Names have power. They carry weight. In certain circles, his name was enough to make people shit bricks and run for cover. And then they figured out who he really was. He swore they did it deliberately. “Oy! You John Constantine then? Do us some magic!” He was sick of it. Every bloody day. Well, not every day, but often enough. Too often.

He was about six feet tall, scruffy blonde hair, blue eyes. He smoked. He wore a trenchcoat most of the time. But he was not John Bloody Constantine. Well, he was, just not the one they thought. This Constantine ran marathons. The other one just ran away.

Bastard of a day. Nine more entries in the “stupid things users have done to their computers” book, starting with switching it off at the wall halfway through a major upgrade. Fried the hard drive but of course it was not their fault! No-one told them not to do that. Muppets. “People do remind you to breathe from time to time, don't they?” he'd said. Well, he had nearly said it. He told himself he would, next time. He had to keep reminding himself that they paid him what they paid him because otherwise they'd have to hire five people to do his job. Oh yes, he was that good.

The day's tensions eased slightly as he stepped through the front door of his abode, his fortress against the pressures of daily existence. Well, close enough. Basement flat, 3 rooms, under a Chinese take-away just off the Charing Cross Road. Central, convenient for the tube and DLR, and soundproofed to the hilt. Theatreland was never quiet. Clutched in his hand was a small stack of post, grabbed off the mat as he locked the door behind him.

He dumped his coat on the hook on the door, slid the dead-bolts in place, and tossed the post onto the small table beside the door. One small envelope caught his eye. The thick, cream coloured parchment was unlike any he'd seen before. The envelope was addressed to him in handwriting he didn't recognize. This wasn't the first time this had happened. He'd met the legendary John Constantine himself, in a pub round the corner. Just to pass on his mail, it was not like they were mates. He didn't even stop for a pint.

The flowing letters of his name and address were elegant and evoked a sense of age. Noticing no postmark or return address, he curiously flipped the envelope over. A wax seal closed the parchment and was pressed with a symbol, a stylized representation of a Phoenix, the legendary creature representing rebirth.

John had seen the symbol on the seal before. Stuffing the letter into a pocket, he dashed through to his bedroom. There was not a lot of floor space that wasn't covered by bed or computer parts so it was a bit of a minefield getting anywhere without something either breaking or hurting you, if you weren't used to it.

Fortunately he'd been living here for three years now, since his father died and he moved to London. He was used to it. On top of the skinny pine wardrobe was where anything that didn't plug in, need batteries or was irreparably shafted got shoved. Underneath all of that sat a massive photo album. He hauled it out, slouched on the bed, and thumbed through it.

Five generations of Constantines before him made their appearances in this album, it went back to Victorian times and contained some of the earliest photos around. John knew he'd seen the seal before, he used to stare at it for hours when he was a kid. Three pages in and he found the picture he was looking for. It was faded, sepia-toned, and full of worthy-looking bearded gents in frock coats and top hats. Behind them, on the mantlepiece of whatever room the photo was taken in, was the seal. It was about as a big as one of the top hats, carved into a lump of rock. Some numpty back in the fifties had glued the photos in place, so there was no way of knowing who was in the picture without wrecking it completely, tearing it out. Apparently John was related to one of them. His dad didn't know which one, nor did gramps down in Canterbury. And he couldn't ask either of them now.

As he slid his finger under the flap, preparing to break the seal, a sudden feeling flooded through him, a feeling that his life was about to change drastically.

Inside was a single sheet of vellum. The handwriting matched the outside of the envelope.

'Mr. John Alexander Constantine,

     Your presence is requested at the demesne of one Jeffrey Duvalle, President of the non-profit organization, The Phoenix Foundation. A casual dinner will be followed by a business proposal. Please call 065-333-4563 for directions. The appointment will be Friday, August, 21st at 8:00 pm.

The beginning was formal, almost terse. Though the handwriting remained the same, the second portion of the letter was much more informal.

