Rick Spade had a lot of rules about magic. A long list of bullet points, like anything else. Right at the top it read, in bold print, "No spell casting while drunk."

Immediately below that, in bolder print, "No spell casting while high."
The human mind simply wasn't meant for forcing nature to jump to it's will, despite what other people would tell you. Drawing upon the vast inherent energy in everything and shaping it required an enormous will, a flexibility of thinking, and lots, and lots, and lots of practice. Trying to do this while drinking meant taking a risk -- somewhere, sometime, you were going to lose your concentration. Bad, bad things happened when you lost your concentration while harnessing the power to create, transmute, or destroy reality. Spells went haywire, unexpected results occurred, you fried your brain. The outcomes were endless and all horrible.

Casting while strung out on drugs was worse by at least a hundred fold.

So when Rick stared down four junkies summoning mage fire in the alley next to the "Catland" jazz bar, he was honestly more afraid of what might go wrong than what might go right -- even if part of it going right involved him dying. At least dying was preferable to some of the things that might happen in this situation.

"Now, gentlemen. I'm sure we can work something out. I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. I have it right .. " Rick was reaching for the Victory Model Smith & Wesson Model 10 he kept holstered under his jacket, but the Boss Junkie stepped forward with a sneer and fist full of flame.

"Don't! DON'T! Hands up, Spade!" The hands jumped up. No one ever just let him go for the gun. The four men were lining up like a firing squad, standing shoulder to shoulder across the breadth. Rick didn't really want to break the first rule, but ...

"Hey, hey. Let's all stay calm. If I have something you want, I'm sure we can work something out. Let's just.. put the fire away.. and we can talk it out."

For the first time, the detective got a good look at all four men. They were dirty, ugly people, thin and gaunt like they'd been stretched too thin when they were made. The man on the far left sported a nose that had been broken flat and left like that, and between him and the boss was a tiny waif of a man who looked like his growth had been stunted at the age of 14. Finally, the one on the far right barely even looked human, skin pocketed with old burns, the tell tale signs of previous miscasting. The fire in their hands continued to swell, and flatnose appeared to be having troubles. Thoughts of what was going to happen in the next few seconds twisted Rick's guts into a ball and sent a chill down his spine. If he couldn't reach his gun, then he was left with only one recourse.

Rick jumped at the boss and punched him right in the face with a sudden left straight, followed it up with a right hook, and finished it with a brutal chop of a kick behind the right knee. The larger man immediately crumbled, launching fire wildly into the two men to his left. Even as the detective dived into a roll to avoid Spots return attack, Shorty was enflamed by the vicious green flames his boss had spewed at him. Rick turned the roll into a run even while he ducked right to avoid a barrage of magic that melted the cement when it landed. What the hell were these guys using?! A hand reached for his Victory Model and he whirled around -- three guys, six shots, four drinks, dirty alley, ten feet of distance. Time seemed to slow as adrenaline kicked in. He took aim three times, squeezed the trigger six. He only missed once, but all three men dropped. If the man left alive and on fire seemed to burn a particularly long time while Rick took the time to reload and deliver the coup de grace, it was only because he was really angry.

"What the hell is this all about?" He muttered, digging through their pockets and clothes for any sort of clues. Even in the dead of winter, he was covered in sweat, and his jaw hurt from being clenched. He found wallets, mostly empty and generally useless, as no one in Rhy'Din seemed to use ID cards or licenses. The so-called boss had one of Rick's business cards, which troubled him. Finally, he found a slip of paper with an address he didn't recognize. Though he wasn't sure, he thought it was somewhere near the docks. Otherwise there wasn't much to learn.

"Stupid. Should have left one alive, old man." Rick was always his own biggest critic. Maybe he could have just wounded one, blown out a knee cap or something..

His old Nokia went off, buzzing with a text message. He shivered. They had his business card. His hand was shaking. They had his business card.

BOB: HELP

They knew where he lived.

Quinn.

Rick broke into a sprint.

(( This post brought to you with the wonderful help of Quinn Heartt. ))

The front door was yanked open and with the motion, a heavy hand came down for Rick's shoulder to jerk him inside as well, tossing him aside like he was nothing so his assailant could slam the door shut behind him. "Well isn't this all sortsa cozy?" The slender man who seemed to be the voice of the group finally said, the two men with him each training a firearm on the boy wizard while the ring leader kept a firm hold on Quinn's wrist. She stood as stiff as a board, utterly compliant, with a tense smile plastered to her face. The first hints of purple were creeping into a touch of swelling along her left cheekbone, though the ridges of her knuckles were turning much the same shade. "You didn't tell me we were having company, Ricky." She said through her teeth, taking special care not to move more than was required. "They seem to be rather interested in our latest shipment." As if on cue, there was a clattering from the store room, shattering of china and clanking of metal, prompting a wince from Quinn and a shake of her head, looking to him for some sort of answer.

The hand came down and Rick flew, the edges of vision blurring as new pain rolled through his chest, forcing air from his lungs in a short and ragged 'hfff!' as he landed in a rough tumble of teenage limbs. Elbows and knees were the spoils of the day, but at least he'd protected the wound he sported across the left set of ribs. He was really going to need another drink after this. With a grunt and a foul face the detective forced himself back up and turned, scowling at the men -- shooting daggers at the one in charge with his sharp green eyes when he saw the soon-to-be-bruise on his partner's face -- and sizing them up. The run in the cold had cleared his head quite a bit and the cold had been refreshing. His Victory Model was reloaded and tucked into a pocket. He didn't see Bob anywhere. Otherwise, they didn't have much going for them. Out numbered, wounded, in a confined space, and Quinn was a hostage. And worst of all? She was sill mad at him. "Interesting," Rick chimed, glancing behind him at the crashing sound of goods. He turned back and took a step towards Quinn before the ringleader sneered and laughed as he twisted Quinn's arm. "Not anotha move, 'Ricky'. Stay there, or sheeeee gets the worst of it." As if there were a question about who he was talking about, the man gestured to Quinn with a flourish -- oh, great, he's mocking them like they're a pair of magicians. He's a mook with a sense of humor. Rick hated him already.

Quinn rolled her eyes until they came to stop upon the greasy beanpole of a thug, huffing out a breath from pursed lips. The twist of her arm, though, was enough to wipe the attitude from her face and she let out a rather unladylike grunt of pain. "They came in uninvited." She muttered to Rick, her brows rising to accentuate the hint. Granted, that also meant the back door had been blown clear off the hinges, but thresholds were no small thing to underestimate. Now she just prayed that we was of sound enough mind to actually pay attention to the underlying implications that their unannounced entrance had. "Also...the internet's back up." Ticking her head to one side at the cable modem in all of its solid green light glory. The three men didn't seem too thrilled by Quinn's idle banter, mistaking it as such when it all had a purpose that she hoped Rick would catch on to. She wasn't in much of a position to help at the moment, every muscle in her arm screaming at her from the contortion, but maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed.

Quinn, you wonderful girl. In danger and you can still be the trickiest one on the room. In truth, Rick would almost feel bad about what would happen with only a few well chosen words. Unleashed Bob on anyone was cruel and frightening. Unleashing Bob after he'd been forced to stop a Netflix marathon was one of the great sins of the world. Still -- they were going to need information, a commodity the monster in the basement didn't always produce in situations like this. It was best to try now, while they could. .. still, it took the sort of will power only a wizard could command to not immediately vaporize the goon on Quinn, or let Bob swallow him up, soul and all. Rick's Rules About Everything, the most important list he had: number 1, do not hurt Quinn Heartt. Number 2 was not to drink a scotch whisky less than 20 years old. "Now, okay. Let's all relax. If there's something you gentlemen are looking for, I'm sure we can all find it. Is it.. big? Small?" The wizard was demonstrating the sizes big and small, hopefully hiding the first few motions of a spell. He looked Quinn in the eyes as if to say, 'It's a small spell. Promise.'

