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open log: mOuOm

Who: Balthazar and anybody
What: creeping, most likely
Where: here and there, hither and thither
When: whenever is convenient
Notes: Balthazar's permissions! If you don't have yours done, please do them before tagging me, so that I don't godmode anyone.
Warnings: Senator Ickyface is Chairman of Creepery, and generally unpleasant. Grossness could happen! ... it's kind of always a possibility with him.

His room at the Valhalla Inn stays, for the most part, empty and unused. Sometimes he puts things there just in case anyone is checking, and he drops by every few days to pester Fish at night. He's come no closer to figuring out what exactly Fish is, but he's wary of using magic in Baedal; nothing feels right, or rather, the way he's used to, and besides, it's more fun this way.

Day and night he wanders Baedal. He's been in most of the city by now, sometimes shielded from the general view by his illusory powers, sometimes layered in illusion, and sometimes, as he is now, out in the open. Adaptation of his image is absolutely necessary, which he is accustomed to due to his many years on earth; Baedal lacks the sheer volume of material greed that an industrialized society supports and maintains, but gold is still a motivator. He has not entirely abandoned the suit, but today it is less obnoxious. The tie, however, is still horrendous.

Today he moves among people, gently sowing casual chaos. Occasionally he utilizes his powers to pick a pocket, but only to transfer the money to someone else's. He looks at people hard, trying to learn the subtleties and nuances of their nature to determine what exactly they are. At home, he used four basic categories: celestial, infernal, human, and non-human. These are entirely inadequate even just out on the street. And, too, he knows that probably some of them can see him the same way he's seeing them — but he's hardly that weird in comparison to many xenians, so the reaction is muted. It's interesting and novel to him, and he's looking out for those slight and small tells.

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Balthazar isn't the only one wandering the city day and night, although right now Mitchell is sitting on a park bench savouring a cigarrette that hadn't been worth what he'd paid. It probably didn't help that he was using it as a substitute for a craving that involved more veins.

Someone is still idling over how he's going to live, going to survive in Baedal.

On the seat beside him is a newspaper that's had job advertisements circled with a pencil, then erased, then circled again. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. Hospital porter? Cleaner? He could keep trying his best to live as a decent man, although the idea was considerably more hollow without the presence of George and Annie and everything that had happened lately.

Or he could try for something...else. Whatever that meant.

Don't mind him while he broods.

Vampires are, of course, well known in Baedal, and one of the few new things he's learned more reliably to recognize. There's the deadish feeling he gets off of Mitchell, for one, the only usual common denominator among the various types of vampires here, but Mitchell is particularly interesting since it's daytime. So Balthazar drifts over gradually, drinking what appears to be a milkshake. He takes a seat on the same park bench, with a polite amount of space between them but with one arm resting along the back. That's mostly so that no one can sit between them (unless they too are a creeper) but also just to be a weirdo jerk.

At the moment, he is making an effort to deliberately mask his demonic aspect, including scent, so his presence on the bench comes with a hint of very old-fashioned cologne, which Mitchell of all people might be in a position to recognize as such. He takes a noisy slurp from his milkshake and then, out of the blue, asks casually, "How's the job hunt going?"

What the-- Well that isn't disconcerting at all. Mitchell turns to get a proper look at the other man in the less-than-obnoxious-suit. Is this what people do here? Or is this guy a little bit...off in the head? He's not entirely sure.

"...good?" Which isn't true in the least. "I guess. Have we met?" He still has a vague sense of unease that one of these days he'll bump into someone he killed. Like some sort of real afterlife is going to try and sneak up on him with a vampire-sized butterfly net.

"We have now," he says, deadpan, glancing at Mitchell for a second too long and then away again, taking another noisy sip. "Though if you're on the Ceidary Blue network, perhaps we've spoken."

Balthazar toys with the idea of testing out his influencing powers on Mitchell, which would be useful just to see if they work at all on something like him, but he decides to wait.

"Maybe." He doesn't sound certain about that (he would have remembered the ti --no) and he studies Balthazar for a moment. It's the lack of familiarity that assures him more than anything. "You're new as well?"

"Possibly not as new as you." The lack of familiarity doesn't stop him from acting casually so. "I've had some time to look around, make a few contacts. But then —" Siiiip. "— my needs aren't as vital as yours, I would guess."

The emphasis on that word does not go unnoticed. Balthazar is treated to another stare before Mitchell asks, "What are you?" Since he seems to know what he is and all.

