses as acute as his own. Two new figures caught his attention though, one in a good way and the other in a bad way.

"Yooo, guys! Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?"

Now THIS was right up his alley of expertise, or however the Americans put it. She was small, in all the right ways, blonde, and fairly attractive, plus she didn’t smell of death like three others he need not mention, which was definitely a plus in his book right now. The other man though, he seemed like a pretty boy and cocky as well, probably the man who was swearing earlier, he would definitely need to divert this Ylaine’s attention from this man’s general proximity. Not that he was competition or any nonsense like that, no one was competition for Wolfgang’s stunning combination of beauty and brains, but it was always a good idea to hedge your bets.

“Ylaine you said? What a beautiful name you have Liebschen!” As he started with his moves Wolfgang quickly walked up next to the pretty young Ylaine and draped his right arm around her shoulders, holding his left hand out towards the package grasped in her arms. “Are you in need of any assistance my dear? Ach mein Gott, I am so sorry, but proper etiquette slipped my mind after seeing you. My name is Wolfgang my dear, and I am both ashamed for Ebenezer and insulted by the fact he told me nothing of your coming here!”

While continuing on with his small speech, or whatever you might call it, the werewolf began slowing urging the woman away from the pretty boy newcomer and closer to the docks. “So my dear what are we gathered here for? I am eager to start with my first assignment, when do we leave?”

Looking back at the others in their motley crew Wolfgang put an earnest and somewhat stern look upon his face before speaking. “So are we ready, ja? Is this everyone or is it time to go? I’ll be piloting the boat, ja, so you should hurry before both Ylaine and I leave you behind!”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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Sable saw fit to open their acquaintance with this group by leveling a quip at the… werewolf. Yes, that certainly had to be what he was, if the large frame and scent of wet dog that lingered about his rather comparatively disheveled self were anything to go by. Of course, the last werewolf he’d met had informed him in no uncertain terms that while he was the cleanest vampire she’d ever met, he still smelled worse than that. Having grown up with it himself, he was bound to disagree.

He noted but did not specifically acknowledge the human man and the older lady he went to help, though he swore there was something just a touch familiar about that vehicle, which was of course impossible, since he had never in all of his extensive travel been to Myanmar before.

All was put from his mind anyway when the werewolf, who’d predictably taken machismo-laden offense to Sable’s commentary, placed a hand on his flatmate’s shoulder and loomed over him, his retort crude as Balthazar would have guessed, had anyone asked him to hazard an opinion. The annoyed hiss that escaped the Persian man’s teeth was barely-audible to human senses, but of course humans were a minority here, weren’t they? One side of his upper lip lifted, an almost involuntary sneer that flashed a pearlescent fang.

How entirely reprehensible, to use your size and physique to intimidate when you had been challenged on another level entirely. Perhaps his mind was inadequate to the task, but this in itself was no excuse.

Perhaps fortunately, the situation was dissolved a good deal more civilly with the intervention of the group’s third vampire, and Balthazar relaxed, smoothing his face out again before his display, subtle as it was when compared to the main event, became too obvious. He was not an emotive man as a rule, but certainly, those he kept closer than arms’ length, while few in number, were his most obvious triggers. He made it a point to give the woman a courteous half-bow. “FBI?” he repeated with some faint trace of amusement nearly imperceptible beneath his usual accented lilt. “I do some work with Interpol, myself. Balthazar Shirazi, at your service.”

This last was directed at the group, which by now seemed to contain all of its members, including three humans (though the more youthful of the two males seemed a tad…off somehow, but Balthazar was no expert in humanity, so he might well have been imagining it), the werewolf, and the three vampires. Interesting; he’d almost been expecting a witch or two, but then perhaps one of them was. No herb smells, though, but… a faint hint of metal? From the elderly woman, no less. If he was surprised by this, Balthazar chose not to show it.

He certainly did not mind the scent of cigarettes, as his father had been quite fond of Cuban cigars for much of Balthazar’s life, and those were considerably worse than their slimmer cousins. He noted Wolfgang (ah, but the irony of such an appellation- was it his birth one?) seemed uncomfortable, and supposed that was the trade-off for a nose better even than a vampire’s.

By the time that anyone else who wanted to make introductions had done so, there was a shout from not too far off, and Balthazar turned to see a young female approaching. This, already predictably, set the German hound to baying like a fool puppy, and he introduced himself for what must have been the third time.