Quinn shot a dirty look to the one with the audacity to put his hands on her, giving a little pull of her arm to loosen the tension the twisting had caused. Rick's motions, however slight, were enough to still her, her eyes widening just slightly because even if he claimed it would be a small spell...well, subtly was never his strong suit. All the same, she had no choice but to play along. While standing still. Very still. As if her life depended on it even. Well, this time it might. "I offered to help them look but we have so many damn teapots that it's like searching for a horcrux in a Gringotts vault full of Gemino cursed stuff." Typically she would have savored watching a modern reference like that sail over Rick's adorable head, but now was not the time to bask in smugness, instead she was holding her breath as if expecting the entire apartment to come down around them.

Still a little drunk: check. Blinding pain: check. Angry: check. This was the perfect time to violate some rules about casting, the general rules superseding the specific. Fingers continued to move through tiny subtle motions as Rick's eyes darted from Quinn to the tall man holding her and finally to the two behind them. Even as he was forming words and thoughts into weapons in his head, he continued to press. "Teapots? What would you want with teapots?" Actually, what did anyone want with teapots? .. Rick cast the slippery thought away and ignored it, not allowing the sorts of distracting thoughts that drinking caused. Now was not a time to lose focus. Take the magic and reach down. Feel the floor boards, the smoothness, the dust laying on top -- "A specific teapot? Something that came .. earlier?" -- feel inside the wood, get smaller and smaller and smaller and -- "Shut up and stop talking. Jimmie, I wantcha ta shoot em if he says another word. We're just gunna sit here nice and quiet while my boys do their thing." -- yes, there, a single cell, still ready, still waiting, just needing a little encouragement. As the last motions of the spell finished, Rick looked down at the floor beneath Quinn's feet and hoped she got the message, and before anyone could otherwise react.. the magic left his hands, ran down along him, hit the floor, and rolled across it like a bright wave seeking the shore, a bright light that was gorgeous and beautiful and full of life.

And then there simply a tree growing beneath the four, Quinn and three poor SOBs, rapid and violent until it crashed into the ceiling and blew out a window.

Many things run through your mind when a tree sprouts up beneath you. In Quinn's mind, the stream went something like this, I am not a squirrel Richard Spade followed by This is going to cost an arm and a leg to fix. Well, they weren't the most practical of thoughts, but then again it wasn't the most practical of spells. Thankfully though, it got tall, dark, and grimy to release his hold on her as he went scrambling backwards and right onto his rear until a gnarled root caught him, sending him upwards as well. Quinn hadn't exactly been wanting it to go this way, but desperate times call for desperate measures and she found herself diving back through the nearest doorway, sprawling across the floor and skittering away from all things tree related.

Only one of the other men had been caught by surprise and thrown out the window. The other had caught the last second motion of eyes and had seen the tree start to grow, side stepping wildly and shouting something in gibberish. He fired twice and missed the detective, who was already ducking and running to follow Quinn. A third shoot grazed Rick's cheek, but the last few pelted the door frame with loud hammer blows. One of these days Rick was going to get through a case without being seriously hurt -- at this rate, it wasn't going to be today. "BOB! GET YOUR ASS UP HERE! I RELEASE ALL SANCTIONS FOR THE FOLLOWING TWO MINUTES!" Then, as the detective was finally getting his hands on Quinn and pushing her further into the side room, adding, "ON ALL PERSONS INSIDE, NOT EMPLOYED BY SPADE AND HEARTT DETECTIVE AGENCY!" Hands continued to push Quinn as blood from the fine line cut of a bullet rolled down his cheek. The sound of the three and gunfire had attracted whoever was in the back room, and on the off chance that the tree hadn't knocked out the internet and Bob hadn't heard him, Rick was fetching the Victory Model from the jacket pocket and turning to stand, aiming gun at the doorway they'd just come through. "Hi Quinn." Pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tki llme.

Between the pushing and her own ever so graceful tripping, she was well within the room and quite grateful that she had unpacked it earlier in the week. She went tumbling for the desk in the back corner, yanking over the top most drawer and flinging the contents every which way until she made it to the false bottom. Rick had released Bob. It was like releasing the hellhounds, the Kraken, and a preschool class hopped up on sugar all at once. The weapon she pulled was just as much for protection from whatever Bob threw their way as it was for the bumbling thugs who couldn't seem to get anything right in this haphazard acquisition mission. Taking up position at Rick's side, she should not quite shoulder to shoulder with him, but it would do, her own compact pistol aimed at the doorway as well. "Hi." She said tersely, gritting her teeth as she resisted the overwhelming urge to beat him over the head with the gun. Outside of the room, it was as though World War Three had begun, a series of crashes and bangs, indicative of the demi-being's arrival on the main level of the soon to be possibly leveled apartment.

It happened almost immediately. As shelves were tipped, items clattered and clanged loudly. There was a sound of wood snapping and of men howling with voices that broke off abruptly. Numerous guns went off with loud pops, punctuating the horror scene brewing in the next room. Once, twice, three times a large object thumped wetly against the wall. Someone was praying in Latin and trying to crawl through the doorway -- he got only far enough to look Rick and Quinn right in the eyes with a terror that made the boy detective almost regret turning the horror that was Bob lose on them, before he was suddenly and violently pulled back into the room, fingernails dragging long claw marks into the floor as he barely managed a breathless, "Nooooo!" Finally, after what felt like ages the gunfire abated, then stopped entirely. A last whimpering soul was silenced. Rick, who had been counting under his breath, said "...120. Bob, that's it." Rick didn't want to see Bob right now. Seeing his handy work was going to be enough. "Go into the basement. I'll.. I'll fix the internet." As soon as Quinn is finished beating me half to death.

Through the medical kit she rummaged, pulling out bottles here and pouches there, spools of gauze and medical tape followed. Tension was still evident in the way her jawline tightened with each grind of her teeth, each breath coming evenly through clenched teeth. Gaze worked first over the ruined shirt, a sad grimace ghosting its way across her expression before being replaced by a stoic neutrality as she assessed the mess that was Rick Spade, boy wizard extraordinaire. Teeth finally shifted their grinding assault to her bottom lip, not quite liking what she saw. "You're a hot mess, babe." Quinn muttered with a shake of her head, the motion sending a rippling bounce through the mussed mocha tendrils. Nostrils flared, wincing at the smell of burnt flesh before she grabbed for the nearest bottle, opening it to carefully apply the salve. "You and me both...all of them."

Rick grunted in pain and tried to focus past it -- her hands were tender, and she was careful and delicate, but there was no denying that the wound was more than a sunburn. In his mad dash attempt to save her he had been filled with the all consuming purpose of making it to the shop, rescuing her from the dragon, and riding off into the sunset astride a mighty beast. Now? Now was just pain, sharp and hot, sick and wet. "Rolled the wrong way. There were a lot of them." He explained, a little embarrassed. The arm went up to allow her to work without his limb in the way, hissing at the fresh painful flash of stretching skin over ribs. Greens were moving between her and the pile of villains on the far side of the shop. The detective frowned, and murmured, "Quinn. I'm sorry." About.. everything. "About whatever this is." About the danger. He'd kiss her but she had him in an awkward spot. Later.. later. Later he could make it up. Maybe.

