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.
HELLBLAZER:DCF #2
(Year One, Part Two)
"Ghosts of the Past"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
November 2, 2035: London, Funeral Parlor
The wake was over in less than an hour. The deceased didn't have many friend and fewer living relatives who cared. That meant he was penniless when he died with a mound of debts besides. It was a sad affair, and the guests that actually showed up quickly made excuses to leave. It was raining that day, cold and miserable even by London standards, and the gloom was oppressive.
When all of the guests had left, a lone individual walked into O'Connor's funeral parlor and stood before the urn to pay his respects. Nowadays, only the rich were actually buried, and everyone else was cremated, one of the few services freely rendered by the state.
"Sorry about the piss poor turnout, Chas. You deserved better."
John Constantine pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his trench coat pocket and lit up. He took a drag and closed his eyes, offering his deceased friend a moment of silence. When he opened his eyes, the room seemed a little darker and a little quieter. He paid it no notice until the smell of brimstone touched his nostrils, finally penetrating the masking scent of tobacco.
John whirled around to find a man seated comfortably in the rearmost seat. He had long, dark hair, and he was wearing a black Armani suit in a style that hadn't been made since before the turn of the century. A playful smirk was on his lips, and a baleful hatred was in his eyes.
"You! What the devil are you doing here?"
"What a curious expression. I have never really understood it's purpose, and I'm not really sure why you, of all people, would use it. But surely the great John Constantine can guess why the Devil might choose to make an appearance."
The Devil leveled his gaze malevolently at the man he hated most, whose very continued existence was a testament to his own greatest failures and defeats. He was strangely pleased to find that anger reflected back at him.
"You're here for Chas, then? Is that it? Well, you can't have him you berk! Leave me friends alone!"
Mildly annoyed, the First of the Fallen twisted his lips in displeasure. Even he could not tell whether Constantine was just angry, being stupid, or purposely trying to insult him.
"Save your threats, Constantine. What interest would I have in ownership of this worthless soul? Your friend was far too mundane to draw the attention of even the lowliest demon in Hell. I have not come for him but for you."
Hearing this, John was at once relieved for Chas, afraid for himself, and curious as to what the Devil was upto this time.
"Good luck to you, then, you wanker. Last I checked, I can't die."
"Again, you overestimate yourself. You can die. The problem is that you don't stay dead. There is a difference."
John considered this revelation and how it might be used against him. He didn't like the implications.
"So what are you after, then?"
"Obviously, I have not come hunting after your soul. I have come merely to take care of matters that remain unresolved between us. You have become quite adept at remaining hidden from my sight in recent years, and I have been forced to contact you under these circumstances."
"Are you saying you killed Chas, then?"
"No, Constantine. Your friend died because he chose to live in a country where ten pounds of fried potatoes are cheaper than one cucumber. A massive coronary was inevitable. I am here because I had good reason to believe you would come out of hiding to be present at his wake out of some misguided sense of loyalty."
They both stood there silently, taking each other's measure. John Constantine was the most hated man in existence. He had made an enemy of both heaven and hell, and he made it his business to keep either side from winning their eternal war. The Devil, on the other hand, was the single being that everyone was supposed to hate. Perhaps it was fated that they spend all eternity at each other's throats.
"Constantine, I have spend several decades trying to collect your soul, to no avail. My failures having multiplied, our relationship has degenerated to little more than the antics of a cartoon cat and mouse. Terrible times are coming, Constantine, and I will soon have more pressing matters to attend to, and no more time to bother with the likes of you."
Hearing these words, John narrowed his eyes in suspicion and disbelief. An interesting twist of fate this was, but the Fates were never kind, especially not to the likes of him.
"So you're saying that you're not gonna be after my soul anymore? That I'm off the hook?"
"No, Constantine. I am saying that circumstances have forced me to settle for making your life a living hell."
And with that, the Devil disappeared from sight, leaving John to sputter and curse him in his wake.
"Bollocks. You smug bastard. You stupid, proud, conceited piece of shite. The king of all wankers, that one is."
"You got that right. Someone ought to give him what for."