His hastiness was even more problematic. “Only a fool runs headlong into a situation without understanding it,” Balthazar cut in with cool tones. “Miss Ylaine, Ebenezer was rather sparing with the details of our task. All we were told is that we were to escort someone or something somewhere, and that doing so involved travelling by boat. If there is any other information you would be willing to part with before we begin, I’m sure it would be most helpful.” He might have mentioned that Ebenezer hadn’t even mentioned her, but every species he'd ever encountered were alike enough in their desire to be important that he supposed this notion might be mildly offensive, so he tactfully omitted it.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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It's the little things that always counted. The irrelevant quips that sloughed from his flapping tongue before his fangs could rattle them to a close, and so Sable's mouth twitched into a slight smirk before trembling back into it's usual frown – clearly worried that this hulking menace would grab him by the throat and throttle him like a restless turkey, ringing his neck until he plopped across his feet like a broken marionette. He wasn't going to end up one of the man's dirty barbie dolls, if that was what he was thinking. It was never the big things that threw him off – always and only the little ones. The collar of his leather coat was pulled up to hug his slender neck and chin, and the dark circles under his eyes only revealed a fraction of how exhausted he actually was after such a long day. One his innards aren't panicky and his heart isn't thumping hollowly in his chest and spurred about so restlessly. His pulse ran sluggishly, as always.

Certainly, this werewolf was going to chase off all the women or earn himself a sharpened heel straight into his pelvic area, crushing all the important bits – if he pushed enough, if he spat enough slime at them like a tweed-suit wearing creep in A Night at the Roxbury. It wasn't difficult to picture him thrusting his hips, arms flailing fruitlessly as he crunched himself against several other bodies in an attempt to rid himself of whatever rapid hormones that ailed him. Thankfully, there weren't any appalling stenches that assailed his nose. It might've been because he, himself, smelled like death. The awkwardly soft smells of an open coffin or a room belonging solely to cleaned cadavers: grey flesh, dying molecules and a smattering of flavoured hand sanitizer. These were the scents that made up Sable's caricature: a dying fruit bowl, albeit without any swarms of fruit flies.

The muscles in Sable's arms immediately tensed, sending tendrils of dismay through his shoulder blades and biceps. It felt like pebbles had crept under his skin, pushing uncomfortably against his flesh and making them, quite, impossible to move. The larger German's fingers twitched, then he was suddenly moving away from the amalgamation of crates surrounding the woman he'd been smoothly attempting to accost. His eyes widened, quickly, then narrowed into sharp corners and angles. Had he ever had any altercations with the other group? Surely not. They'd treated him little more than a silly pup who hadn't learned his place but now – this creature, this mass of muscles, was stomping towards him as if he'd pulled his earlobes between pinched fingers. There wasn't anywhere to retreat to unless he wasn't to back in the ocean and plummet to it's depths, drowning in it's noticeably murky waters. It certainly looked dirty from where he was standing. The man's hand clamped down on his shoulder. He swore that if he'd wanted to crush his collarbone, he could've. It was in the subtle tension of the man's probing fingers, so gingerly, so softly depicting what could possibly happen.

Inadvertently leaning backwards, trying to disentangle the man's fingers from his person, Sable's mouth curled distastefully from the threatening whisper. “N-No need to get your panties in a bunch, I don't play fetch.” He threw his hands up, finally, defeated. He didn't want his head bashed in before the mission was complete – or really, at all. The vampire's composure shifted. It wasn't quite like a dog's whipping tail tucking between his legs, pressed against his abdomen, but it sure was close. This guy was the embodiment of flexing, muscle-pumping body builders. He could snap him like a twig if he so wished to, but more or less, Ebenezer would take the proper precautions, wouldn't he? He wouldn't let his only loving nephew be fed to the sharks, would he? “Wise-cracking. Minimum, got it.” His fingers, like thin harp strings, wiggled in front of his face as if he were making a solemn promise.

He'd already decided that Wolfgang was frightening even if he wasn't tearing his limbs into a mess of beef jerky. Sable laughed awkwardly when the werewolf slapped him across the shoulder, carrying himself as if nothing had truly occurred. “We will – be living side by side, that is.” Wolfgang von Krieger? If Ebenezer hadn't strictly told them that a werewolf was involved, then he wouldn't have noticed the faint smell of wet dog wafting from the man before him. He wasn't very perceptive to smells unless he was pressing his face into said article, which did not seem like a promising thing to do given Wolfgang's alternating moods. He took note of those who'd already introduced themselves and shuffled the names away with conventional, insatiably silly, words so that he'd remember them later. Nicknames were useful enough, so long as no one was testy enough to correct him. Sallie was all cigarettes and lipstick stains and something else that reminded him solely of business and piles of work sheets haphazardly strewn across the floor. Wolfgang – as he'd described before – reminded him of a large shaggy hound who'd mistakenly eaten steroids for the majority of his life. The older woman, who he'd been squinting at moments before, reminded him of that crazy coot who nearly drove them off the road. He didn't have experience for older lasses. He didn't have any dotting nannies cooking him blood cookies as a youngster, nor was he allowed to speak to any of his older ancestors unless he was spoken to: which, was clearly, not very often. The oddly grinning fellow had already bumbled forward with his offer to take the older woman's luggage, shuffling uncomfortably, while regarding the nannie's flashing gun barrel.

