The World Beyond The Stage
Rated T: For violence, strong language, adult situations, drug use, brutal gore and dark magic (yes, I'm bringing in the good stuff).
Summary: She could've had everything she could've ever dreamt of. She could've kept going, made it big maybe. Fame, fortune, rich friends, maybe hold an Oscar right in her hands at some point. But what started out as a normal night of auditioning, turned into a blazing flame of horrific Hell. Now it's up to John Constantine, an unconventional paranormal investigator and his not-so-normal friends, to protect an aspiring British stage actress and figure out why Hell is after her soul - whilst protecting his own. Because when you dare to venture into property of Hell, you're quite literally playing with fire. Partly John/OC. Prequel. Movie-based.
Prologue
Constantine - a lean man in a long, shabby black coat, stub of a cigarette between nicotine-yellowed fingers - got out and signaled for Chas to wait. Chas was getting out too: A young man of twenty in casual retro-cabby regalia, with a very non-retro artifact in his hands: A book about Martinist symbology, written in French. Getting the signal to wait from Constantine, Chas nodded and sighed, leaning against the cab and chewing his licorice.
Constantine tried to draw on the cigarette, saw it had gone out, dropped it into the gutter and ground it out with his shoe. He began walking down the long desolate backstreet toward the Club, patting his coat pocket for another cigarette. He lit a Lucky Strike with his ornate lighter figured with spiritual symbology.
Inside, the Bouncer held up a card. With no more than a glance of his sharp, dark eyes, Constantine revealed the image on the back: A duck on a cloud. The Bouncer unhooked the velvet rope, letting him pass through.
He walked past every Half-Breed Demon, Vampire and whatever Occultist mingled on the dance floor with barely a glance. The exercise was sharpening that burning pain in his lungs - pain that never completely went away. He knew that the craving for cigarettes and the pain went together: One more in an endless parade of ironies in his life. Hell, was there any point in following Dr. Archer's directions?
All that color in the smog, he thought, funny how poison can be so pretty. Reminds me of a girl I knew when I was in the band…what was her name?
The prelude to a distant memory was interrupted abruptly when he heard a couple of familiar voices shouting his name and beckoning to him in the crowd.
Shit, he thought, I forgot it was Poker night. Lucky I managed to show up at least.
His original intention for coming here had been to see Midnite. The Witchdoctor had a few things he wanted to sort out with him; something about an artifact that turned out to be a phony of the actual thing - but he was early. One game couldn't possibly hurt, and Midnite's peevish complaints could wait…
Rhona stared intently at the cards she'd been dealt, drumming her free fingers on the table surface whilst licking her dry lips. A good hand: Two jacks, a club of a ten, a spade of a nine and an ace. At her right, John gave her a silent nod, indicating that she had her cocky brother, Sean, right where she wanted him. Nigel, shaken and aching for a drag, was contemplating on surrendering to a fold, but he sat tight despite himself.
Twirling her wavy blond locks between her fingers and biting her lip, Rhona observed her brother. He had that arrogant smirk on his round face, those careful eyes and that goatee that he looked almost too young to grow - so full of himself…and she had him.
He'd been bluffing her throughout the game. The whole time he'd taunted her, amusing himself with the straight up fact that his 'clever' sister had never in her whole life of twenty seven years played Poker. And he felt quite confident, with his spade of a two, spade of a ten, and his three threes, a combo of spades, clubs and a diamond, that he would win.
That smirk was bound to be ripped off from him eventually. When Rhona put the cards on the table, it was clear without a doubt that this game was hers. Nigel tossed his hand down with gladness - he just wanted to smoke anyhow - but Sean threw his down, clutching his head and groaning, No! No! No!
"Don't be a sore loser, Sean." Rhona smirked.
John, standing against one of the columns with his arms crossed and the cigarette held tight between his fingers, gave a sarcastic mirth.
"Fuck off, John." Sean frowned.
"Let's see," John sat the cigarette on the shelf that lined the wall behind him, "you've been playing this game for how long now, four years? And this is her first. She beat your ass the first round at your own game." he shrugged and smirked proudly.
"Yea, talk about a lucky night." Sean said, knitting his brows at his grinning sister. "Or it would be sheer luck if you weren't standing over her shoulder giving her those little hints." He aimed his stare back upon John.
"Come on," Rhona said, "you're just mad because you got beat." She stood from the table, casting her shadow over her brother's shaved head. "Face it Sean, I'm untouchable…and I don't mean just Poker."
"Right." her brother scowled. "Well, I may beat you at your own game one day."
"Maybe." she shrugged. "I wouldn't get my hopes too high though." She left him with a pat on the head as she made way for the bar.
Sean caught a final glance of John's expression as he began trailing off from the Poker table.