"Shhhhh." She hushed him as soon as his lips parted to speak, shaking her head. Quinn very well could have strangled him right now but elected not to, very carefully tending to the grotesque looking burns. A frowned worked its way across her lips before she pressed them together in an attempt to cut it off. "This... this is going to leave a scar." She grimaced, antibiotic applied followed by what was sure to be a rather stinging ointment. "Glad I pilfered this stuff off of Wong Chu before the temple came down on our heads..." Quinn muttered with another shake of her head, taking a step back and flapping her hands at him to fan air his way, looking to dry the liquids that were seeping into his flesh.

As much as Rick wanted to be back in her good graces, he was a man impossible to silence. "It'll heal. Eventually." It always did. Scars faded with time, old wounds vanished. The boy wizard lacked the super human abilities of so many of his contemporaries, but he was at least a gorgeous specimen of youth. More reactions to pain got out of his mouth before he caught them, though he didn't complain. In fact, he even chuckled. "Aye. That was a good time," he said, grinning at her, "I wasn't really sure we would get out of there. Death cults are really something. If it wasn't for Tony, we would really have been in a jam." Oh, good memories. Rick swam in a river of them while she finished, adjusting this way and that under his partner's scrutiny. Finally, "Okay. It seems like we're in a bit of hot water. Someone just tried to rub me out and toss the shop. I have a theory.. but I want to know what you're thinking. Posit one; whoever hired these goons didn't have a lot of money. Posit two; it wasn't really me they were after. Posit three; they didn't know much about us, or they wouldn't have shown up at the shop like this. Remind me to rework our defense system's bindings to include you, by the way. Posit four; they were looking for something. But what?"

Each wince and hiss of pain on his part brought about an equal but far more internal reaction on Quinn's. To fight it off, she chewed hard on the inside of her cheek, a faint metallic taste permeating across her tongue. As he reminisced, she couldn't help but crack a minuscule smile, her lips twitching with the effort it took to restrain the urge to grin back. He had that infectious sort of smile, the unavoidable kind that weaseled its way across the faces of all of those nearby. Or at least that's how she felt. "They put a hit on you? People still do that?" A slender brow perked high on her forehead, returning to the tending of his wounds once the various goops and salves weren't dripping anymore. It was time to bandage, again carefully and gently. "They were a bunch of Goodwill class thugs. Hell, I don't even think Macklemore would pop those tags." Shaking her head, she thought over each point. "Well... we need a new door, but the wards should have been secure. They screwed themselves by crossing the threshold, unless it's because we haven't been here long enough..." Rambling as she rolled through her stream of thoughts, laying them out for him as scattered as they came. "Something in one of our shipments, that's all I really got out of it. The massive amount of teapots you ordered." Emphasis on you, there, still annoyed by his insistence that it had been her fault.

"Macklemore?" Wizardly cluelessness. They were all old men at heart, clinically out of touch. Rick sucked a breath in at the first touch of fine gauze and had to force himself to breath. Burns were the worst, and you got burned often around magic. Everyone was fire mage this, flame wizard that. Hot fire, cold fire, red fire, blue fire. Just once he would like to run into someone who used something less painful. Gritting teeth, the detective talked out of the side of his mouth. "I don't think they were hired to kill me, but it was the expected out come. You don't send junkies out on critical jobs. You expect them to botch it. These guys here were the important ones." His free arm gestured at them, a motion that made him wince. ... then he was blinking. A light bulb was going off behind his brilliant green eyes. "Quinn. You didn't order those teapots." Ideas were forming. Chalk outlines were being drawn. Nimble fingers twitched with a sudden energy and if she hadn't been in the process of mummifying his slender ribs, he'd be bouncing around.

"Yeah, Macklemore. You know like...only got twenty dollars in my pocket...made thrift shop browsing popular for hipsters. Because that's fifty dollars for a t-shirt." She knew she might have been speaking a foreign language to him, but it was her form of retribution for earlier. And maybe if she confused him enough, it would take his mind off of the pain. Wishful thinking, right? "Robbery with an unfortunate side effect of death?" She asked curiously, putting the finishing touches on the patch job. Quinn's gaze narrowed upon him and she dropped her hands to her hips to stare at him incredulously. "Well no sh*t, Sherlock. What have I been telling you the whole time?" Wait for it, wait for it. Ding! There's the accompanying bulb for the brunette. Slowly, she shifted her gaze toward the numskulls that had assaulted the sanctuary that was their home and office, and then toward the back room where she'd stashed the excessive shipment of teapots. "...interesting." She said finally, pulling away from him without another word, compact steps quickly routing her toward the store room.

There were apologies to come. The old man in the teenage body would apologize and say sorry and mean every word -- like he always did. His moods were strong and fierce and that meant some bad with the good. If someone could only tap his inner grumpiness and foulness as a power source, they would solve the energy crises across a dozen different multiverses. But right now, just this moment, he was excited and hyper. Off the counter he went with a little skip, shooting one last look at the as of yet to awaken fools that Bob had so well taken care of, and followed Quinn with a bit of a maniacal snicker. "Right. You didn't. But I didn't either, Quinn. Nor Bob." If it had been one of Bob's pranks, the received items would have been considerably more draining on their sanity. The last time a package for Bob came addressed to the two detectives .. well. Rick didn't like thinking about it. He didn't even know they made those kinds of toys. "So if none of us did, then ... " Rick had an idea. He wanted to see if she got it. His partner was beautifully bright. They fit into the store room together, a mess of random items strewn violently across the floor. Half the shelves had been thoroughly cleared. More than a few of their inventory lay broken, shattered, or otherwise damaged. No one had any class anymore. There has been a time where these sorts of things were a little more civilized.

Jaw clenched, lips pursed, and she hissed out an exasperated breath. Resisting the relentless urge to throttle him for his jaunt to the backroom, she could hear him practically skipping behind her. After all the work she had done fixing him up, but really, she couldn't be surprised. After all this time, it was status quo. "Mmh, no... I never thought it was Bob..." Crinkling her nose at him, her own thoughts moving much the same way before quickly detouring for greener, less disturbing pastures. "Those jackwads... thinking they could... UGH!" She threw her hands up in the air, the fury coming to a boil as she saw the back room. Half of their stock would be unsalvageable at this point and that wasn't a loss they could really take right now. "Thinking they could use us like that... I swear if I ever get my hands on whoever..." After that she trailed off into a well versed string of profanities and disturbingly intricate descriptions of exactly what she would do to them. Perhaps she needed to stop hanging out with Bob in her downtime. "Now... what were they looking for? I'm half tempted to blow it all up and see what smokes in funny colors." Tempted though she might be, that wasn't a feasible possibility but she thought maybe putting the idea in his head might make it so.

"I'm going to need you to focus." Bringing someone out of the broken mind catatonia induced by the resident basement-bound demigod was not an easy task. Three of the five were entirely unresponsive, and one of the remaining two was a drooling mess. Only the Quinn arm twisting 'boss' was of any use to Rick -- and he was going to have to be liberal with the definition of the word "use". Few people could look on an eldritch horror and retain their sanity.

It was, in a way, a blessing. Nothing said "Stay Away" like shrewd and coldly professional criminals turned into babbling idiots. It did, however, make getting the sort of information Rick needed a difficult task. Though he'd used the insinuation of torture to get Quinn to leave him alone to the task, it had been a smoke screen. What he was planning on doing was far too dangerous and too important to tell her about. No one came into Rick's house and threatened Quinn. No one.