John hadn't expected a response to his rant, let alone a voice that rose in accord with his sentiment. He was surprised, but not so much by the presence of the voice as by its familiarity and strangely hollow quality. He slowly turned to look behind him in the direction of the urn, and sure enough, a ghostly apparition was standing in front of it.
"Chas, is that you?"
"Sure it is, John. What's the matter? Aren't you glad to see your old mate?"
And so it was that John Constantine found himself haunted by the ghost of his dearly-departed friend.
"Bloody hell."
NorAm: New York City, Police Station
The police station was busy as hell when Charlie Monahan returned from an early morning of carousing with other officers getting off of night patrol. But that's the way the station had been all week, ever since the Statue of Liberty got blown up by those idiots from Patriot. The people were in a panic, and the department was paying the price. And it didn't help that some psychopath the news people were calling the LegendKiller was still running around free. Rumor at the station even had it that costumed vigilantes were crawling out of the woodwork trying to nail him.
It seemed pretty clear to Charlie that things weren't going to change any time soon. At least, not until the remains of the Statue of Liberty were completely sold off and the LegendKiller was caught. Speaking of which, there was the special crimes chief investigator now.
"Good morning, Detective. Any progress on the LegendKiller yet?"
Donvan Bradley looked up from reading his newspad to see Charlie Monahan standing over him, disturbing what he thought of as the only few minutes of quiet time his job afforded him. Irritated, he went back to reading the news before answering.
"If you say so. And no, nothing that would interest you or the press."
Donvan didn't like Monahan or others like him. Wannabe Justice Leaguers who didn't quite make the cut, they were just wasting valuable space in the ranks of New York's Finest as far as he was concerned. Most JL dropouts went into the military, and only the dregs ended up in the ranks of the police. Angry losers like that were just an accident waiting to happen, and one day, some innocent would pay the price. And it was no wonder to him why the LegendKiller was still on the loose.
It was the same story almost everywhere you went. Corruption in the police force was something that people took granted these days, and it was the same in New York as it was in Gotham and Metropolis. Donvan didn't approve, any more than his ancestor, Slam Bradley would have decades ago, but there was little that he could do about it.
"Aw, c'mon. You know selling information to the press is against the regs. I'd never do that."
Charlie wasn't very good at hiding his insincerity, and Donvan just closed his eyes, willing the slowly building ache between his temples to go away and Monahan to drop dead. He thanked the powers that be every day for not assigning Monahan to his unit.
"You know, I think there are some donuts left in the break room. If you hurry."
Without another word, Charlie was off and running. Donvan just sighed, exhaling slowly, and turned his attention to less unpleasant matters, like the tirade that the press was on about the Department's ineffectiveness.
"One of these days, his stupidity's going to catch up with him and get someone killed. Then there'll be hell to pay."
NorAm: New York City, The Waldorf Astoria Hotel
Barnabas was frightened awake by the sound of John screaming in horror. Before he knew what he was doing, Barnabas jumped off the bed and ducked under it in fear. Disgusted with himself for behaving like a newborn pup, he reminded himself that he was over a century old and quietly crawled back out. He jumped back onto the bed and nudged John awake, licking his face.
"Aagh! Stop that! Quit slobberin' on me!"
"I will if you promise to stop screaming and ruining my much needed beauty sleep."
"Hrrn? What?"
John looked all around him in something of a daze. It took him a minute or two to recognize the unfamiliar surroundings of his hotel room. It had been some time since he'd slept on anything softer than the city sidewalk, much less a real bed. Waking up in the plush surroundings of the Penthouse Suite of the Waldorf Astoria was a bit disconcerting, to say the least. But then he saw Barnabas, the talking dog that had befriended him the previous night, and it all came back to him.
"Oh, damn. Sorry about that, mate. These nightmares I have get pretty bad."
He grabbed his throbbing head and winced, groaning as the hangover hit him, washing away the adrenal surge prompted by the nightmare he'd been having, a nightmare that was not so much journey to realm of the Dream King as a deeply-buried memory that continued to haunt him.
"Do you have them often?"
