THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.
Dateline: London
The UN offices in London were considered a work of architectural genius, the perfect blend of history, tradition, and technology. All of the building's electronic security systems were completely unobtrusive, molded into the faux woodwork, marbled floors, and painted ceilings. However, the suited UN security officers were another matter entirely.
They paced the length and breadth of the building at all hours, always alert and always on their guard, and the two directly-assigned to Western Eurasia's UN representative were the best of the best. Like the palace guards of old, they stood at either side of Lord Patterson's office, speechless and motionless. For all intents and purposes, they were dead to the world, automatons who answered only to the beck and call of the most powerful man in the territory, the UN representative in charge of all of Western Eurasia.
Inside the office, Lord Charles Patterson IV was examining a holographic display of the entire world. All of Western Eurasia was graphically-displayed in red. Bits of red also dotted parts of all the other territories and the oceans as well. His influence was spreading, and he had eyes and ears all over the world. Indeed, he was positioned to, perhaps, become the most powerful man in the entire United Nations.
Unfortunately, even he had people that he had to answer to, a debt that had to be paid. Indeed, failure would require that he pay the ultimate price. Not his life. Not even his family. Nor even his power. The price of failure would be his immortal soul. Turning to admire a portrait of his long-deceased father, he speaks aloud, cursing the price that always comes with power.
"Where in the world could he be hiding? Decades have come and gone, but still there hasn't been even a rogue sighting. Not one word. Not one peep," he said, wondering how his father was currently faring in the lower levels of hell, a fate that also awaited him should he fail in his mission to find, capture, and destroy just one man. Cursing, he slammed his fist onto the top of his desk with enough force to make the holographic display cut out and disappear from view.
"Where in the world is John Constantine?"
HELLBLAZER:DCF #1
(Year One, Part One)
"It's a Dog's Life"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
NorAm: New York City - NorAm Plaza
The night was an unusually warm one in New York City. Rumors abounded about the recent destruction of the remains of the Statue of Liberty, and the people of New York City had good reason to be concerned. The possibility that additional conflicts would erupt between the Justice League and new bands of metahumans was quite real and very frightening to most. In response to the rising public concern, the N.Y.P.D. was stationing police officers throughout the city, and Charlie Monahan was one such police officer, working the late shift in what was once called Times Square.
A den of iniquity even in its heyday, very little had changed, even after more than a century of violent, social upheaval. Times Square was still little more than a breeding ground for vagrants and drunks, just as it had been in the late twentieth century, and Charlie was keeping a watchful eye on one such derelict now. The only difference was that in 2112, they called it NorAm Plaza. Good old Charlie had been forced to introduce himself to most of society's refuse during his career, and as far as he was concerned, not one of them was worth the spit he used to shine his boots. But the man currently stumbling his way into the alley nearby made all those before him seem like distinguished gentlemen in comparison.
His hair and beard grown long past his own waistline, he looked like he'd spent the better part of his forty odd years in the gutter. He was obviously inebriated and singing both loudly and off-key.
"...Saints and sinners raw beginners...lipstick traces and tv dinners..."
Horrible to look at, the smell was even worse, and the unusual heat was making him even more pungent. Even worse, it looked like the disgusting little bugger was going to plant himself down right next to his patrol vehicle before passing out for the night.
"Hey, you! Bugger off somewhere else! It's bad enough I have to be assigned to this God-forsaken place every night without having to wrinkle my nose at the likes of you!"
The drunkard didn't even spare a glance back in Monahan's direction. Instead, he just plopped himself down of the pavement and leaned his back against the wall. Only after belching long and loudly did he bother to take the time to turn his bloodshot eyes toward the patrol car and acknowledge the police officer's presence by extending the middle digit of his right hand.
"Up yours," he said with a hoarse voice and an evil grin.
"Right. I guess I'll have to teach you a little respect for the law, then."
"Better than you have tried, ya shite bastard."
Monahan brandished his stunstick, and gripping it with relish, proceeded to beat the drunkard mercilessly. A loud crack was clearly audible as the weapon connected with the base of the vagrant's skull. He was killed almost instantly, but he'd been far too drunk to feel any pain. Even so, Officer Monahan continued to beat him for several minutes, just to be certain he'd taught him a proper lesson. The lifeless body convulsed as electrical charges ran rampant through it.
"That'll teach you. And in case you hadn't heard, there are laws against that kind of language."
He emphasized his statement by kicking his fallen opponent hard in the ribs and spitting on his back. And when the vagrant didn't moan or groan, he kicked him again.