The man stared blankly at Rick. If it was defiance or exhausted weariness, the detective couldn't tell. They were alone in one of the back offices, sitting in a circle of complex runes drawn in iron shavings on an otherwise bare wood floor. The room itself was empty, an uncluttered space reserved for the sort of magic that required total focus. There were no windows, no shelves, and only a single door. It was the only room off limits to Quinn (though it was only one of many off limits to Bob). The sorts of spellwork that went on in here required privacy, clarity, a freedom of his mind from burden's or distractions -- he also needed somewhere to cast works like this, unseen. Not everything he did would be approved of or understood by his partner. Her understanding of magic was still too new and limited.

Besides. If he was really going to beat information out of someone, it only made sense to do it in here. The wizard had to keep up the pretenses.

"If you don't focus then this is only going to hurt more." The detective was tying his left hand to the other man's right with a leather cord. "Tell me. How much do you know about magic?"

The goon grunted, otherwise compliant. He watched Rick's nimble fingers tie an intricate knot. It was only through decades of practice that Rick was able to focus past the pain and exhaustion the day had already dealt out. This spell was going to take the last of his energy, and then some.

"I could sit here and try to ask you questions. I could beat you, torture you, the whole shebang." Rick finished the leather work knot by snipping off excess length with a small pair of scissors, promptly pocketing them before his companion could get any ideas. "But that would take too long and too much effort and I could never believe a word you said, anyway. So I'm going to use magic. For your sake, I want you to focus and relax. Breath in." Rick demonstrated, breathing deep. "Breath out." Again, exhaling after a beat.

"..what're you doing?" Life started to return to the goon, his ugly face sneering at Rick. When he tried pulling his arm back, the Detective simply sighed and reached behind him. It was surprising how calm someone could act when a Smith & Wesson Victory Model was being aimed at them. Rick pulled back the hammer to show he was serious.

"Don't. I'm happy to shoot you in the gut and do this while you bleed out." The tense moment lasted a few heart beats before the criminal slumped forward and nodded, though Rick kept the gun trained on him. Earlier, four men had tried to kill him. Then another five has broken into his house, bypassing protective runes, and tried to rob him -- assaulting Quinn in the process. He would take no chances. "..Good. Now, I want you to reach into my left pocket here and pull out the sponge."

The man did as he was told, frowning as he awkwardly fished a colorless square piece of dry sponge just a bit smaller than his hand. "And?" He tried to sound cold and sarcastic, but Rick heard the fear in his voice. Wizards could have that affect on people.

"Put in in your mouth. Don't swallow it. Now, all you have to do is close your eyes. Breath. This will be over in a moment and then you can leave, unharmed." More or less. It took a long and tense stare down before everything went as he was ordering, helped along by a wave of the pistol in Rick's hand.

The next part was -- difficult. On a good day, it would have been easy to complete the circle and allow the magic to flow into him, through him, and into the man knotted to him at the wrist. The goon would lose a month of memories, cough up the sponge, and be sent on his way. Today was not a good day. The bullet-grazed cheek was bleeding again, his side hurt so fiercely that he felt nauseous, and he needed to sleep for two solid days. That didn't let Rick off the hook, though. It was just an excuse. Rick sighed, pushed the pain and fatigue aside, and reached out with his mind.

Magic was already flowing into the circle on the floor, trapped into the complicated runes, building, taking shape. This spell could be evoked without the help of rune work, but Rick was neither in the frame of mind or physical shape to do it. He was going to need the help. Rick let his sense of self dissolve into room around them, focusing past his physical distractions, channeling. His mind emptied, and like a bucket dipped into a well, filled with the preformed energy. Time stretched. Rick's ribs burned, his cheek stung, his bones ached -- he ignored it. Things became disjointed as more and more of the spell tumbled into him, until he could smell his teeth and hear the pink color of the bandages wrapped across his chest. He held on, expanded himself internally, until finally, after what seemed like a moment bordering on infinite, he could wield the fullness of spell in himself. His mind's eye looked at it and verified it's correctness, looked for errors -- his heart thumped, thumped, , th-thumped, th-thumped, th-th -- and only when he found it right, did he unleashed it. It rolled out of him and into the other man.

Rick turned his head and promptly vomited everywhere. His heart raced well beyond it's limits and pounded so loud in his skull he could hear it echo. Though the other man had slumped over unconscious, Rick was tossing the gun across the room before he struggled to untie the two from each other, trembling fingers uselessly unable to find purchase in the leather. Too hard, Rick! You're pushing yourself too hard! Injured and tired and in a world where magic doesn't work like it does at home is no way to cast spells! He dry heaved as the world went out from under him and blackness closed in. In a panic, Rick Spade threw himself at the slumped over goon and forced his mouth open, digging out the sponge, soaked now with memories, and shoved it into a pocket. He felt his heart skipped beats, th-th-thump, nothing, th-th-thump, nothing, nothing.

Rick managed to cry out once, a garbled sound that had the shape of "queen" crossed with the sound "fin", and choked. Rick Spade, immortal detective, was having a seizure.

Rick was confined to the house under strict order from Quinn, but the forced rest was good for his recovery. It took a week alone just to get out of bed. It wasn't until the third week that he was walking around. This wasn't the first time a spell had gotten the best of him, but rarely had the results been so bad. It had been stupid and foolish to summon such complicated magic while hurt and distracted, especially in Rhydin. Quinn had every right to be angry. But still..

She had missed the memory soaked sponge in his pocket when she undressed him after his episode. The first thing he had done after he'd gotten enough energy to leave the bed was to dig through the dirty laundry and secret the sponge away in the sock drawer. It would be there for when he was ready. When he was stronger. He only hoped Quinn wouldn't find it in the mean time.

Most of the rest of it fell into place. No one came around again. The survivors of attack on 1142b North Avenue spread the word, more or less, to avoid the detectives. Amnesiacs and the insane do that. Still, Rick insisted Quinn go armed when she left the house, and not just with her pistol. Protective charms, special ammunition, Bob.. she had stopped him at the kevlar vest, but only just.

As for the lamp? It was hidden and protected. Whoever had spirited it out would think twice about coming for it again. Early research as to it's nature had proven slow going. The activation method eluded the duo. Bob, usually a fountain of arcane knowledge, knew nothing.

And whoever had started this was still out there. Waiting.

Rick was taking detours, side roads, and back alley's on the way to the marketplace, the hub in which much of Rhy'Din's business was done, both above and below board. His eyes twitched nervously at every shadow. They were traveling in fewer numbers than he had hoped and he felt exposed, even beneath the inky cover of shadows. The merchandise was in a canvas messenger bag slung beneath an arm, hugged close to a spell enchanted suit jacket worn when he expected trouble. Bullets and light magic would roll off it like rain against an umbrella. His mouth was uncharacteristically free of a cigarette. Hands twitched. "Almost there. The ad I printed in the newspaper said to meet up on the corner of the next block in about 30 minutes. There's an all night diner, good coffee. Nice and public."

?Hngh," Morgan grunted, more to acknowledge that he had heard Rick. He was wearing his old leather jacket, not that it was terribly cool out. Otherwise he was dressed as usual, old boots and jeans. His gun was tucked inside the waistband of his pants -- though he had learned not long ago that such weapons were useless in this city. "Y'know, if y'wanted public then daylight hours would 'ave been better. Reason sketchy meetin's are always sketchy is 'cause everyone wants t'meet at night. Ain't no-one breathin' easy then."

"Day time's overrated. Just as easy to shoot someone in sunlight as it is in moonlight. 'Sides, I know a bit about this guy now." Tapping his head. "Ate some memories of one of the goons he sent at us a while back. Don't think he's all that terrible a person, believe it or not. There's just -- " Rick's attention drifted to the bag slung over his shoulder, close to his body " -- something on the line."