"No. They mostly only hit me when I'm sober or livin' too easy."
"That explains a lot. I was wondering what purpose you had in drinking yourself to 'death' and sleeping in alleys."
Barnabas hesitated before continuing.
"It sounded pretty bad."
John steeled his gaze at a fixed point directly in front of him, not wanting to subject his new friend to the horror reflected in his eyes. He never stayed dead long enough to go to hell, but that didn't mean he couldn't visit it in his dreams.
"They usually are."
Barnabas could tell that John wasn't quite up to talking about it. He had decided to let it go when his nose brought a new item of interest to his attention.
Breakfast had been served.
He bounded off the bed and raced into the living room area where the hotel staff had laid out the morning meal. A trunk was also set by the door, a ragged-looking antique that Barnabas completely ignored. Using his jaw, he removed the cover from one of the entrees, allowing the smell of steak and eggs to make its way into the bedroom, so strong now that even John was able to figure out what had gotten Barnabas so excited. He quickly got up to join him.
"Aaah. Nothing like the smell of a good breakfast to shake away the cobwebs. Eh, Barn?"
Western Eurasia: London, the Cambridge Club
Lord Charles Patterson IV was sitting in his usual chair, relaxing by the fire after a long day at the U.N. Politics was a tricky business, even more so now than when the first Charles Patterson had made a name for himself in Parliament. After all, seizing power from his NorAm counterparts, even after their authority was diminished, was no simple matter. One had to be ready to strike as soon as those idiots from Patriot caused trouble. But Lord Patterson allowed these worries to dissolve away. He was safe within the confines of the Cambridge Club, an institution whose walls had reeked of power since its establishment in 1803. Here, he was above such petty concerns.
Originally founded as a social club for gentlemen who'd had the privilege of studying at Cambridge, the place had changed very little in the intervening centuries. Its membership was open only to those who were firmly established in the upper echelons of power. He nestled himself comfortably into the antique leather chair that was worth a small fortune and raised his feet onto the ottoman that was worth several more. Surrounded by priceless works of art and other rare furnishings, Lord Patterson felt quite at ease, and allowed himself to think back on better days.
His reverie was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. Sometimes, he wondered whether it wouldn't be worth it to replace the 18th-century Persian rugs with more modern and plush carpeting. He looked up to find one of the club's many servants standing over him, holding a silver tray. Resting on the tray was an antique cellular phone.
"Your pardon, Sir. I am sorry to disturb you, but you have a telephone call from you aide-de-camp in NorAm, calling from New York. He said that the matter was urgent."
Without another word, the servant stood by patiently for Lord Patterson to finish his call. All of the servants working in the Cambridge Club had inherited their positions and were both above reproach and beyond suspicion. Lord Patterson had no qualms about taking this call in the servant's presence.
"Yes, Patterson here."
His eyes widened as his aide relayed to him this important message. He even went so far as to gasp, something that did not happen often within the walls of the Cambridge Club, and unwittingly drew attention to himself. His surprise was that great and complete.
"Are you sure? Absolutely certain?"
He looked up and indicated for the servant to leave. The servant wondered what message could be of such import as to require this grave insult to his loyalty and professionalism but left without argument. He knew well the consequences for disobedience.
Lord Patterson continued in a harsh whisper.
"No! Do nothing!"
And then, he brought up a hand to cover his lips from view and continued even more quietly.
"The Waldorf Astoria, you say? Then keep an eye on him. Follow him or have him followed, but do nothing to arouse his suspicions. Continue to keep me informed. Patterson out."
Lord Patterson replaced the cellular onto the tray and leaned back in his leather chair. He tried to relax again but found that he could not. Suddenly, he felt himself being watched by eyes that he could not see. The shadows had mysteriously become oppressive, and the heat from the fire was no longer comfortable. He steepled his fingers before him and steeled his gaze at a fixed point ahead of him. There were other people to be informed, spies to be contacted, and much planning to be done.
And then a name passed his lips, a name that wasn't so much a soft whisper as a sharp hiss that escaped between his gritted teeth. "Constantine."
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #2 -