     I'm inordinately please to have had your name brought to my attention. Your family has served our institution well throughout the years, and I'm hopeful that you'll join us as well. The parting of our families was a sad event that I hope to make recompense for with you.

     I'm quite certain that this letter raises a host of questions for you. I can guarantee that should you accept my invitation for dinner and stay to hear the proposal I am offering, that some of them will be answered. The rest will be answered over time. Some of what you will learn will, no doubt, be hard to take on face value. I can ask only that you come with an open mind and the knowledge that at one time, your family was united in our cause.

Sincerely yours,

Jeffery Duvalle
Persident, The Phoenix Foundation

"What the feck's the Phoenix Foundation when it's at home?"  John re-read the letter.  They'd used his middle name.  That was unusual - his family knew it, one or two friends from Uni called him Lex whenever they met but that was about it.  So if this was a wind-up, it came via the works personnel department.  He racked his brain, trying to shake out anything he might've done to annoy them recently, came up with nothing.  He checked his watch, reached for the phone.  Gone six but there'd be someone working the stacks for tomorrow's edition.

"Features, Jen speaking."

"Hey, Jen, it's Constantine.  Got a moment?"

"For you, darling, anything.  I still owe you for that Quark debacle."

Quark.  Strange programme.  Occasionally forgot how to read its own files.  But would they try Scribus?  Of course not.  Why get software for free when you can pay through the nose for it.

"Thanks.  Need to know about the Phoenix Foundation.  President on Jeffrey Duvalle."  John spelled out the names, listened as they were read back.

"If I'm not being too curious, why?"

"Becase they seem to know about me and they've invited me for dinner."

"Oooh!  Is it a 'plus one'?"

"A what?"

"A 'plus one'.  You know, John Constantine and guest.  The 'and guest' is the 'plus one'."

"Fraid not, Jen.  But I'll keep you in mind for the next one I get."

"Thanks, darling.  Look, I'll give you a call back in an hour or so.  Working on crime stats at the moment for a piece tomorrow."

"Remember, crime is down but the fear of crime is up.  Zombies are at an all-time low but the fear of zombies is higher than ever before!"

"You've been to see Dara again, haven't you."

"Got the DVD.  Look forward to your call!"

"Ciao, darling."

John sat back on the bed, idly wondering what to have for dinner.  Times like this his mind shifted to food.  His father had been a great cook, his grandfather had been exceptional - but only at a few dishes.  Well, food or running.  He had an hour to kill before Jen would phone him, there was a good loop that would take him round Hyde Park and back in that time.

"You had to die, didn't you.  Had to die before I could ask you any of the important stuff."

Flicking backwards and forwards through the photo album, John considered the letter.  They'd middle-named him.  They knew him and his family.  There was more implied in the letter, a lot more.  His father had always brushed off the family history, changed the subject.  When he was a kid, John had thought that was through ignorance.  Now he wasn't so sure.

He shook his head, grabbed his running kit from under the bed and changed.  iPod number three was fully charged and ready to go, loaded with Yes and Jarre.  He hooked his Sennheisers on, the headphones nestling gently into his ears, locked the front door and began a slow jog towards the river.

The hour passed smoothly, a playlist of Jean Michel Jarre soothing his mind, focussing his thoughts onto the things that mattered.  Breathing.  Pace.  Push for a hundred beats.  Slacken off for a hundred.  Sprint to that statue.  Mind those kids on scooters.  Without really concentrating on anything, fifty-five minutes later he was back at his front door.  The phone rang as he closed the door.

"John?  It's Jen."

"Hey, Jen.  Whatcha find?"

"You sound out-of-breath.  Been running?"

"You know me, just a loop round Hyde Park.  Relaxing for the mind and body, you know.  Should join me one day."

"John, I only run if someone's chasing me."

"That line sounded better on Val Kilmer.  So?  Spill the beans."

"Right.  Phoenix Foundation.  Been around for ages, darling, simply ages.  The only mentions I can find are little 'and finally' type stories where they've done some worthy deed and been recognised for it.  Been quiet for a good few years.  Post of head honcho seems to be hereditary, there's always a DuValle boy in charge."