"Sent goons after you?" he sucked on his teeth and glanced over his shoulder. "You got any thoughts to what he might have on the line?" He held a hand out to Rick. "You got a smoke?"

"Yes," darkly, as though words themselves were fragile things. "Let's just say he's motivated." Rick frowned at Morgan. "Didn't you quit?"

"Yeah," he said, hand still extended. "I do one here an' there. Mostly when m'on the job. Lenore don' know."

"... If she smells it on you, I didn't give it to you. You got it off someone else." No wrist flick, as all the space up Rick's sleeves was taken up by bracelets and other artifacts. Loaded for war, it seemed. Rick had to dig a pack out of his pocket and hand it to Morgan, then dig around again for a lighter. "Thanks for being here. C'mon, I'll buy you some coffee." Heel turn and walking, standing tall and projecting confidence.

Morgan turned after him while he worked the pack in his hand to fish out a cigarette. He cupped his hand and the pack around the cigarette after sticking it between his lips and the lighter struck up a flame. "She ain't gonna smell it. She got a sharp nose, but I managed t'cover it up so far," he said, offering the pack and the lighter back over. "Coffee sounds good."

Though summer was fading, Constance was going to stay away from the claustrophobic coats for as long as she could. The bright blue of her tailor dressed matched her heels as well as her eyes, but since the shade was not red it was not a dress worn for her favorite suit to admire. In fact, she was in the midst of playing a game of hide and seek, from not only Cardinal, but the flood of familiar faces that had come into town within the last couple of weeks. While the suit could find her with little trouble, she was still moving out of a normal routine and stepping into a quiet diner with a book tucked under her arm. A scan around to those inside and Constance was seeking out the solace of a quiet booth after she noted that she was thankfully not related to a single soul inside.

Pausing as they reached the crosswalk to collect pack and lighter, Rick managed a calm smile. "You got a secret? Quinn always smells it on me, even after a shower and change of clothes." The items vanished into a spare pocket and he nodded to the clean diner across the dirty street. A neon sign, flickering under the weight of it's age and lack of maintenance, read 'The Village'. It looked about 50 years out of date and the walls almost sagged inward. Few people were inside. "Food here's great. I like the pie." He -- hesitated, looking back and forth before crossing over.

Looked like the kind of place an old man like Rick would enjoy. He wrinkled his nose at the diner and bit back a laugh, taking a drag of the cigarette. He exhaled through his nose and the smoke billowed up and away from his face and he cracked a grin. "Sh*t, showerin' ain't enough. I gotta shower, gotta wash them clothes an' change. I gotta burn the scent away. Few things strong enough t'cover it up like that," he started across with Rick, the other detective's hesitation seemingly went unnoticed. "Good pie? They got apple? With the crumb crust an' sh*t? That's the best, Lenore's been workin' on bakin' it for me. She ain't too bad at it, neither."

"Haven't had the apple. I just get the key lime. Key Lime is the best pie in the universe, and then some other places, too." It was, in fact, perfect for Rick. Even the jukebox was closer to his age than it was Morgan's. The wizard shouldered the door open and held it for Morgan, taking the chance to look behind them and scan for any tails. A grumpy, underworked waitress grunted at them on her way to the booth just recently taken by Constance. She said nothing about the cigarette -- another reason Rick liked this place so much. "Get us a booth. I'm going to be a second." Producing chalk and dropping to his knees, he started writing on the floor next to the door.

Setting her book down on the tabletop, Constance smoothed her hands over her dress before easing into one side of the empty booth. Her hands folded on top of one another as she surveyed the scene with an easy smile offered to the few inside and the waitress that gave her a quirked brow and look. "Hot tea if you please? Peppermint if you have it." Bright blues cut to the door before she muttered, "Oh for Fae's sake. Do you have bourbon?" Clearing her throat and shaking her head to the woman.

"Just the tea then please."

"And a slice of red velvet cake." To the woman's back as Constance caught sight of a spinning dessert tower.

"You're wrong there, old man," he smirked, stepping past Rick with a grunt. He offered the waitress a grunt in a similar fashion and a curt nod. Courteous as ever. "Uh..." he scanned the room and squinted at Constance. "She supposed t'be here?" he asked, thumbing toward the woman in question.

Rick didn't glance up until he was done writing runes along the length of the door's width on the floor, two neat lines of runes that he poured will power into until they activated. Now, at least, he would know if someone entered, without needing to watch the door. Standing, he followed Morgan's thumb, frowning when he saw the destination. "No. Not in the plans." Frowning. Though he bore no ill will on his part, he knew how Constance felt about him. "Maybe we should say hi." Bouncing forward, Rick gestured at the waitress and ordered before sitting. "Two coffees, one slice of key lime pie, one slice of the apple pie. Thanks." Coming to a stop near Constance's booth with a forced smile. "Hello."

Her smile in return wasn't forced, but easy and flowing to both Rick and Morgan as they came over. "Good evening Rick, Morgan. Two detectives out on the town tonight?" Her book on the table was pulled closer and then eased aside towards the wall and the window.

"Connie," he inclined his head toward her and offered something akin to a smile. Then he took a drag off the cigarette. "Yeah, we like t'gather up in packs an' go crusin' for ladies an' the like, y'know?"

"Should have Ben out some night. You'd like him. Nice wife." A snerk, if not a laugh. Most of Rick's attention was focused out the window. Asking, "You didn't happen to read the paper this morning, did you, Constance?" It wasn't her, was it? It didn't jive with what he knew of the one coming after them tonight. Constance didn't match what he knew. But..

"I have not seen Ben in some time. And I'll be sure to pass on to Lenore that you're out cruising for ladies." A wink to Morgan before a nod to Rick. "Yes, I always read the paper. I enjoy reading." A familiar sight was Constance with a stack of books being carried into the inn. Tonight however, it was just a single book of hers on the table. As they continued to stand, she heard a little chiding in the back of her head. Soon she gestured to the opposite side of the booth. "Please, won't you both sit down. That is unless, I am keeping you from your ladies and pie."

Rick sat, putting the bag beneath the table. Asking, flat out, "You're not the one who tried to kill me a few months ago, are you, Constance?"

"I beg your pardon?" Bright blues stared across at Rick at the table. "Why in all the worlds would you think I would try to kill you?"

"She knows," he said, sliding into the booth. "She likes me t'bring 'em home for us t'have fun with," he slashed a wink her way and then flicked the cigarette into an ashtray he'd dragged over. He was about to make another joke, mouth open, then Rick asked that damning question.

Shoulders grew slack. Okay, good. It wasn't her. Rick relaxed a whole atom's worth and exhaled. --on second thought, a cigarette seemed like a good idea. He drew the pack and lighter back out and lit up, blowing the smoke away from everyone. "Someone tried to kill me a while ago. Quinn, too. Wanted the thing I'm carrying in the bag beneath the table right now. I told them to meet mere here tonight, more or less, after I ate the memories of someone who knew him." Wizards, how do they work? The coffee and tea arrived. "Thanks. Anyway -- you know, lots of coincidences. Had to check."

Morgan reached out for his coffee and snorted. He left the cigarette smoking in the ashtray and brought the cup up for a sip.

Her smile, now strained to the waitress, was given as Constance pinched her index finger to her thumb and rubbed at a white glyph in her flesh. "You brought what they tried to kill you for, with you." Repeating, not questioning before her curiosity suddenly got the best of her, "What is so important to kill two people for and then be brought into a place like this?" Had one of them sat down next to her? Maybe she could make her wise exit before she asked more questions.

Rick was across from her, nodding. "Yep. Truth be told, I'll probably give it to them, now that I know what's up." Mysterious as always. He took a sip of the coffee and found it more than satisfactory.