"Aw, crap. Why'd you have to go and die on me, you lousy little piece of shit. You know, they just don't pay me enough to deal with this kind of crap. Damn it, sometimes I wonder why I ever bothered to become a cop in the first place."
Mumbling, he grabbed the corpse by the cleanest parts of its soiled trench coat and dragged it into the alley, hiding it behind a dumpster. Let the morning patrol deal with it, he thought to himself. His own shift was almost over, and it was high time he was on his way back to the station for some much needed coffee and donuts. Feeling sorry for himself, he shook his head, clucked his tongue, and said the same thing he always said whenever this kind of thing happened.
"Why does this shit always have to happen to me?"
The Multiverse: Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell
John awoke to a sea of pallid faces, the visages of the forlorn and forgotten. His eyes were greeted with the relieved expressions of those whose many sufferings had ended, those who waited patiently in hopes of something better, and those who dreaded something worse. But that description wasn't really accurate.
He no longer had eyes, not in this realm, this way station between heaven and hell on the shores of Death's realm. Neither did he have to deal with emotions brought on by the chemical reactions of the body. Indeed, he had no physical body to force such burdens upon him. No one did in this realm, but despite this fact, he was still an outcast, even in this place of sublime tranquility.
Why? Because his worldly sufferings were not quite yet at an end, and all those gathered here knew it and would have absolutely nothing to do with him. Well, all of them except one.
"Hello, John. Long time no see, eh?" The words were spoken by a man of comical appearance. He was short, bearded, and fat, and dressed in fashions that had gone out of style in Britain centuries ago.
"Hello, Abel. Cain been having another go at you again?" asked John, looking over Abel's newest set of injuries. Apparently, he'd been stabbed with several hundred dinner forks.
"Yeah," said Abel wistfully. "I spoiled another one of his mysteries, gave away another one of my secrets. I'm not supposed to do that, and it's Cain's job to see that I don't. After all, he is my keeper. But it hurts to be punished by someone you love."
John thought to himself that if Abel had had a body at that moment, it would be shedding tears. It made him sorry for Abel, but it also conflicted with what could only be called his principles. "If you ask me, Cain's just a big bully, one that needs to be taught a lesson. He might not beat on ya so often if he was on the receiving end of it just once."
"Oh, no!" responded Abel quickly. "I would never want to see Cain hurt. Besides, no one ever will. He has this mark on his head, see, saying that God will punish anyone who hurts him. No one can ever hurt Cain."
John just smirked. "I'd not be so certain o' that," he said, not looking at Abel. Instead, he locked eyes with an approaching figure wearing a trench coat and hat. "I don't think that blasted mark or rule applies to you. After all, you're Cain's brother. And that makes you his keeper."
While Abel pondered the implications of John's words, the strange figure approached. "Constantine, I need to speak with you. I require your aid and would have your assistance. Will you render me aid?" he asked, his face expressionless, yet somehow both intent and distracted simultaneously.
"What do you want, Occult. Or should I call you something else?" he asked with a sneer. "Maybe I should call you Richard? Or maybe I should call you Dick? I suppose I can take it for granted you don't want my help throwing another tea party. You putting together another trench coat brigade? This is my quality time, Occult. Tell me what you want and leave me the hell alone."
"Constantine, I have new duties and responsibilities to which I must attend. It would seem that you have already guessed their nature," he continued, somehow doing so without voicing either surprise or resentment in his tone.
"These duties will take me to times and places other than this one. I must focus my attention elsewhere and elsewhen, and I would ask that you serve as my seneschal here in the time and place through which your own journey takes you."
Incredulous, John just stared back at Occult's expressionless face. "Let me get this straight. You want me to be your bloody butler? Bugger off. Pick some other berk to work for you."
"A great event is approaching, a melding of magic itself and a war between the forces of heaven and hell. Soon, all of us will be asked or forced to choose sides, and those who choose not to take sides will require powerful allies to survive. Even you. I ask you one last time, will you serve as my seneschal."
Statement rather than query, Occult knew that Constantine didn't really have any choice in the matter. Terrible times were coming, and not even John Constantine could hope to remain in hiding much longer. The words he had spoken were true, and Constantine would indeed require his aid to survive the maelstrom of events in which he would soon become embroiled.
Still, despite all of his new-found powers as the Phantom Stranger's successor, he did not know whether he was doing John a service or a disservice. He could foresee only that it had to be done, that this choice was most likely the lesser of two evils.
"Bloody hell."
NorAm: New York City - NorAm Plaza
John Constantine woke up battered and bruised in both body and spirit with one mother of a hangover. The bruises he didn't care about, they would go away soon enough, but the hangover was another matter entirely. It was a nasty one, and he could tell that it would be with him for some time.