"Anything else?"

"You'll have to check your pigeon-hole for that, darling.  I've put the clippings in there."

"Thanks."

"Oh, save your thanks until you've read the file.  It's not exactly War and Peace."  Jen paused for a moment.  "You going to go to their dinner?"

"Definitely.  I was meditating on the question all the way round my jog."

"Bollocks, darling.  That's bollocks.  You don't meditate and I know it.  It's a free meal you're after.  Another night you don't have to worry about the washing up."

"Damn, and there was I aiming for New Age Man."

"Fat chance, Running Boy.  Now I've got to finish these statistics.  Where do we stand?"

"Tentatively, I owe you one.  But that might be reduced to we're quits once I've read the file.  Dosvedanya, Jen."

"Ciao, Running Boy."

John dropped the receiver back into it's cradle, the charging light blinking a couple of times before settling into a pattern.  Jen's information didn't make things any clearer.  The pigeon-holes were all electronic, he could hook up to his works computer, grab the file now and see what more he could learn.  Or he could get some dinner.

Raiding the fridge, John put together a swift curry and set it simmering while he showered.  The whole time he was preoccupied.  "Your family has served our institution well throughout the years..."  He could almost hear his grandfather's voice reading the letter to him.  Had Dedoolya worked for these people?  His father?

As his dinner simmered, he docked his iPod and continued the Jarre playlist he'd been running to.  Oxygene washed out of the speakers, soothing and calming.  He gazed back and forth between the photograph and the letter.

     I'm inordinately please to have had your name brought to my attention. Your family has served our institution well throughout the years, and I'm hopeful that you'll join us as well. The parting of our families was a sad event that I hope to make recompense for with you.

What did this lot do?  Dedoolya had been involved.  Had his father?  When did they part?  What happened?  Unconciously, John pulled a notepad and pen across, started jotting down his questions in shorthand.

     I'm quite certain that this letter raises a host of questions for you.
Too damn right it does!
I can guarantee that should you accept my invitation for dinner and stay to hear the proposal I am offering, that some of them will be answered. The rest will be answered over time. Some of what you will learn will, no doubt, be hard to take on face value. I can ask only that you come with an open mind and the knowledge that at one time, your family was united in our cause.

Oh, goody.  They have a 'cause'.  What's the cause? was added to his growing list of questions.  And what's the proposal?  Why not just put the proposal in the letter?

The curry ready, John brought the bowl through and continued his questions.  Face value.  What would be hard to take at face value?  Well, Zim dollars are pretty hard to take at face value.  Pre-Euro currencies?  Scottish pound notes?  Most of the celebrity photos he saw on the works PCs, especially the ones people weren't supposed to have.  And the videos that bloke on the fourth floor had been downloading.  Suppose it all depended on what the organisation was about, didn't it.  He'd been told his Dedoolya had been a brave and valliant man during the first world war.  Didn't know much about what he did during the second.

"Ach, this is ridiculous."  John grabbed his mobile, dialled the number on the letter.  A machine answered:

"Thankyou for calling the Phoenix Foundation.  Our offices are currently closed.  Please call back during business hours, Monday to Friday."  And then it cut him off.  No 'please leave a message after the beep'.

"How rude.  Bet they don't have a website, either."  He paused, spoon part-way to his mouth.  "Oooh.  Business opportunity there."  A thumbnail sketch of a website template joined his list of questions.  "And bugger.  Call'll have to wait 'til Monday."

...The Weekend...

Saturday.  No big run tomorrow, no race to go to, so John was up bright and early for a training run.  Took a train down to Canterbury, ran a twenty-mile loop past some of the haunts he'd gone to with Dedoolya all those years ago.  Halfway out was the church where his mother, father and grandfather were buried.  A simple road traffic accident and he'd lost his family.  Mercifully swift.  He'd been running in Helsinki when it happened.  Ran that race for them every year since.