"Don't smirk too much, Constantine. You wouldn't be smiling if you were in my shoes."
John only shook his head at him …
"Two jacks, a ten, a nine and an ace." Constantine mouthed arrogantly. Sean felt like punching him out - but that wasn't likely to be accomplishable.
Now there was a great deal of hopeless skanks and street freaks in the Club tonight. It was crowded with the clamor of clinging glasses, wheezing laughter, shouts, pleads, demands, coming from whatever beast mingled.
Rhona was already at the bar ordering a strawberry liqueur shot in a cold glass. The bartender - whose arms were long, demonic and talon-like - was pouring the fiasco and mixing it up for her when Constantine rounded a stool and ordered a shot for himself - Vodka, a personal favorite.
Rhona glanced John's way, readying herself to ask him what was on that mind - she always knew when something was on his mind - but before the chance was taken, a short figure, stout and darkly dressed parked himself beside her with his elbow leant on the bar.
"Hello pretty lady, the name's Status Quo." he uttered, his voice gruff and laced with the most annoying Los Angeles accent one could imagine. Rhona groaned and rolled her blue eyes at him. "I was thinking that you and me could get on the dance floor and bust some moves."
How old is this guy, forty five? she thought, her lips biting the rim of the glass and her eyes never leaving the sight of him.
Constantine was hardly shaken by this. He was waiting patiently for Rhona to give the poor bastard with his oversized sombrero and that cape that read 'stupid' a well-rounded piece of her mind.
"A hint of advice," she began, "if you're trying to achieve the mysterious bad boy aura in that clever suit up you're in, don't be so quick to automatically approach some random blond and hit on her. If you want attention, you have to draw the girls in, not drive them away with your cheap pick up lines." She flipped her hair away from her face with a sharp shift of the head, took a drink of her liqueur and approved herself to feel quite satisfied.
The fool seemed to be empty of a substantial reply - one that might have stepped on her toes a bit - so he walked off casually, fading rather well into the crowd. Constantine said,
"I wonder who let that moron pass through. Can't imagine a bohemian like that knowing anything about the cards."
"Who cares?" Rhona sneered. "I just want these idiotic so-called desirables to mark me off their list for good…Besides, he's probably got a membership here like a few others I would know."
It might have been an enjoyable drink between the two of them - more than likely silent with John - but still enjoyable. But Status Quo wasn't ready to call it quits after all. He planted himself on the stool opposite John, and beckoned to the bartender.
"Get me scotch on the rocks and put it in a dirty glass." he ordered.
John peered at him from the corner of his eye, arching his brow slightly. The only thing he noted about this 'Status Quo' was that he was an idiot seeking attention from a girl who wouldn't give him the time of day.
Then came the whispers. Both Constantine and Henderson reckoned the vocals to be coming from the fresh group of rookie occultists that had just taken their seat opposite the girl.
"Hey," one of the young men said, "that's Status Quo!"
"Where?" asked another.
"Right there, man. Don't you see him? He's like a legend in exorcism."
"Wow. I can't believe we're sitting at the same bar as Status Quo."
Rhona covered her mouth. She wanted to burst into laughter something awful, but she settled for a playful smile instead. It all sounded so recited, those fake expressions on the young men's faces, Status Quo drooping over the counter, forcing himself to drink something he'd never drank apparently; all this just to prove a point.
"Status Quo, huh?" Constantine spoke up and Rhona eyed him inauspiciously - he ignored her altogether as he carried on. "How come I've never heard of him? I've been around this block more times than many… I've never heard of a Status Quo." He glanced towards the dark haired fellow seated beside him, his now-pale face hiding beneath the sombrero. "You from out of town?"
"Uh," Quo stammered, "yea. Yea, I'm from outta' town."
"Where you from? I'll buy you a drink." Constantine suggested. Quo seemed to take him seriously enough, but Rhona knew better - she also noticed the occultist rookies leaving the table with malicious grins.
"I'm uh- I'm from Drysdale." Quo stated.
"Drysdale? Drysdale California?"
"No uh- it's a little town in Georgia - New York! Uh, Georgia New York!" Quo grabbed the half-pint glass, tilting it so that the harsh substance could run down his throat.
"Georgia, New York…" John commented, "To think I've lived in the U.S. my entire life, and I've never heard of a Drysdale, Georgia, New York. That's some funny shit." It was a flippant remark.
Status Quo stirred in his seat, spun his head over towards the sight of the lean, dark haired man beside him. Such ego, he thought, such vanity. Maybe I ought to beat him back down to size. The whole idea of pounding this man into the floorboards was feeling, to Quo, quite plausible.
"I didn't come here to listen to wisecracks." Quo scowled. "I came here for a freaking drink, that's all."
