2012-07-04 The 4th in Times Square

There are steers-steers who don't feel this swamped when being corralled and pushed and mashed towards the slaughter house. Cows moaning and mooing and discomfort and a myriad of smells-both fresh and funky.

In short, Times Square is a place to be here on the Fourth of July. There's a big stage and some pop band who Wally doesn't listen to, but there's girls and people and it's not far from home and tonight you gotta let loose a bit. The fireworks should start shortly, as soon as the sun sets.

Natasha Romanoff became an American the hard way, she defected. As such, she holds Independence Day in high regard. She's here, away from the crush of the crowd, perched on a rooftop for a better view. She's in her Black Widow costume, but she doesn't seem to be working tonight. She watches the band through a pair of binoculars.

Cassie sighs into her phone, "No, I understand. But this means you owe me big time. I'm talking at least one full day at your next dig." She laughs a little at the voice on the other end, "Yeah, ok. Try not to work too hard. No, no don't worry. I'll be fine. I'll just order a pizza and watch T.V. or something. Bye, mom." Hanging up, she looks around and grins a little, then heads for the nearest drink-selling vendor.

John is British.

That means two things to this situation:

First, the girl who just bumped into him, and he 'in a rare moment' politely apologized too thus outing himself as from the Isles, is a moron for asking him 'Oh! English people celebrate the fourth too?!' Is lucky he didn't smack her.. Instead, he tore into her like a jaguar. "No." Said with a smile and a drag from his cigarette, "You stupid american half wit, we don't... That'd be like asking you yanks if you celebrate saigon day... You don't even know what I'm talking about do you?" Shaking his head smiling like he's talking to someone who is ligit retarded.

Second.

There's booze. Not free booze, so it's not perfect, and he has to deal with people (which is the other reason it's not perfect), but periodically some nubile young woman flashes her breasts to the stage... That part makes up for some of it.

With a cup of cheap domestic beer and a cigarette, Constantine meanders through the crowd. Deliberately blowing smoke in teenagers faces because he's an ass hole.

Wally is standing off towards the side of the stage and is feeling slightly annoyed the more it goes on. It blares and it is bad. This teenie bopper crap was a lot better when Wally was, in fact, a teeny bopper. He decides to go snag a drink, himself. Cola. Shot of grenadine.

The Widow glimpses Constantine down below after one of the teenagers shouts at him for being rude. She watches his progress with a mix of amusement and disapproval. If he gets out of hand, she might have to step in but it's her night off, dammit. The rest of the crowd gets a glance which, by Widow standards, is still probably more observant than most others scrutinizing.

John pays these unpleasant bystanders of his passage no mind. He tried being courtious... he tried it once anyways, but that still has to count for trying. The cigarette is burning down near the filter as he nears the stage, still managing to pull another two or three drags dispite the fact that it's mostly fiberglass at this point.

What does he care, he's got domestic american horse piss to wash it down with...

Eyeing the plastic cup full of frothy 'beer' (alegidly) before tossing the rest back and throwing the cup back over his shoulder. The world is your oyster, kid. Or your trash can.. it works out all the same.

There's music too, apparently. Nudging one of the teen boppers who is singing along with a flick of his wrist. "Who's this?" Pointing to the stage. "And are they aware that their music can cause cancer?"

Cassie stands in line at a soda vendor, absently tapping her fingers against her thigh in time to the music, while the group in front of her is joined by someone complaining about some annoying brit going on about "stupid made-up holidays". And then one of the guys starts trying to flirt with her. Trying to use his friend's story to his advantage, he invites her to join his friends to celebrate a "real holiday". Cassie gives him a grin that is only a little condescending as she takes her turn to order, "First of all, Saigon Day is the day the Vietnam War ended, and second of all, I can buy my own drinks. Thanks." Rolling her eyes, she orders a soda and heads back out into the crowd.

"It's Kill5 and the Zwats," says the teeny bopper to Constantine in an exclaim. The second part is disregarded.

What cannot be disregarded, however, is the cup that comes up over the shoulder and hits one Wally West right in the face, spilling his drink and showering him in his own beverage. "What the?!" Fireworks before the fireworks.

The Widow decides it might be more fun to join the crowd. She grabs her pack, climbs down an alley-side wall, and throws a trench coat over her costume. Simple, but it works. She slings the pack over her shoulder like a purse, and makes her way to the soda vendor. Nothing alcoholic they sell here would be worth drinking. She's Russian. She slides into line behind Cassie. The possibly tussle is watched silently.

Constantine glances back over his shoulder at the secondary 'what the' because he was just about to say something expressly semiliar to that when he heard the name of this band... Seeing the drink covered individual, his eyes slide up and down the kid for a second. Distantly, disinterestedly, he raises his hand... and points at the guy next to the girl who just told him the name of the band.

"In my country, that'd be an ass whoopin' mate. I know you yanks like to talk things out though..." Shrugging, "Anyways, there's your culprit." Bringing his hand up closer to indicate the rather large Jockish guy who is certainly only here because his girlfriend is really into Zwats. "This is your chance..."