Leaning against his Dedoolya's gravestone, a simple black marble affair a couple of feet tall, John stretched his legs.  "Pyotr Alexiovich Konstantin".  1887 - 1991.  Hadn't quite made the tonne.

"Tell me, Dedoolya.  Tell me about the Phoenix Foundation."  He spoke in Russian - though his grandfather had spoken perfect English it seemed right to be asking the questions in his native tongue.  "Who are they?  What do they do?  What did we do for them?"  He jogged slowly around the plot.  "Could you not have kept a diary?  Something that might give me a clue about this shit?  Gonna have to start drawing up the family tree."  He paused before the three stones, bowed.  "Bye, folks.  See you in a few weeks."

His route back to the station was mostly a gentle downhill alongside railway lines through the Kent countryside.  Volume up, Magnum pounding from his iPod, he ran hard, pushed himself.  He was gearing up for a sprint finish when he saw the blue lights, the police cars, the tape and barriers.

"Bollocks" he hissed, easing off.  Well, he thought he hissed.  Apparently he'd had the iPod turned up a bit too much.  Several people turned and stared at him, one police officer looked at him sharply before pointing at him and gesturing for him to come forward.

"You.  John Constantine.  I want a word with you."

Great.  My reputation preceeds me.

"Mate, you've got the wrong Constantine."  Give 'em the truth from the outset.  He walked up to the officer, looked down at him and blinked a couple of times, recognition dancing on the edge of perception.

"I hope not."  The officer removed his hat revealing a smooth, shiny, bald head.

"Cueball."  There it was.  That dawning moment of realisation.  "Didn't recognise you with your hat on."

"You still running next Sunday?"

"Baring death and dismemberment, yep."

"Cool.  Need a lift to the start?"

"Hey, if you're offering?"

"Orpington station, half-nine?"

"See you there."  John turned, started to walk back up the street.  "Cueball, you heard of the Phoenix Foundation?"

The officer put his hat back on, shook his head.

"Can't say it rings any bells.  I'll ask around."

"Cheers.  Hey, what happened here?"

"Can't say."  Cueball did an eloquent little mime with his fingers - man jumping in front of on-coming express train.

"Ouch."  John set off back towards the town centre at a slow jog.  "See you Sunday."

One long, slow train ride later and he's back in London, rested and relaxed.  Something really good about a long run on a Saturday.  Swift shower back at the flat then a slow stroll across to the Science Museum.

People don't really do London on foot.  They take the bus, the Tube, taxis.  But they don't realise how small the city is.   An hour's walk, that's all.  Not hard, pavement-pounding slog.  He stopped in bookshops, record stores, whatever took his fancy.  Wasn't looking for anything in particular, just looking for the sake of it.  He waved at the security staff on the doors of the Science Museum, ambled up the stairs and found his usual spot in front of the Babbage Engine.

Brian Eno's music blotted out the conversations going on around him, reducing them to a background chatter that fitted the ambient noise perfectly.  Visitors came and went, peering at the brain in a jar, glancing at the brass gears and cogs of this most beautiful machine without really seeing them.  You had to spend a lot of time here just looking at the perfection there to grasp just how amazing it was.  Part of him wished computers had always stayed like this.  No microchips, no circuit boards, nothing so mundane as plastic involved.  Processors the size of houses, their cogs clicking away as they worked.  Mechanics crawling over and under them, oiling here, replacing worn gears there.  So much more fun.  So much more personal.

"Mister C?"

The security guard tapped him lightly on the shoulder.  John took of his headphones, blinked a couple of times.

"Oh, George.  Hey.  Is it that time already?"

"'Fraid so, Sir.  Almost six.  You must have zoned out again."

"Must have.  Didn't realise I'd been here that long.  Sheesh, that must look weird on your videos."

"Looks a bit strange, but we know it's you."