The pause and unblinking eye contact before he answers is frank. It says: do you really expect an answer? And yet the answer, when it comes, is honest.

"A businessman." He puts the milkshake down. "So, mostly human." Enjoy that little joke, there. "When people need things, I obtain them for a price. The situation with your kind is getting less tense, but you should keep me in mind. For emergencies. I'm a helper, I am."

With that kind of sales pitch, it's probably no surprise Balthazar doesn't seem to expect Mitchell to take him seriously; he doesn't appear to be taking himself very seriously, but he smiles again, slowly takes a business card from his inner jacket pocket, and offers it to Mitchell.

Evening in the Aspic Bazaar is still a time of brisk trade, but the streets are not so crowded that it causes much fuss when a manhole cover near Balthazar lifts up and slides to the side. Two red hands -- one normal and the other oversize and made of stone -- reach out and brace themselves on either side of the manhole, and a large, obviously demonic-looking man hauls himself out. A demon wearing, of all things, a tan canvas-and-leather trenchcoat that's obviously seen better days, with a golden-hilted (and, depending on Balthazar's sensitivity to such things, very magical) sword sheathed on his back.

He extracts himself just enough so that his tail is clear, and then sits down, his legs still dangling down into the manhole. The great heaving sigh of evening air he takes speaks to just how long he'd been down in the sewers. After a moment, he looks around, and his slightly glowing orange eyes notice the ~~horrible tie~~man standing nearby. He gives a little wave with his Right Hand and says, "How's it going?"

Of all the fucking things to come out of a manhole, Balthazar had not been expecting that. Demons — real demons, anyway — come in all shapes and sizes where he's from, and Hellboy would fit right in, if not for the trenchcoat and sword. Furthermore, his demeanor is anything but the default demon persona, which can be basically summed up as Asshole Jerkwad McrapingEverything of Clan Awful. He has never in his three thousand plus years of life been asked "how's it going" by anything even vaguely resembling Hellboy. Okay, maybe once, but that had been ironic, seeing as he'd been attached to a red hot rack at the time.

In any case, Balthazar makes the immediate (and erroneous) assumption that Hellboy would know what he is, too. And takes a casual step away from Hellboy, keeping his eyes on him with great suspicion, something Hellboy is probably accustomed to.

"....... okay," he says after an extremely awkward pause. Many questions present themselves. None of them seem wise to ask outright, even if Hellboy appears to be remarkably chill. It could be a trap. Hell loves them some traps. "..................... how're things down there."

Hellboy is, indeed, used to a certain amount of instinctive suspicion, and a casual step or two back. After a moment to consider his answer, he starts reaching into one of the pouches on his belt and says, "Smelly. And messy. Also, a lot bigger than I would've expected, and I've had to traipse through some sewers in my day."

What he gets out of his belt is a thin case from which he extracts a cigarette, and a small box of wooden matches. (Holy Smokes are generally sold as pouches of loose tobacco, but given that rolling a cigarette is a two-handed operation that he can't manage well, he arranges to get them pre-rolled in batches for him.) He strikes the match on the rough surface of his Right Hand and lights up. The first drag is a deep one, and he tips his head up to let the cloud of smoke out in a satisfied sigh, entirely oblivious to the effects that the smoke might have on his new acquaintance if the wind might blow it at him.

"Name's Hellboy, by the way."

If those existed in his universe, Constantine would probably never have stopped smoking. Even more so than he already did, or did not. Balthazar just barely flinches — it's not as bad as a face full of holy water, which he considers refreshing anyway — because it's so unexpected, both the holiness and the fact Hellboy is smoking them. He delicately leans away, which could be construed as general aversion to smoke. If it gets in his squishy demon lungs, he'll be hacking for at least a day.

But all that is less distracting than the name. What. Though he fights not to show it, exasperation creeps through.

"What? Like a superhero?"

Only then is when it hits him: that's totally what this guy is. Name is Hellboy, appears to have been engaging in heroics rather than depravities, smoking holy tobacco, wearing a trenchcoat that feels like it's got charms inside — this Hellboy is totally a superhero. His left eye actually twitches a little.

"Oh. Sorry." Taking Balthazar's avoidance for simple sensitivity to smoke, Hellboy makes sure to direct further exhales away from him. His next one comes out as a bit of a snort, though, as Balthazar's question collides with his own ideas of what a superhero looks like.