"Ain't that the question of the day?" he arched a brow. "Rick here figures this fella's not so bad, but he's got somethin' on the line or whatever. I dunno. Typically, I follow the philosophy that if someone's tryin' t'kill you, y'kill them first."

A bit of a nod over to Morgan then, who she seemed to agree with. "So you will give them the item, because you know why they tried to kill you." Again, just repeating and not entirely a question.

"When he shows," not if, "I don't want you moving against him. I can stop him, then we'll talk to him. Then we'll sort out pay back and exchange." Patting his jacket and shaking his wrists, shield bracelets rattling. He was still looking outside, scanning around. "Yes. In their position, everyone at this table would have been -- motivated."

Morgan held back another chuckle. It did sound a little ridiculous. "I ain't sayin' you're wrong. M'just sayin', I ain't so forgivin'," he shrugged and sipped more coffee.

Constance assumed then that Rick's words were for Morgan and not herself, since she was merely a tea drinking bystander. Pulling her cup closer, she tapped at the teabag in the hot water a moment. She said nothing further for the moment and kept her own opinions at bay behind her easy smile.

There was, at least, pie. Rick settled into a quiet pattern of sipping coffee, smoking, watching the street through the window, and mostly ignoring the key lime. This was the part you never read about in the books, or heard on the radio dramas. The long, boring periods of waiting.

Morgan's favorite parts, if you asked him. He liked to sit and be quiet. It was nice. So, he grunted to himself, ate his pie, drank his coffee and finished his cigarette without complaint.

Jackson was a man who persisted by slipping between the cracks, unexceptional and wholly average but for a mean streak as wide as the Mississippi was long. Odd jobs as a faceless grunt doing the dirty work that even the crime bosses' underlings didn't want kept him treading above the poverty line but always hungry for more. Misfortune and nefarious dealings had made a monster of the man. His weathered face was a timeline, each furrow some ill-begotten scheme.

Unfortunate for the two of them, Constance was the type to speak to whoever was around and willing. Morgan was voted first up, "So how is the new garden growing? Are there stairs or do I need to be careful getting to the top still?"

A week's worth of shadow on his face cast a pall over the downturn of his mouth. From the mouth of an alley with broken teeth of crumbling bricks, the man emerged on a stinking breeze of garbage and rot and melded into the crowd. He fell in behind a teen with a riot of balloons playing havoc in the breeze, waved off a late-night vendor selling lemons—enough sour in his life already, and too little sweet. He picked up his steps, rolling onto the balls of his feet to stretch and crane his neck, sallow eyes picking through the crowd in an all-encompassing sweep. Here and there, forward and back, looking for his destination. When he found The Village, he walked past it once to peer down the side of the building before circling back towards the entrance.

"Still need t'be careful," he shrugged, pausing after a mouthful of pie. "I got the lumber an' all. I just ain't got started yet, been busy tryin' t'get business up an' runnin' too, y'know?" he flashed a quick, short lived smile. "Garden's comin' along though. She keeps findin' things t'put in it."

Rick listened to the conversation without paying attention to it. Noise, shapeless words, empty things. Nothing important. Not tonight, not here and now. His hands itched, the way they always did when he knew he'd be slinging magic. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he tracked a man walking past the window. Grunt. "Morgan." The wizard waited to 'feel' someone cross the threshold of arcane spellwork he'd left at the door before standing, but he was already preparing a shield, and the swelling magic caused the lights in the diner to dim.

He wasn't hot, but he was sweating copiously. Perspiration coated the ridge of his brows and his upper lip, pooled in the seams of the undershirt he wore beneath a kelly green polo shirt. An oversized nylon windbreaker collected fabric around thin wrists and badly-fitting jeans dropped above the flapping tongues of beat-up, off-brand hightops. Overall, it was an unfortunate outfit, but it had its purposes, despite the ineffectual, rumpled appearance it gave him. Jackson paused briefly in the doorway, scuffing his toe, unawares, along the chalk lines before striding with purpose to the counter and the pie display. He goddamn hated pie, but it gave him a moment to casually look around. He lost a few seconds leering at the pantylines of a waitress that passed by before he spied two gents at a table with a pretty bird in blue.

"Oh, you mean it's a lot of work?" Amused with a light laugh, she was just about to add in a comment of her own before she was looking up to the dimming lights. It wasn't the first time she'd been around something akin to that. "Perhaps I should leave now." With her slice of cake untouched and her tea left on the table even. A hand palmed just below her throat as she looked from one detective to the other, and then off to the door. Always giving a smile, that moment was no different.

Morgan set his fork down when he heard Rick grunt his name. Set it on the plate. He took another sip from the coffee and stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray and sucked on his teeth some, leaning against the table with both arms folded. He was looking at Connie. "Yeah," that was for both her question and suggestion.

Steaming coffee and smoking cigarette were left on the table, but Rick was pulling the bag up and out with him as he took a stance in the empty space between next to the booth. In contrast to Morgan, Rick muttered, "If it goes bad, put your head down, Constance." A loaded look to the waitress followed and she, sensing the tension in the air, took it as a sign to vanish into the back. A subtle head tilt to the side sent hair falling and Rick slung the bag across a shoulder. A hand came up before him, ready to create a defensive shield. "You read the newspaper, guy?"

Morgan slowly scooted aside to stand as well, though he was behind Rick at the moment. His hands came to rest at his sides, no weapons visible. He let Rick take the lead, since this was his party.

"Oh, I can take care of myself more than you may realize." Static crackled in the air around her and her smile turned strained to the back of Rick's head as he moved out of the booth. But now with her exit blocked and Rick engaging with the man, she had little choice but to sit there, and wait. It was a very familiar feeling, but it was not often that she had cake. She picked up her fork and stabbed at it a little like a petulant child.

Jackson felt the tension and attempted a disarming smile, leaving the pie the waitress had handed him in the time between upon the counter. He raised his hand and wiggled his fingers, before a hand dove in his pocket and retrieved a crumpled pack of smokes. "Every day, like clockwork. You?" Casual in tone. He offered smile as worn thin as his humor, he shoved his fist into the pocket of his windbreaker, presumably for a lighter. Knuckles stroked the steel of the Magnum and fanned out over the grip. Cold steel on a warm night felt like a good tiding. Every last dime to his name in the depleted uranium filling the chambers, and what was left of his soul's wealth pitching his pulse into the frenzied meter of intent. There was no time to be genial, to barter, to chance one more moment of evasion. The clock was ticking and only he knew that I've second hand approached the final hour. "Gonna need that lamp now, if you don't mind. I don't look like much, but I'm a pretty good shot."

Morgan cracked something like a grin.

Rick's response was a dome of energy some six feet in diameter, peak pointed directly at Jackson, so dense that it bent the very light passing through it. Teeth clamped together under the strain, as this particular wizard has never had a lot of magic to throw around. "You two, stay behind me," he murmured, waving his free hand. Though Morgan could probably stand to be shot, Rick couldn't, and likely Constance couldn't. It was better not to take any risks. He had to speak up to be heard through the shield. "I don't take well to threats. What are you going to do now?" A half step forward and the shield literally knocked over a stool sticking out too far from beneath a counter. "You tried to kill me. I want something for it."

Quiet as a librarian, Constance looked up and only watched the exchange between the three of them without a single word. She stayed behind him, though in her booth with no sign of showing that she was going to be getting up and out anywhere. The cake was left alone, picked at with no desire to eat it. It wasn't cooked at the Bon Bon anyways.