The walk back from the museum to his flat seemed slower, the crowds of early-evening diners, theatre-goers, general Saturday-night revellers slowing him down.  He picked up a copy of Metro from outside a tube station, flicked through to the entertainment section, dismissed the movies.  He liked the idea of going to a movie but the reality would be disappointing.  It always was when there wasn't anyone to go with.  Oh, no.  That way madness lies.  He was heading for a maudlin pint in a quiet corner of the Chandos at this rate, keeping his head down to avoid being wrongly recognised.  He needed food and distraction.  Pizza Hut at Cambridge Circus was on his way home, he called them up and placed his order.  That left the distraction side.  There were a couple of coding projects he'd been putting off, not because they were difficult but because he hadn't wanted to do them.  That'd do.

Pizza, Prog Rock, Programming.  The three Ps that made time fly.

Somehow Sunday was lost in a haze of the three Ps.  And then Monday morning came round, all too soon and entirely uninvited.

"Sheesh!  That's a better screen than me!  Hah, you're on the same list as everyone else,  Geoff.  When your number comes up in the lottery, you get a new box, screen, keyboard, mouse, the works."

"I know, I know.  Much on over the weekend?"

"Not really.  Ran round Canterbury a bit.  Spent most of it in the usual place."

"You still ogling that brass monstrosity?"

"Wash your mouth out with soap, Geoff!  Talk like that'll land you at the bottom of the list.  The Babbage Engine is not a brass monstrosity.  It's a work of art.  You look close enough you can loose yourself in the details."

"That's where they say the devil is.  So, still no girlfriend, then?"

"I am, as they say, between girlfriends."  John swept through the doors, went to take a quick shower before settling down to work.

"There's the lasses on the reception desk!  Set you up if you like!"  Geoff called through the door as it closed.  He waved his hand dismissively, headed off down into the basement.  There's a gym down there for the journos who want to keep fit without doing any real exercise.  Swift shower, day gear from locker, dressed in the IT department standard-issue jeans and T-shirt - a YoYoDyne number, dark grey with yellow printing

It's still not half-six when I switch on a bank of monitors, hammer in a password and run through the jobs for the day.  Got a solid couple of hours to code before the helpdesk calls start coming in.

Janice wasn't at her desk so he left the longest, most thorough anti-virus scan he could think of running.  He also enabled solitaire.

That'll tie up your machine for a couple of hours but everything will miraculously have gotten better.

And that just left the screaming in the server room.

Later, thought John as he walked back to his office.  Much, much later.

As he was filing the paperwork on the jobs he'd just finished, John remembered the letter and tapped the number into his phone.  It rang a couple of times before being answered.

"Thank you for calling the Phoenix Foundation, My name is Madigan, how can I help you?" The voice was warm, sultry, friendly.  Instinctively, John sat up straight.

"Hi, Madigan.  My name is John Constantine.  I'd like to accept Mister Duvalle's dinner invitation so I'll be needing those directions and any clues you can give me about the dinner itself.  Sounds pretty formal.  Black tie?  White tie?  Help!  Last time I was at a formal dinner it was a friend's wedding and we were all in top hat and tails.  I'm drifting.  Sorry."

Laughter bubbled through the receiver, it ranged somewhere between a girlish giggle and a knowing chuckle. Madigan's voice dropped a half register as she replied. "Oh I can tell you're going to be trouble, Mr. Constantine." John could swear he heard a blush in her voice. "Now don't you worry about formality, this will be a casual dinner. Though I'd bet you looked quite smashing in your coat tails." Madigan continued on quite bubbly, "Now Mr. Duvalle has arranged for a car for those without regular transportation, as his estate is a bit out of the way. I can either give you directions, or I can schedule in for pickup with the other dinner guests."

"So, how far out of the way is a bit out of the way?  If you give me an eight-figure grid reference I'll find my way there though I'd be running so I'd need somewhere to freshen up.  Friday night traffic, eight o'clock start, leave here at four and pick a direction.  As long as it's within twenty-six miles of the Tower I can be there.  Well, say twenty miles.  That would be a good training run and I wouldn't need to go so far on Saturday.  Plus I'd be guaranteed hungry.  Sorry.  I've been coding all morning, I'm still in the 'stream of consciousness' phase.  I'll snap out of it in an hour or so.  Heh!  At least I've not mentioned how hot you sound."  There was a brief pause as John's brain caught up with his mouth.  He put his hand over the phone's mouthpiece and shouted "BUGGER!"  He took his hand away.  "I'm sorry.  I said that out loud, didn't I?"