"Uh, no, it's my actual name. As actual as it gets, anyway. Long story." He shrugs, then shows his badge. "I am a member of Hellsing, though."

(He totally, totally is a superhero.)

Ava sits alone at a table for two, on the terrace of a cafe not far from Adrian and Lex's building. She's just come from work, so her usual very-put-together look has been elevated to immaculate: fashionable, flattering, yet tasteful enough a dress for the office, three-inch heels, hair and makeup perfect, a classy wool coat slung over the back of her chair.

A cup of chai with sugar and milk sits cooling before her. She's hardly touched it, her attention on the passers-by. She looks up at each one with an intense but very brief study of their features; she's had a lifetime of practice so to most people it might not register beyond a what's she looking at, if it does at all. However, if one is particularly observant or knows what they're seeing, what she's doing is clear.

She has no vision-driven reason to be here today, no date/time/location tucked away in her head that's told her she must be here to do something. But these events aren't always so neatly prompted, so readily given with advance warning. There isn't always an appointment to keep so she studies faces in case one triggers a memory or a warning she must share in its recognition.

The late afternoon air has a bit of a bite to it; she shivers slightly, which pulls her attention away from the latest pedestrian and back to herself. Pull on her coat, or drink the tea?

The look he catches Ava giving others is one he thinks he knows: not the look of someone waiting for a particular person, but the incisive observation of someone who's used to seeing something more than most people can see. He used to do it, when he first acquired his powers. But there is a certain distance which to him says that Ava no longer finds much excitement in the powers, that she is not new to this kind of thing. Furthermore, there is a strange echo to her, something which is not a strong sense of psychic awareness, in his experience.

Of course, things are different here. Still, he sees no immediate reason for wariness. It so happens that the cafe is quite busy, so he takes his coffee, moves among the tables with deliberate helplessness, then approaches Ava's table.

"Excuse me," he says, perfectly apologetic but confident. "It's really full here... is this seat taken?"

Ava looks up, and there's a half-second where she gives him the same once-over. But his face doesn't trigger any memory, any rush to activity or warning, and once she's sure, a polite smile comes to her lips. She straightens up--not that she was slouching before, but her mother always told her to hold herself up properly in the presence of polite company (the unspoken addition to that being especially in the company of an attractive man). She gestures at the free chair opposite her.

"Please, go ahead," she says, warm. "It is very busy in here. Help yourself."

On the streets of Baedal, one is never quite sure what's more likely to kill you; the people, or whatever the people are selling. Penelope is relatively certain it's always going to be the people, so she's got no problem eating the slightly more esoteric foods sold by vendors on the streets.

Except for the ones that look like they might poison and/or kill her. She might have a little adventurous streak where food is concerned, but she doesn't have a deathwish.

So out on a rather busy boulevard around lunchtime, she's about to chow down on something that looks and smells like a hot dog but is an inexplicable green color when there's a flash of someone, a face in the crowd, out of the corner of her eye, enough to make her put down her something-sausage and pay attention. It was familiar. Strange. She could almost say it was--...

...but no. That's not possible. Would she have felt that creeping discomfort in her belly if whoever that was was really... who she thought? She stares into the sea of busy Baedalites, waiting for another glimpse of someone she wasn't at all certain she really wanted to see.

He'd turned away from Penelope to examine some small statue for sale on a table; having touched it and left a hint of metaphysical filth on it, he then turns back to the direction he'd initially been facing. And oddly, he looks right at Penelope too, because that there smells like a witch. It's not uncommon here in Baedal, but at home, they feel different. In the second of potential eye contact, Balthazar smiles at her. Witches and psychics at home can sometimes see his face, so if she can see his right now — that repulsive, corpse-like sliminess right beneath the human surface — he looks for any reaction that would indicate that. It would be good to know.

Whatever she sees when he looks at her is unclear-- what is clear is how the color (what there is of it) drains entirely from her face, and her eyes widen to the point where it's certainly possible that she's seeing the truth there.

Probably the biggest indicator that she isn't, though, is that after a quick beat, she drops her pseudo-hot dog and starts running towards him like her life depends on it.

... that's not what he was expecting. It takes all his control not to leave or try to vanish, but he remains where he is, a somewhat puzzled look firmly plastered on his face. She might be attacking him, but since they're in the middle of a crowd, he'll probably survive at least the initial blow. Then again, he doesn't think she's attacking him.

She runs through the crowd like her ass is on fire, a blur of black and purple, until she finally skids to a stop directly in front of Balthazar. She stares straight at him while she tries to catch her breath-- if he didn't know any better, he might think she was staring straight into his soul.