He awoke to the sensation of a tongue being rubbed across his face like sandpaper. The slobber was bad, and the breath was worse. "Aagh! Stop licking me! What have you been doing? Drinking out of the loo? Do us all a favor and brush some time, will you?"
"I would be glad to consider it if you would take the time to bathe at least once a month. Honestly, I've tasted better toilets, and you should be grateful that I was concerned enough about your well-being to attempt to wake you."
John cracked his eyes open to find a dog standing over him, his eyes stabbed by the neon lights of the city. No one else was anywhere to be seen. Friendly and intelligent-looking, the dog sat there panting, head cocked to one side as if to express curiosity.
"Well, where the hell are you, then? Eh? Come out where I can see you, and let's have us a chat." John looked from left to right, in search of someone hidden in the shadows, but finding nothing. And only when he finally gave up did the dog speak.
"What in the world are you looking for? I'm sitting right in front of you," said the dog, glancing from side to side to make sure that no one else was there. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that the human before him must be somewhat slow. "Yes, the dog."
John blinked a few times before coming to the conclusion that he wasn't imagining things and that it wasn't knock on the head or the bad liquor; the dog actually was talking to him. He groaned audibly, wondering why weird things always had to happen to him, not much liking any of the answers he came up with.
"Are you alright, then? I saw that policeman beat you and leave you for dead. I daresay I thought you were dead until I saw you start twitching again. Anyway, just what was all that about if you don't mind my asking?"
John turned the corner of his mouth up into a wry smile and chuckled mirthlessly. "That bit of fuss and bother was about the two constants of the universe screwing with me again. And don't be believin' any of that guff by that Woody Allen bloke. Death doesn't always come for you, and not everyone has to pay taxes."
"Well, yes, I'm quite aware of that, actually. Death and I have met socially on more than one occasion, and she's been kind enough to agree not to come for me. And I've never been asked to pay any taxes as far as I can recall."
"Well, that makes two of us, then."
John fumbled around in his pockets for a cigarette and struck a match. He lit up and took a long, slow drag. His nerves settled quickly, and his hangover eased a bit. He became so relaxed that he almost forgot that he was in the middle of a conversation with a talking dog.
"Disgusting habit. Those things will kill you, you know?"
"Not necessarily," said John, his eyes intent on those of the strange dog before him.
"Oh, yes. We have established that, haven't we. Anyway, what are the two constants of the universe, then? I mean, if they aren't death and taxes, then they must be something else."
"Hmph." John had never thought of dogs as logical creatures, but then again, most people thought humans were logical so he really shouldn't have been surprised to find out otherwise. And the dog deserved an answer.
"Well, that's easy. The first is that no matter where you go or what you do, there will always be wankers like that fat arse cop around screwin' with people's lives. The second is that no matter how many wankers you get rid of, there'll always be at least one more so you'll never be rid of them."
"I see. And I suppose you've figured out the meaning of life as well?" asked the dog.
"Of course. Do what you can to not become a wanker yourself."
The dog paused a moment to consider what he'd just been told. There were quite a few flaws in his newfound companion's logic, but he decided not to argue any of them. It seemed rather clear to him that whether or not these suppositions could be held as universal truths, they probably were true of the human who had just spoken them. As such, he decided to extend his paw instead.
"Well met, then. My name is Barnabas. And you are?"
John looked Barnabas in the eyes, taking a few moments to decide how he was going to respond. He wasn't one to give out his name freely, not anymore leastways, and he was pretty sure he shouldn't change that. Still, Barnabas seemed like an alright sort, something hard to come by in a universe overpopulated with wankers. Finally, he took the extended paw respectfully and smiled cheerily, something he hadn't done in quite some time.
"Right, then. Glad to meet you, too, Barnabas. My name's John. John Constantine."
"Excellent. Now that we've gotten the preliminary formalities over with, I must insist that you do something about your personal hygiene. I would like to be your friend, but my nose is much more sensitive than that of the policeman who just 'killed' you. Think about it."
John smirked good-naturedly, running his fingers through his beard and getting them stuck in tangles of hair and gum. "Anything for a mate."
NorAm: New York City - The Waldorf Astoria Hotel
Barnabas walked into the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria behind John and sat himself down by the doorway. Unlike other great establishments that had lost their former grandeur over the passing of the centuries, the Waldorf Astoria had remained a glamorous institution. He watched as John approached the hotel desk and smiled at the clerk, cocking his head to one side. He stared the clerk right in the eyes, and within the span of a few heartbeats, the clerk passed John a set of keys, without even asking him to sign the register.