Sliding over closer to Wally, tilting his head to one side, one hand laid on his shoulder the other on his arm. Shifting from side to side like the two coins of the conscience. "Punch'em in the gibblets... he certainly deserves it right?"

Otherside, "But think of the children..." He's not very good at that side...

Cassie pushes away from her would-be date and back toward the crowd. She winces as she catches sight of Wally, grabbing some napkins and heading over to offer some help. She frowns at Constantine as she gets closer, his strange back and forth conversation giving her the wiggins. "Escape from a mental facility much?" She asks while holding the napkins out toward Wally, "Here."

It's probably that Irish blood in him, but West is hot. Real hot. And I'm not talkin' sexy. I'm talkin' pissed. He bats the napkins away, hottie handing them to him or no. "What the crap, punk?" Wally asks incredulously at the jock. "You better watch where you're throwing things, lest you throw things at the wrong, cat, you get my meaning?"

"In my country, the ass whoops you," Natasha quips, grinning at Constantine, purposely using a thick Russian accent. "Donkeys, they can be dangerous, da?" Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her trench. She subtly maneuvers into a spot where she can break up the fight if one starts. "I would listen to the young man, he has hair of fire. We have tempers, us, what do you call them here? Gingers?"

Constantine turns on his left heel, slipping his hand down into the pocket of his trench and spins on his heel to look at Natasha, "Oh bloody he-, you're telling me the red army.. is here to advocate the ginger?" Glancing around with his elbows poked out a bit wide from his sides, "Am I the only one who thinks that's cliche?" Wide eyes. Even the band can't ruin this moment...

Fuck me if they're not trying though.

Cassie frowns, her napkins falling to the streets. She rolls her eyes and starts to walk away when they are joined by another. And Constantine starts acting even weirder. "Okay, maybe the mental facility thin wasn't so much of a joke after all." She glances from Constantine to the brewing fight, then sighs, "This is what I get for lying to my mom."

Wally and the Jock sort of eye each other up. The latter towers over him. He didn't do anything, but he's never stepped down from a fight he knows he can win, and against this ginger that he towers over, he's pretty sure he can drop him no time flat. There's a lot of "OHYOUWANNAGO?YEAHIWANNAGO!"s

Constantine's wide eyes get a chuckle out of Natasha, and she drops the act. "No, of course not. We're here to drink all your vodka," she says, perfectly deadpan. She idly slides one hand out of a pocket to aim her Widow's Bite at the jock. If he makes a move, instead of just talking big, she'll taser him to the tune of 30K volts.

"That's right." Constantine says, rather pointedly to Cassie. Even nodding as he slips a hand into his pocket, produces a silk cut clove cigarette which he turns around to lay between his lips, and finally a box of matches. Rattling it next to his ear absently, one is removed (the last one) and struck, hand cupped around the flame to protect it from all this jostling 'noise polution' and fist-e-cuffs that the good ol american holiday has devolved in.

Pro U.S. of A.

Waving out the match, he points towards Cassie. "God did this because you lied to your mom.. turns out he's pretty petty. Who knew?"

Shaking his head, glancing back to the fight with a turn that brings him up beside Tasha, "I swear to fucking christ, I will give you six hundred dollars, right now, if you taz the singer of this band..." Whispered, close to her ear. "Think about it."

Then eyes on the boys bumping chests and talking tough. Cigarette dangling from his lips, hands back in the pockets of his coat. "Come on lad, just hit him. Show him gingers do have spirit..." See what he did there?

Cassie eyes Constantine warily as she slips through the crowd toward Wally and Mr. Jock. Once close enough, she reaches up to tap the Jock on the arm, and once she has his attention jerks a thumb toward a girl who looks vaguely like his girlfriend, "Hey, isn't that your girlfriend? Cause I think she's leaving with my ex over there... "

"Wha?" grunts the jock. "Kris! Come back!" Nothing can come between bros like hos, baby. The jock leaves abruptly, leaving Wally standing there. Looking menacing in his cola stained shirt and wet hair.

He looks around to everyone. "That counts as a win, right? I won that..." Luckily he didn't have to use his powers. Barry would have flipped.

Sharon. So tardy for the party. But even then, it doesn't look like the party's over. Not by a long shot. Sliding into place next to Natasha, the agent shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans, her expression clearly displeased. Those present are observed curiously before, with a dry tone, the blonde asks, "Is everything alright here?"

"I wish I could," Natasha confirms for John. "The noise these kids listen to these days. Who is that bad? The New Boyz to Men on the Backstreet or something?" She shrugs. Someone is a bit musically out of touch. "Sadly, they're not breaking any laws by sucking out loud. If Captain Steroids over there makes a move though, he's fair game." She tilts her head charmingly to one side, looking as harmless as harmless can be. Then she sighs as the fun ends. She glances over her shoulder at Sharon. "Boringly sedate, I'm afraid."

Constantine takes an indifferent stance on the matter of departing jocks, but he gives something a try just for the shits and giggles of it. Both hands come out of his pockets and start to slow clap for Wally.

After a few seconds... Well he's still clapping alone... so so much for that myth being true.