Or maybe she was, because her expression morphs into one of determination, pain, anger, a lifetime of repressed negativity just pouring out of her eyes. And then she slaps him.

Well.

He'll take that slap, and pause with his head turned away before very cautiously turning back toward Penelope. At the last moment, he remembers he should probably touch his face, and does so. That look — he's sure she sees what he is now even if she didn't before, but the act is for the people watching, because when a lady runs up to a dude in the bazaar and slaps him, that's free entertainment. His expression is still that perfectly puzzled one, but she's probably close and sensitive enough to see the brief glitter of red in his eyes.

"Gosh," he says first, a quiet parody of surprise. "You know, I think you may have mistaken me for someone else... but let me just say, I don't mind that much."

The smile remains a disgusting potential without quite making it onto his face.

Now that she's within slapping distance, Penelope can see that A:) Whoever this person is, it is decidedly not her father, B:) She hasn't the first idea of exactly what, but he/it is clearly the darkest, ickiest kind of evil ever to be spat out from whatever passes for Hell in this universe, and C:) he has the worst taste in ties she has literally ever seen in her entire life, and that's saying something. It's really that last thing that hammers home the whole not-my-Dad thing-- Sebastian Lane may have spent so much time healing sick kids that he barely knew what decade it was half the time, but goddamn did the man know how to dress.

"What are you," she hisses at him, her normally-apathetic voice dripping with hate. It's rather like when an animal puffs itself up to try to fool bigger badder predators. "What have you done to him?"

He has her father's face; ergo, he took it from him.

Studying her face, Balthazar takes his time answering. Mostly to be annoying, but partially to remain in control of the situation. In his opinion, the fact she's talking and not exorcising is a good sign she won't try to kill him right here and now.

"I'm sorry to say that could refer to so many people," he finally says, the mildness a sugarcoating for the spiky amusement in his voice. His tie does not need straightening, but he does it anyway, and with careful slowness, reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve a business card, which he will offer to Penelope if that doesn't make her react violently. The card has his name — Blake Angler, that is — and CiD number.

"Do you possibly mean John?" Because that's the last person he did anything to, and it wouldn't be weird for Constantine to be consorting with witches, even if he would almost certainly know of Penelope were that the case. But who knows how long he's been in Hell.

Just the movement of him offering the card to her makes her take a jerky step backward-- in those heels it is fucking miraculous that she's not only managed to run at full speed but that she hasn't fallen over out of shock yet-- And she just stares at him.

This is not her father. This person, if he is in fact a person, does not even know who her father is. If he knew, he would have recognized her right away. (She has been told that she looks just like him.) She wouldn't have the first clue who John is, either, and she opens her mouth to say so, but the words don't come, because who cares? Something deep in her primordial brain tells her Run, and she does.

She makes sure to kick him in the shin first, though.

Hasibe's tell comes in the form of simply a look, and a raised eyebrow, as she is ninety percent certain she just watched that man (whose face is sometimes like a human's but sometimes not, depending on the angle of how she regards him, like one of those cheap, stupid holographic postcards or something) pick someone's pocket and put it in someone else's. She is somewhat familiar with demons, though not precisely of Balthazar's stripe, and as she stands, quietly, at the edge of a crowd, she is watching for reasons less malevolent but no less inclined toward observing human nature. Or not so human, as the case may be.

The tell quickly becomes a lot less subtle, as she crosses the distance between them, hands tucked into her coat pockets, since she's left her gloves at home.

"I have to wonder," she says, conversationally, "I mean, I can speculate, but--what purpose did that serve?"

Edited 2011-12-06 01:12 (UTC)

Of the last wallet he relocated, he retains a single coin, for he likes the look of Baedal's currency. He plays with it absently as he looks at Hasibe for a long moment, the flag flipping down the back of his fingers and then just disappearing — not a matter of illusion, only plain old sleight of hand, done automatically and without thought. At the same instant it disappears, he smiles, just like the centuries old huckster he is, the timing a matter of instinct.

"None at all," Balthazar says, perfectly genial, "just like me."

The declaration does not necessarily carry any real connotation, as he hardly expects people (not even extremely powerful psychics, as he believes Hasi to be) to know exactly what he is or the circumstances from which he came, but it happens to be the absolute truth. At the moment, anyway.

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open log: mOuOm

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ilu slarti

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fixed typo.

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