When that shield sprang to life, so did Morgan. He reached behind him and withdrew a Glock 23 from the holster inside the waistband of his pants. He didn't need to rack the slide, he'd made sure the gun was hot before leaving to meet Rick. "I'd wager m'a better shot than he," he muttered.

"I'm not so good at bartering. I'll just give you something, instead." Jackson ticked his chin towards the lamp, dropped the pack of cigarettes and fired with a maniac's grin. "This one's for you, kid." There was only one bullet he meant, and he directed it towards Rick's torso. The other 3 were just accessory pops to dissemble--one towards Morgan, at the very least--a cloak of rocketing metal to distract from the forward launch he intended to take so he could grope for the lamp. He didn't wait to see where the bullets went.

Rick poured raw will and power into the shield, doubling it's thickness on the spike of an adrenaline rush. Magic's funny that way -- however you want to believe it works, whatever your theory, you motivate someone hard enough, they can really draw from deep down and push themselves. Rick was no heavyweight in the wizardly world, but someone was aiming a gun at him and threatening his life. Even if his jacket would, theoretically, take a magnum round from point blank, he was still scared enough to really, truly put everything into that shield. The very air hummed with power and the bracelet around his wrist, made of a dozen shields of different materials, glowed red hot. --Imagine his surprise, then, when the first round punched through it like it was glass, continuing into and through his jacket, his stomach, out his back, and through the wall behind him, blowing a large hole in his small frame. The shield shattered and fell to the ground. Rick's eyes went wide, and when he tried to say something, his mouth filled with blood. The bag carrying the lamp slid off his shoulder and into Jackson's hand and he tumbled backwards in utter disbelief.

It wasn't the first gun she had been around that had been fired off so close by. Even though she knew it was coming, and anticipated the firecracker popping sound was expected, as well as her own static crackling shield in place, the woman was not out to cause violence and ducked down in the seat of her booth. Her dress would get wrinkled, but she certainly wouldn't get shot. Not being in the crossfire and a target helped her avoid the bullets too. The wince followed when she looked to the wall and its new hole. Raising her head up further was when she saw the stumble backwards that Rick was taking and the catching that Morgan managed. There was a scrunch of her features for a brief moment before she was moving out of her booth and the static dissipated. Bracing herself afterwards, she moving for the pair.

Morgan hesitated only long enough to see that shield shatter. When it happened, he too fired a handful of bullets that went tearing through the air. Like Jackson, he didn't wait to see where they landed. Instead, he was sliding down to try and catch the falling Rick while cursing beneath his breath. Should have just let him start shooting. People needed to listen to Morgan more. He was usually right.

How fortuitous that Jackson's hand was waiting, grasping the bag the moment it fell; it may have been the first stroke of luck he'd had in his life. And how ironic the moment it chose to present. He wasn't fool enough to second guess it, but flailed a hand in the bag even as he shouldered into the wizard, taking one, then two bullets that seared as they pierced sidelong into his ribs and he spilled onto the ground, rolling slightly offset from Rick. Jackson closed his hands around the lamp and, for the moment, forgot everything and everyone else. The lamp's warmth greeted him as he cupped it in his palms, curled over it and whispered to it until the lamp began to glow and thrum. The decryption bled from his heart and through his fingertips and a wisp of smoke began a slow ascension upwards.

Words were lost in a mouth full of thick, red copper, and immediately Rick was choking on his own blood, spitting fiercely and attempting, reflexively, to reach out and summon the shield back up. But .. there was nothing. Just pain and numbness in paradoxically equal portions. The wound didn't so much as leak as it coursed, spraying vital fluid all across Morgan and the floor. Something felt so off, so not right. He'd been shot before, more than once. Beaten, left for dead, tortured. But nothing like this. Rick felt like a small, dead dot in a sea of pain. Reaching again, really, truly reaching, for anything, absolutely anything -- and finding nothing, Rick started to shake, and started going into shock. "I--I can't feel anything.." he choked out.

Fire scorched her abdomen, pain wrapped at her ribs, but Constance still moved towards the mix of bodies on the ground. Clear away from Jackson though, or as far as she could be in such close quarters. "Here, here. Let me take him." She was no where as large as Morgan, but he was prone to violence where she wasn't. Shaking her head to Rick as she hooked her arms underneath his to drag him backwards and away, even to prop him half up against a wall, "Stop, don't try to speak. I've got this." A simple thing spoken, both to him and Morgan, while she could not and would not deal with the smoke coming from the lamp if she didn't have to. Closing her eyes with a faint frown, Constance reached out and placed both of her hands on Rick as though that would help stop the shaking. In time, it would just be startled nerves he was left with and that she couldn't control. But the blood? That she could stop. What was already spit out would still linger, but the oozing of it in his throat would subside, and soon so would the fiery ache and pain from the wound. Clothing was a lost cause, but Rick's flesh would stitch back together. Once she pulled both hands from him however, she slouched back to the wall herself. Tightening her jaw as she shifted her legs around and smoothed a hand down the fabric of her dress. It was such a lovely blue that soon would gain a very dark and bloody stain.

"F*ck," said the incredibly eloquent as he let the burden of Rick's body be taken over by Constance. He rose, covered in the other man's blood, and stepped by to stand over the shooter with his gun trained on him. "What's so special 'bout this lamp?" he asked, though he wasn't sure if the man could even hear him at this point. It was just in his nature to try and get answers.

?Collette," he rasped simply. Jackson felt fluid collecting in his lungs, saw the period coming in to close the sad sentence of his life. He was not unafraid, but as he watched his daughter's soul drift towards the ceiling, his care fell away and he rolled onto his back with the smile of a man that had finally stumbled upon a royal flush. The wisp became steam, then a thick but compact fog that dropped to the floor and crawled between feet and bodies, eddying near the door before before sliding beneath. "Reckon your odds are pretty goo..." he trailed off into a gurgle. His point made as he eyed Morgan's gun.

"He was just gonna let you have it," Morgan muttered, watching the wisp rise up before he turned again to instead watch the life leave the man's eyes. "F*ckin' idiot."

So much was happening, but it was happening from a great distance and seemed to be a day and place apart. Once, the world had been rich with color and sound and heat, full of people and things, and events that happened in linear fashion. Now, everything was dull, and jumbled, and though he could feel his body reknitting itself, he didn't believe it. That happened later, over a long period of time, not now, not immediately. And Jackson wasn't suppose to die here. He was suppose to be reunited with his daughter, freed from her prison. And Rick was suppose to have magic. Where had the magic gone? Where --? Rick continued to shiver and rolled over, curling in on himself as oblivion fought to take his waking mind. "No. No, g'dammit.." he muttered in short, shivering spurts. "It's gone. I can't feel anything." He attempted to roll again and get up, but his limbs didn't want to work.

"He better not die," he went on. "If he dies, I'm gonna follow your sorry butts straight to hell," he muttered, shoving the gun away. There wasn't any point in wasting another bullet.

"Hey," he dropped to a crouch and pushed Rick right back down. "You just got shot, old man. Stay there a minute."

"He's not going to die." Her voice was a bit of a hiss from her place on the floor as she looked over to Morgan when he crouched low to both of them. "Or well, he did....will...." Her hand lifted from her dress and pointed towards Jackson before she turned her palm up and noticed the blood on her hands in a delayed fashion. "I only took the pain away." A frown formed, uncommon on her features as she looked to both of them.