"Or was it to harass my friend?" Constantine demanded, keeping his voice monotone.
"Wh- what?" Quo asked him, as if he were hard at hearing.
"I said, you came here to harass my friend. You know, the lady seated next to me." John pointed his thumb towards Rhona.
"Hey dude, what the hell is your problem, huh?"
"You." Constantine snarled. "You're my fucked up problem, you ugly prick."
"That a threat?"
"Could be."
"John for God sakes!" Rhona pleaded. "It's not worth it!"
"Stay out of it, you harlot!" Quo shouted. Constantine's fist sent him flying to the floor - the group of mingling Half-Breeds dwelling behind them cleared a path for the hard landing.
"Gee," Rhona mused bitterly, "I would've hit him harder than that."
Constantine stood, straightening the collar of his coat and tossing some change on the table before striding over the poor fool curled and busted on the floor. Everyone, including Sean and Nigel, watched him pace away and into Midnite's office. The silence was awkward for a while, but after seeing that Status Quo was all well and fine, everyone went back to their drinking and laughing.
"Maybe you'd better go home before you get hurt." Rhona suggested to the fool as he bent over to pick up his fallen sombrero.
†††
The ramble in Midnite's office was hardly anything to suppress the eagerness in John to get home. It was all about that damned little golden Buddha Doll - a plump sculpture with its legs crossed and its chest bare, those long dangling earlobes, a stupid smile drawn on its face with slanted eyes. Midnite was holding it up to the light, being about as damned whiny as he could be - in John's opinion of course.
"You told me you bought it out of Cairo." the Witchdoctor said, bringing it back down to the table. "From a Kinto Dumadoo?"
"Yea." John said, coughing slightly. "Gave him the check you wrote in full. A good five grand."
"I know what I paid the bastard. The thing that angers me most is your lack of good judgment."
"Don't pull this shit on me now, Paps'. I'm not your damned safe keeper."
"Yes. I noticed."
"What's so great about the damn thing anyhow? Looks about as useful as something you'd buy out of the dollar stores."
"It is valuable to me for personal reasons."
"Right." Constantine scoffed, lighting another Lucky Strike.
The conversation didn't get anywhere in particular. Midnite was losing his patience and John was getting bored, going through three cigarettes whilst sitting there. To Constantine's relief, their meeting was cut off and the Exorcist trailed out of the office meeting his friends at the bar and leaving from there.
What's with Midnite and his stupid artifacts? he thought.
Outside, Constantine, Sean, Nigel and Rhona leant themselves against the front wall of the Club building watching the scene and feeling that cool November air wisp through their nostrils and fill them with uncanny chill. Chas was cussing to himself about the time he wasted waiting around on Constantine and when he glimpsed them all gathered around outside, he approached.
"John! Yo, John!" he called.
"Here." Constantine mouthed sarcastically. Nigel cackled like the dope head he was.
"I've been waiting around for hours! You know what time it is?"
Constantine flipped his wrist over, sticking the cigarette between his lips and pulling his sleeves up just enough so that he could see where the hands were pointing on his ORIS wristwatch.
"Five till nine." he told the youth.
Chas halted, shaking his head and looking about as disarrayed as ever.
"You're selfish, John. You're a selfish bastard. You take advantage of my patience."
"Patience? Then what the hell are you all worked up about if you proclaim yourself so patient?"
"Come on, Chas." Nigel smirked. "We were playin' Poker."
"Great. Playing Poker…" Chas threw his arms up, almost starting to pace the street, "Thanks for telling me, Nigel. Thanks for telling me what the great Exorcist was really doing…had I known this earlier, I would've told him to hike."
"You got a date or something?" Constantine asked.
"Yea, my mother…who's probably fucking losing it right now."
"Aren't you a little old for mommy to keep tabs on ya?" Sean asked, teasing him.
"Come on guys," Rhona frowned, "lay off him. And quit giving him such a hard time, John; you are selfish."
"Hey, didn't I punch that moron out for ya?...I don't know what I'm wasting my time with all you college kids for." John said. "I ought to be around people my own age."
In that moment, his cell began buzzing in his back pocket. He pulled it out, flipped it open, noticing the name on the screen, and pressed it to his right ear.
"Here's someone now."
It was Hennessy, Father Hennessy of the Catholic Ministry. He was anxious over the cell, and something in him sounded almost excitable.
"Constantine," he said, "are you still up for a gig?"
To Be Continued.
A/N: Some of you may recognize a small few of my original characters from Tourniquet throughout this story. Some verses and scenarios are inspired by John Shirley's Graphic Novels and a few other Hellblazer related things too. And as a disclaimer Constantine, Hellblazer and the 'loveable' John Constantine isn't mine.