Another man entered the unusual scene, dressed purposefully well. If it hadn't been for the fact that this man had been invited by Ebenezer himself, then Sable would've guessed that he was a wayward model who'd lost his way and stumbled onto them, coincidentally. There was something off about him. He discarded his neurotic thoughts and shrugged his shoulders, offering a slight nod that seemed jerky, mechanical. He was still rattled. His plexiglass eye itched, so he knuckled it thoughtfully, glancing upwards until he caught sight, from the corner of his functional eye, of another woman who looked as if she'd missed the bus headed for a roller rink. Her optimism spilled over the brim of her cup. Sable couldn't help but flash a smile, waving a little more chipperly. Ebenezer hadn't mentioned who'd be guiding them, but he'd slipped out that, this time, it was a woman. She looked as if she sang off tune and didn't particularly care what she sounded like – it put him at ease. Optimism, optimism, optimism. Balthazar and Sable had little use of such things.

He shrugged, nonchalantly, when Sallie asked if anyone cared whether or not she smoked. Inevitably, even if anyone had any qualms, Sable doubted that she'd stub it out and respect their wishes. He didn't care either way. His lungs were feverish with poison and rot – what would a little tar and chemicals do to them? Absolutely nothing. After Balthazar had introduced himself with a quick, courteous bow, then Sable bobbed his head forward and added: “Sable Valante, or Mink.” Clearly, if anyone knew the mysterious phone-caller's last name, they'd know he was related to Ebenezer. Sadly, this fact never worked in his advantage. He was never treated any differently, anyway. His eyebrows flashed up, then sidled down when Wolfgang's eagerness to introduce himself to another woman, equipped with bouncing breasts, introduced herself. Honestly. Were all werewolves like this? Perhaps, there were reasons why Ebenezer hadn't told Wolfgang that there'd be women involved. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and promptly clinched it closed.

When hadn't Ebenezer left out all of the important details, allowing them to stumble forward and figure out things for themselves even if it meant attempting to scale rooftops and smashing your face, unpleasantly, against rotten shingles. Junctures of skin and bones and tepid memories. It was enough to say that ridicule did not spill from his pores, anymore. His attention turned back towards Balthazar – the one who'd always known just what to say, just how to press the wrinkles out of their conjunctive missions. There was nothing to add, so Sable merely slipped his hands into his pockets and waited for a better explanation.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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#, as written by Deallo
The gentlemen had an accent, one that Annabelle couldn't quite place, but agreed to help her out none the less. She mentally remarked how fast the foreigner ran to her car; like someone lit his bottom on fire. It was suspicious, even more since there was a hint of...fear? Was it fear in his steps? Or hesitation? The old lady took a deep breath, reminding herself to be mindful of her surroundings.

On that note, she finally noticed the commotion that was occurring beside her and finally understood what he was running away from. He was just like my daughter Mary, never liked confrontation, running with her tail between her legs at the first sight of it. Of course, Annabelle knew it wasn't kind to compare a fully grown man to her daughter when she was sixteen. The fight that was brewing seemed to be an almost stereotypical challenge the old lady saw too much of back in Texas. Two men fighting over a girl. The idea was something only men can think of: if a guy beats up a lady's boyfriend, she'll leave him, and go to the man who's stupid enough to throw punches in the first place.

The really stupid girls are the ones who actually go along with it.

It brought her back thirty-five years ago sitting in a bar, sipping on some beer, when two gentlemen she didn't know tried to court her. Neither had the eye to see the ring of a married woman placed ever so precariously on her left hand.

One of them was a tall, strong fellow, who dressed like he was going on vacation, wearing a ridiculous captain's hat. He reminded her of her son Ronnie, the running-back for the Houston Texans, and she was going to assume he was just as dumb until he started to laugh the situation off. Annabelle managed to crack a smile; surprised he saw a man who's muscles didn't crush his brain. The other two men had an air of professionalism about them, one who was as white as the ghost and had been the one issuing the challenge while the other one, which Annabelle was quick enough to assume, was Indian. Both of them were rather scrawny at first sight. It was rather odd how they came out of the same car, and both dressed alike in suits. For a moment, the old lady could have sworn she saw the white one of the two before...but she couldn't place her finger on it. Her mind was a bit busy trying to decipher the relationship between those two...were they..? Naaah.