John had gotten in just like he'd said he would, even though logic demanded that things should have turned out otherwise. Barnabas had suggested the Y.M.C.A., but John had insisted on something with style. As he made his way to the elevator, John gave Barnabas a smug look, bidding his approach. Barnabas got up and walked into the elevator with John; strangely enough, no one objected to his presence. The elevator continued upwards until it reached the Penthouse Suite. John unlocked the door, and they walked in.
"Alright, I'll break the silence," said Barnabas, turning John a curious eye. "Exactly how did you get this hotel to give you its best suite in your disheveled state, let alone with a dog in tow?"
"How do ya think? A little magic is all. What else."
John walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack. Barnabas jumped onto the bed and pawed the remote control, activating the holovid projector. The sound of Barnabas flipping through channels mingled with the sound of clothes hitting the floor and a hot shower starting up.
Barnabas lowered the volume after turning to the Arts & Entertainment channel, where a holovized version of Les Miserables was playing. The suite could almost be considered palatial, a very pleasant change compared to life on the street. "I take it you're not talking about pulling bunnies out of hats, right? But if you know magic like that, then why live on the street?"
A momentary pause was filled with the sound of a pair of scissors shearing away. "A lifestyle choice is all. Old habits die hard. 'Sides which, magic tends to draw unwanted attention. I try not to use it too often."
"Then why'd you use it now?"
"Like I said, anything for a mate. Anyways, I'd have had to use it to get in anywhere looking the way I do so I thought I might as well go for the best. Why? Don't you approve?" asked John.
"You say that as if you expect me to complain," said Barnabas, his tone jovial.
"Not at all," said John, the sound of an electric razor humming in the background. "Do ya mind if I call you Barney?"
"I'm a talking dog, not a talking purple dinosaur," said Barnabas, his tone mildly irate.
"How about Barn, then? It's just that I'm not much for formal first names is all," said John as if by way of apology.
"Very well, then. If you must call me something other than Barnabas, then Barn I can live with."
The sound of water splashing could be heard as John stepped into the shower. He sighed and moaned in pleasure and contentment as the hot water ran over his skin, washing away the mark left behind by the past few decades. He raised his voice to be heard over the sound of the running water.
"Unusual name, that, for a dog, even a talking one. How'd ya get it?" asked John, the steam improving the hoarseness of his voice.
"It was given to me by my first master. He's the one that taught me to talk like humans do. He needed a good talking to at times."
"Sounds like an interesting fella. What was his name?"
"He didn't have a name so much as a title. I just called him 'Master' but others called him Destruction. Of the Endless. A kind enough Master, even if he was a bit too dim-witted and undisciplined. Or should I say too human?" he asked, his voice somewhat wistful. "I miss him sometimes."
John knew better than to go around asking questions about anyone in that family without permission, especially Destruction, and decided to change the subject. "Your first master, eh? Who was the second?"
"Oh, my second master was his sister, the Lady Del. Delirium of the Endless. People used to say that it was a tragedy that she had once been Delight, but I always thought her most delightful. I think I have her to thank for not having died yet."
"How so?" asked John, his curiosity piqued despite his own better judgement now that yet another member of the Endless had entered the picture.
"I don't know. All I do know is that she had to go away somewhere with her brothers and sisters. Her last words to me were that she had to go away but might come back and couldn't take me with but wanted me here because she might come back and always be her doggy pretty please okay. Or something like that. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, she is still my master, and she will come back to me someday. But I must admit that I've been waiting for quite some time. Even longer in dog years," he joked. "But one mustn't lose hope."
"Why the hell not?" asked John, his tone somewhat irate. Life had rarely been kind to him, and his own hopes had been dashed far too often.
"Because then I would become like John Constantine and stop taking care of myself properly. I am a dog, you know, so I probably spend as much time living on the street as you do, but even I smell better. Life is a struggle. It always has been, and it always will be. Giving up on that struggle does no one any good. Remember that."
The sound of the shower running came to an end, and in a few moments, a figure that Barnabas assumed to be John Constantine emerged, dressed in a hotel bathrobe. His face was cleanly shaven, and his hair was cut short to medium length. Barnabas found it difficult to associate this clean-cut figure with the one that he'd originally befriended.
"I'll do that," said John, using a towel to rub his hair dry.
"You know, I take it back. Grow back the beard and hair and let yourself go. It suits you much better."
John scowled a bit before giving way to laughter, an action that reminded Barnabas of his first master. Seeing this, he did something he only did while in the company of those he truly cared for. He wagged his tail.
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #1 -