Maybe Morgan had a mean streak, too, who knew? Jackson had been waiting for the bullet to come, floating on a hazy sea of fuzzy yellow memories,? Collette twirling around in an afternoon breeze, ?as he saturated the windbreaker with blood. When it didn't, he merely exhaled. His passage from this world into the next was nearly unobtrusive as he'd come. No last gasps or pithy epithets. He simply bled out there upon the floor. There might have been a faint twitch at the corners of his mouth for the pair of eyes and flash of straw-blond hair he glimpsed streaking across a windowpane before they, and he, disappeared into darkness.

"Good. 'Cause, I'd chase his butts t'hell, too," he muttered. "You alright, Connie? Ain't lookin' too hot yourself," he straightened up and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"You don't understand... " Ignoring reason, ignoring Morgan, ignoring the pain, Rick tried again to sit up, and again failed. Failed. Failed. The word resonated with him. So much of it. It was hard, some nights, to remember times when he hadn't failed. When he hadn't lost. Lila. Jackson, whose name he didn't really know. Others. So many others. Rick got an elbow below him and pushed hard, finally producing enough height that he could get to his knees and look around. Blood blessed his mouth in a halo. "Is he .. is he really dead?" Rick deflated, visibly. "Sh*t."

Then, instantly. "Did he get the lamp? Did he use it?" Desperately turning to Morgan, eyes wet.

"Yeah," Morgan glanced at the dead man whose name he didn't know. He reached down, offering Rick a helping hand. "Yeah, he did. You okay?"

Chittering was the relocation of flippant scales, metallic pieces all shifting with tremors of movement. Faceless entities that tore asunder the humane fabric of a skinsuit all rocked within a temple of broad bones. It had little patience for doors; what crashed from the glass of the diner stayed crouched within a summoning circle of broken shards before it stood. Still shifting was the ripple of metallic flesh, rolling constantly as it took to a bipedal stalk. Stepping over fallen bodies, unknown souls, careless of all but the panting Thrall that had called without raising her voice. Threads of a matchbook bond which bound the storm to this microscopic creature in accordance to the Seven. Hands spread, fingers retreating, reforming, to be more shaped rather than crooked talons. It reached for the empath.

"It was his daughter, Morgan. Did you se--" speaking of seeing. Rick didn't know what was happening. Maybe it was the blood loss, but he was pushing himself beneath the nearest table in violent spasms. What the hell was that thing!? The detective left a blood slick on the floor in his wake.

Blood spread and seeped through the fabric of her dress and continued to do so as they talked and Rick was getting to his feet. Constance could only turn her eyes to stare at Morgan in response to his question, her tongue tangled up for the time being. Then a jolt of shock washed over her, only it had nothing to do with the wound in her abdomen. "I need a little time, maybe some water." Her hand outstretched then for the being that was heading for her. It seemed natural to her, and she offered no explanation for it at the moment. Except for one. "He is here for me."

Morgan was similarly taken aback by the sudden presence in the room. His gut reaction was to reach for his gun again, but Constance's words were quick enough that he didn't start shooting again. "For you?" he grunted. This city. "His daughter was in the lamp? Her soul? I saw somethin' lookin' like smoke come out of it."

Over and over, the rattling of the scales kept the faceless aeon as a primordial mystery. Her instinct was the same as its own. Small, lithe, in the hands of what tangled at the glass of her wrist before arms scooped downwards to draw her away from the floor and closer to the barrel of a chest. Blood. A rumble, not so sedated, rattled at the windows left unharmed by its entrance.

"Tonight -- tonight's a mess." Beneath the table, he felt safe. Small, but safe. The rattling windows didn't help the feeling, and his bones themselves ached, shaking in the flesh. Wincing, Rick forced himself against the wall and coughed, spitting up blood left in his lungs. "S'total damn mess. Thank you, Constance. Sorry.. I'm sorry."

Scooped up like a rag doll and held close, Constance allowed herself to cave in to the creature with no fear even as he rumbled and rattled the windows. "Please do not yell at me in front of them. I will be fine, had I not, there would be two dead bodies and even more ache." Perhaps she was not so much just a boring lady in a dress who drank tea if she was unphased by scale covered monsters who shattered windows for their entrance.

?You need me t'take you t'a hospital or somethin'?" whatever the problem was, it still hadn't clicked with Morgan. "No **** t'night's a mess. Y'thought it'd be a good idea t'have a chat with a guy who's tried t'kill you already. Lucky Constance was here. I don' think I'd have been able t'save you."

"You're welcome. May I have my book please?" While her dress may be ruined, her book on the table of the booth was still safe. Still held aloft, her arm outstretched for it, in hopes that one of them would hand it to her before she was scolded again by the beast.

No eyes, no mouth. The shift of it all could appear as if a human guise was worn on the inside of the towering creation; it would appear that it starred (if such was possible) at those within range. Another chitter as the metallic looking clusters spread out in ripples, in waves. Palm of a hand rose to brush a stroke through her hair, muted in sound but not in the struggle it held to not expose more than this image. It stood, straight of spine, and waited as a solid sentinel with its charge draped in arms.

"My shield should stand up to a damn grenade or ten, Morgan. I don't know what that was about." Too tired and too deflated to be angry. "Besides. Everyone deserves second chances, Morgan." Beneath the table, Rick was unable to get the book for her.

Morgan walked over to the table and picked up the book, then, studying the construct warily, approached. He held it out for Constance while trying to discern the beings features, though he couldn't see them. "Not everyone does, Rick."

"That kinda thinkin' is what gets people in your situation."

"Hell of a friend. Using a moment like this to say 'I told you so.' " Rick grunted, pulling his phone out of a pocket and unlocking the screen. Reading, then finally responding, he grunted. "Once that thing's gone, I need to go home. I'm .. I'm having some problems."

"Thank you." To Morgan as she pulled the book close while she was coddled with a hand in her hair. Serene then, her smile finally returned. "I would like to go home now please." Her words now for her chariot of sorts, finally able to wrap her arm about its neck to hold on for any coming motion.

"We are leaving." Hearing Rick.

"Been told I'm a bit of an ****," he shrugged. He nodded curtly at Connie. "Thanks for your help, Constance," he said, stepping away from her and the construct and moving back toward the detective.

Another rumble. It rolled as distant thunder, the baritone of it spreading as tremors through the gut of the diner. She hung as a fixture to its neck, one arm swung to belt across her. If fury existed, it was not shown. Held beneath the scales that flexed as the surface of a sea. Around those that had fallen, careless of glass, the sleek monstrosity left with what it had come for.

Blood stained fingers waved over his shoulder, to serve as a response to both Morgan's thanks and as her farewell.

Once the diner was clear of everyone except the two detectives, Rick was crawling back out from beneath the table and pushing himself to his feet, wobbling and growing paler with the strain. His stomach still hurt, the pain almost blinding, and he it took him more than a few tries to get the pack of cigarettes and lighter out. He didn't talked until he was smoking. ".. you walk with me back, yeah?" Eyes lingered on the dead man and Rick.. just shook his head.

"Yeah," he nodded, extending a hand for the pack of cigarettes. "Gimme another smoke."

Rick handed him the pack and lighter, dropped some money on the table for the coffee and food, and grunted. "C'mon." And he, too, was leaving.

"So we're just gonna leave him there?" he asked, stepping over the dead man's body as he lit another cigarette.

"Yeah. He shot me. Screw em. I said second chances, I'm not giving him a burial, too."

Morgan snorted with laughter and handed the pack of cigarettes and lighter back over, pushing the door open a moment later. "The pie was alright."

"I didn't even touch mine, and would you be surprised? I don't feel hungry." Not laughing, but he could at least appreciate a joke. Before he left, he went through the man?s pockets and took his wallet and phone before scooping up the empty lamp -- it might be useful -- and made a face at his clothes. --Quinn was going to be so angry.