Tossing aside the ridiculous notion, the gentlemen with her bag cam back, and just as she was going to think him, the final stranger appeared. A young looking lady who had her hair all bunched up like some of the black woman she saw in New York when she went on a "business" trip. On the other hand, she looked like one of the free-spirited hippies who'd protest in the front of the white house with those seashells stuck to her head. "Ylaine" her name was; an awkward name to say if Annabelle dared to read it from a list. Still, it was nice to see an enthusiastic face in here. The rest of the group started to introduce themselves, making it easier for Annabelle to distinguish people rather then using "he" "she" or possibly "the brown one". Everyone had relatively simple names, slightly relieved the Indian one had a name that was easy to say, arching an eyebrow at Wolfgang's too enthusiastic behavior.

She perked up as the small woman introduced herself as Sallie Harris; freaking FBI. Sallie...Sallie...

The name was too familiar. Annabelle knew she heard it before but where? Working with the cartel? FBI were a problem in her line of work but was it somewhere else? It only took a moment to realize she wasn't breathing; somehow forgetting to exhale. Former FBI. Former FBI she kept thinking to herself, steadily taking breaths. There was also another character, one who hadn't introduced himself yet, just looking at everyone. It was safe to say he was letting out creepy vibes. Annabelle turned to her attention to Ylaine; for her turn to introduce herself.

"Oh, it so nice to meet you dear. Ebenezer told me all about you-" He hadn't. "-oh, how rude of me, name's Annabelle, darling. I own a gun shop called 'The Silver Bullet' back in Texas." The old lady said cheerfully, omitting her illegal occupation and last name. Trust was something that needed to be earned; not given after all. Amongst all of the introductions, Annabelle completely forgot about the awkward gentlemen who went to grab her bags, leaving him holding about 30 lbs of metal.

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Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Silence. Silence. Silence. Outside, the cold wind was sliced by voices but inside? Silence.

What are you waiting for?... Come on! Say something… Oh, a werewolf…

The werewolf strutted about in the middle of the crowd. A werewolf… Ezekiel flushed with anger, his hand reaching in his pocket for the dog whistle. The dog whistle’s vibrations were supersonic; a human could not hear it, but a werewolf? Oh, they would feel the thunder. To their supersensitive ears, the dog whistle’s whistle felt like someone was using a jackhammer on their ears. The ultimate weapon, along with the pepper spray.

You are scared of him, aren’t you? Poor Ezekiel, scared of little puppy…
You’re yammering does never end, does it? Also, I remember you getting your ass kicked by a werewolf-
Hey! Will you stop rummaging through my memory, you freako!
And how exactly are you going to stop me? Do tell me. But before you do that, think for a few minutes. An hour will also work.

There were others here as well. An older man was near the edge of the group helping an old lady carry a large suitcase, much like what Ezekiel was carrying. Looking at the man carry the bag it looked like he shouldered humanity’s weight on his shoulders. What in the world did an old, possibly senile, woman need to carry… But more importantly, what in the world was this old woman doing in the dock? No… could she be travelling with me? What is Ebenezer thinking? It’s not like he’s giving us a cruise…

What is that old fart doing here? She’ll get killed.
And that affects you?

Except the chirping macaque, another woman graced the group with her presence; graced, until smoke spewed out of her lungs. Never one to care what habits his compatriots got them themselves, Ezekiel ignored what she said; till the words ‘F’, ‘B’, and ‘I’ ran out of her mouth in an order Ezekiel had never liked; FBI. If man like Ebenezer was now able to employ the services of an ex-FBI, Ezekiel deduced one thing; the FBI stopped following their ex-agents. When did they stop doing that? Well, makes my job easier.

She’s quite the looker…

Two other men stood together. One of them felt necessary to metaphorically burn the werewolf. Ezekiel wished to do the same to the werewolf, but literally. The other was nearly as clean as Constantine. He never did get why Ramirez wanted to be so squeaky clean. Ramirez’s obsessions were getting out of hand. The end of the world would be nigh if Ramirez would get addicted to killing. He wondered if Ramirez had already been addicted to killing. No, he wasn’t disinterested in killing so that was unlikely. Never imagined Ramirez would be a mystery.

The werewolf latched on to the macaque like a parasite to its victim, or like a vampire to its. Rage still ran amok in his mind. He really wanted to kill the hound. But before he did step forward to finish off the pest, he remembered the effect killing allies had on his pay and decided to, regretfully, handed over control to Ramirez.