His hands sease in that and preform a rubbing inspection of his jaw, scissoring the cigarette to flick loose some ashes with a scathing stare directed up at the stage. "Oy, them bloks at least had a song and dance number, yeah? These tossers... I'm lax to even call them musicians. It seems like an afront to sound to suggest this garbage is in the same category with decent artists..."

... The light bulb is almost visible, "So if they give you a reason?" Motioning to the band, "You can hit them with that voltage stick, then?"

Cassie laughs a little, "Yeah, a total win. I think there's a bathroom over there if you wanna wash off. And, you know, not smell like spilled soda all night." She gestures toward the nearest open store, trying very hard to ignore Constantine. But failing. Eventually she has to turn and glare at the guy, "Seriously? Dude, if you don't want to be here and listen to them, leave. You don't need to make everyone else miserable because you don't like it."

Wally nods to Cass and moves off slowly towards the restroom. He seems kind of pissed, still but he'll get over it. Anyways, just as he leaves the band finishes. They say their thank yous to the crowd and the first of the fireworks light up the sky: first red, then white, then blue.

Natasha gives the 'so-so' hand wobble at John. "Depends on the severity of the situation. This is really the NYPD's turf. S.H.I.E.L.D. has no real authority here without a UN approval." When the cacophony mercifully stops, she lets out a sigh of relief. She looks up as the colors explode above, washing the crowd in the patriotic colors.

"It looks like I missed the fun," Carter quips, that being wwhen she notices Wally and his dour mood and everyone else's reaction to whatever happened. "You know, this entire fighting among ourselves thing is really stupid," she mutters while shoving her hands into to pockets of the jeans she is wearing, "but I guess that whole 'give peace a chance thing' went out of fashion forty years ago." Sighing, she looks up, watching the fireworks.

"Oy.. wait..." John raises a hand as if to pause Natasha, then runs his hand in a backwards loop, leaning towards her a bit. Surely he must have misheard her, though he's quite certain he did not, "Did you say S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Shouting a bit because it's one of those pop power ballads they go into these days trying to appear like they're still intouch with their rebellious youth and not just products of the Culture machine.

"If so, I need to go see a man about a 'what the fuck are doing here?'"

This all while star gazing at Cassie, "I'm sorry, did the American lady, celebrating the american holidy just tell someone they're not free to do something?" Glancing around slowly, "That's suppose to be sitcom funny right? I'm not just hearing things?"

"It's my day off. Can't a girl enjoy a traditional patriotic celebration?" Natasha asks Constantine with an arch of her brow. "I could ask you the same thing. Weren't you on the wrong side of Independence Day, Mister Limey accent?" She quirks a wry smile. "Quit picking on the young ones. Perhaps I'll buy you a," she leans in and sniffs a little to get a whiff of his eau de booze, "Scotch perhaps?"

Cassie rolls her eyes at Constantine, "Yeah. I'm telling you to get a life." Her annoyance turns to a grin when Wally comes back, "Cassie." She glances up as she notices a particularly large display overhead, "Your date cancel on you, too?"

"Patriotic my arse..." Constantine snorts, "They sign a piece of paper and fight another few years before it means the first hint of anything... but they celebrate independance anyhow?" John's nods his head in an exagerated manner, "How can I not celebrate idoicy like that?" Raising his empty hand in an empty salute.

Oh Cassie. Glancing her way with a grin, "I'm sure you've got a hot ticket all the way to 'having a life' ville dontcha, love? Calling your mom on the tele to ask permission to be out past curfew?" Wiggling his thumb and pinky in universal telephone...

But Tasha's said the magic words, "Lady, I don't care if you work for the CIA, you bring booze into this and you're alright in my book.. Unless you try and sell me on this pop progressive music being an acceptable alternative to a proper edicuation in British punk rock." Hands out to his side, cigarette still burning between his fingers, "Then we can't be friends, sorry... John Constantine." For both the gingers. Saves time to trying to sort out two introductions and sounding redundent.

Wondering into the scene is a very tall, very broad shouldered blond man. His hair tied back into a low ponytail near his shoulders, hiw stormy gray-blue eyes are fixated on the bright bursts of color over head. Other than being really tall and really built, nothing really seems usual about him - demin jeans, a tshirt that's just a bit too tight for his shoulders, steel toe boots - until the large hammer clipped ot his belt is seen.

It looks like one of those ren faire knock offs, a poor imitation of a certain mythological relic. It does appear heavy, but really? Who makes combat ready replicas these days anyways?

"Natasha Romanoff," the Widow replies to Constantine, quelling the urge to raise both brows at the name. He has a file somewhere in the SH.I.E.L.D. database, full of holes though it is. "I have a very dear friend, who also happens to be my boss, who is quite fond of Scotch. I've learned to become a connoisseur over the years in order to buy him proper Christmas gifts of the alcoholic variety, thus ensuring I get good performance reviews," she jokes. She looks to Sharon. "I'm going to usher the Brit to a bar, for the sake of world peace. Can you make sure the rest of these lovely people don't punch each other?" She grins.

(More to come!)