The girlish giggle had faded completely leaving an earthy laugh, full of knowing and appreciation. "Yes Mr. Constantine, you did. Forgot to re-instate the brain to mouth filter again did we?" she chuckled again, obviously enjoying the conversation. "As for the location, I'd suggest a cab or taking Mr. Duvalle up on his offer. Windlesham is a bit far to jog. Unless, of course, you plan to start out Thursday evening." 

"Two seconds."  He tapped 'Map Windlesham' into his browser, looked briefly at the page that opened.  "Aye, right.  Thirty miles is a bit far for a Friday night.  Looks like it'd be a good run for a Sunday, though.  Catch the train back from, er, Sunningdale.  And I'm not a jogger, I'm a runner!  I do marathons and everything!  But, if Mister Duvalle is willing to collect, then I'll take you up on that offer. Where's best for you?  And while the filter's still off, will you be there?"  Nothing ventured and all that.  And she did sound hot.

The incoming call light on his phone blinked irritatingly.  John tapped the info button.  Shite.  Senior management number.  Well, this was more interesting.  "Leave a message." he muttered.  "I'm busy."  He jotted down the number on piece of scrap paper.  Call him back later.

Madiagan's warm laughter sounded again, her voice took on a false note of shock. "Mr. Constantine, you are certainly incorrigible! Whatever shall we do with you?" She sighed, sounding exasperated, but John could tell it was as fake as the shock in her voice. "The dinner is a private affair, attended only by Mr. Duvalle, yourself, and a few others specifically invited." There was a short pause, before she continued, her voice sparking with mischief, "If you're a good boy, perhaps you'll be invited back to the office at some point. We'll see then if you're all you think you are. "

"Can't blame a man for asking."  John shook his head.  Shame.  "I shall have to try and be a good boy, then, shan't I?  I'm good for a pickup from the Chandos, corner of Trafalgar Square any time after six.  Let me give you a mobile number, your driver can give me a shout when he's getting close."  The incoming call light flashed again, same number.  "Ah, bollocks.  Got to go.  That's the management calling.  I'll have to love you and leave you there.  Goodbye, Madigan.  I look forward to putting a face to that beautiful voice."

"We'll see, Mister Constantine.  We shall see.

?

Goodbye for the moment."  And Madigan hung up.

"Wow.  Now hold that thought.  Shite!  And remember your inbox."  John pressed a button on his phone, connecting the incoming call.  "Yes, oh great and exalted Lord and Master...  Oh, it's you.  What do you want?"

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of little jobs and it was lunchtime before John printed the report Jen had put together.  He grabbed a sandwich and a coffee from a little deli around the corner from the offices, returned to the offices and slipped into the little fortified area that was the last bastion of Smoking Man to enjoy some 'fresh air'.

He shook the papers out on one of the small tables with one hand, the other deftly extracting a ciggie from the pack he habitually kept in his inside pocket.  Lighting up, he shuffled them around, scanning for anything interesting.  Nothing leapt out at him.  The half-dozen stories Jen had tracked down were all worthy social pieces.  Notable acts of charity carried out by the otherwise reclusive Phoenix Foundation.  Barely five minute's reading, hardly worth taking a drag for.  He skimmed through the stories once more, put them back into their folder.  He checked his watch, panicked slightly as he realised lunch had officially ended fifteen minutes ago.  He stubbed out what remained of the fag, folded the papers into his jacket and hurried off back to his desk.

"Well.  I am thoroughly unenlightened.  I need food, I need prog and I need family."  He leaned back in his chair, stretched.  "Well, two out of three ain't bad."

-?- (OOC - I'll leave it there until you're ready for the pickup and the dinner, if you're happy)