Liberation! Man Ezekiel, I’m starting to love the werewolf already. Man, I hope he travels with us more often. I had fucking forgotten how much fun controlling someone’s body was. I feel like flying! Ramirez dropped the heavy bag on the floor and stretched a little. Every joint cracked in joyous celebration. He turned his attention from the brown man to the ex-FBI. mm hmm. Nananna, this will be fun. Fun, fun. Three days on a boat. Only me and you, mon amour. Oh yes, fun.

Unfortunately, the moment he took a step, two things happened. One, the werewolf pushed the macaque-esque woman towards the water. And two, Constantine’s hands moved and strung the bag across his chest. Noooo, give me back the bloody control! Come on, I was going to make a move on the beauty here. What the fuck are you fucking doing?! Hey, stop going away from the woman! The macaque is taken. Stop following the bloody werewolf, he doesn’t even know where he’s going! Come on!

No amount on anger management would help Ezekiel deal with his hatred of werewolves and there was no point in giving control over to Ramirez. In any case, Ramirez would have spouted a god awful pick up line, destroying any chances between him and the agent. Ezekiel realized that the faster things would get along the faster they would end (using some hopeful leap of faith logic) and the faster he could get away from the big hound.

But of course, things never went his way. The brown man decided to babble away, asking a futile question. Ezekiel counted to ten before continuing on his merry way. The woman with the werewolf could tell the details en route. Did the man really need some rousing speech? A briefing, perhaps? Also, it wasn’t like the moment they got on the boat, a firefight would greet them. Three days on a boat, Ebenezer, said; not thirty seconds. But most importantly, since when did Constantine work with others?

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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The notion of the large man in front of them having any semblance of manners might have, in another setting, caused Sallie to lose her metaphorical soup in uproarious laughter, or at least given her a decent snicker. Presently, she wasn't feeling so much like laughing—there was a time and a place for jokes, and this wasn't it. She did, however, get a good smirk out of the matter, which was more than she could say for the rest of the day's events. The somewhat hostile introductions (and Sallie knew that "hostile" was probably too strong a word, but it was the best she could think of at the moment) didn't bode well for the rest of this endeavor.

And all at once, a vague sense of dread at being the voice of reason for this group of less-than-conventional individuals washed over her. Even vampires weren't immortal, per se, and she'd rather like to keep her head where it sat on her shoulders. Standing around sulking was probably not conducive to that, she decided, perching her already impressively shortened cigarette on her lips and taking the old white case in her off hand. "Maybe the big lug has a point," she said, largely good-naturedly. "We certainly won't get much done standing around with our teeth in our mouth."

Sallie had a few questions she wanted to ask Ylaine. As a matter of fact, she had a few questions she wanted to ask everyone present. Who, exactly, was she dealing with? She knew that the answer as far as their employer would likely come to a dead-end; she'd been 'round the track a few times, and had made a point to glean as much out of their phone conversation as she could manage (which was about enough to fill one of the little divots in a golf-ball, truth be told). He didn't seem like the sort of man to leave information lying around, and those who knew anything about him probably wouldn't divulge that information to a stranger in cordial conversation. But the rest of the myriad of Monsters—now that was another story. Face-to-face, she had a much better chance of getting a feel for who she was working with, and already she was starting to get some small indication as to who would prove to be bearable and whom she would want to keep a good distance from on their venture.

The two vampires who had arrived earlier (she assumed they were vampires, at least, from the smell) seemed congenial enough, at least for given values thereof, and though Wolfgang made her somewhat uncomfortable and smelled a mite like wet dog, he seemed, when his wits were about him, like he was willing enough to cooperate. She'd dealt with big guys before—it was rare that she felt threatened by them nowadays. The old woman, now she looked familiar, although Sallie couldn't place her face off the top of her head. This was what filing systems were for, and she hadn't had access to one of those in over a year. The man who'd been sitting on the crates when she'd arrived reminded her of a small dog, not necessarily meek, but—well, alright, meek was probably the best word.

She had the sneaking suspicion that the was more than he seemed—otherwise, why would Abe have hired him? After all, each of them seemed to have something nasty lurking just under the surface of their humanity. He sat near the top of her list, along with the long-haired chap who hadn't said a word since he'd arrived.

Flicking the butt of her cigarette unceremoniously off the dock and into the water, Sallie decided that the best course of action was to move herself along, and made towards the end of the dock herself. "Your bag's unzipped, just so you know, big guy," she added politely as she approached. "I didn't think it was legal for women to bend that way."