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 #3
(Year One, Part Three)
"Friends & Families"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
NorAm: New York City, the Waldorf Astoria
Breakfast was finished pleasantly enough. John and Barnabas both found the steak and eggs to their liking, and John passed the time by explaining his nightmare to Barnabas. Secrets were burdensome things, after all, and some secrets just weren't worth keeping from one's friends. Barnabas just ate and listened quietly until John was finished telling his story.
"Cripes. This tea is god-awful, mate."
Barnabas ignored the comment, too absorbed in the details of John's nightmare. What John seemed able to take in stride, Barnabas was unable to cope with.
"How can you just sit there complaining about your tea?"
"I'm British, Barn. It's what we do."
John cracked a smile as he added some milk and took another sip. He knew that Barnabas' sensibilities had been thoroughly offended, but he also knew he was going to have to adjust to this kind of thing if they were going to continue to travel together. And Barnabas was going to have to adjust quickly.
"But to have faced the devil himself, to know that your friend's spirit was forced to haunt the world eternally because of you."
Barnabas paused to slowly pass his gaze from left to right, not moving his head an inch, before continuing more quietly.
"Is he here?"
John just smirked.
"No, Chas ain't here. If he was, you'd know it. Trust me. Besides which, I sussed out a long time ago that I can't take responsibility for all the shite that me enemies throw against me mates. A hard lesson, but one that needed learning."
John pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He took a long drag to help himself relax. Barnabas just continued to regard John with a dumbfounded expression.
"But to have your friend haunting you? Didn't that upset you?"
John locked eyes with Barnabas and leveled him a steely gaze.
"You absobloodylutely have no fucking idea. Don't get me wrong, Chas was a mate, and there were times when I was glad he was still around, but Adam and Eve it when I say that Chas was the last person I wanted haunting me."
John took another long puff before continuing.
"You have to understand the kind of life I lead, er, was leading back then. I was living life on the edge, you know? Walking a line. Chas pushed me over that line more times than he could count, not that it was his fault. Chas was just being Chas. But that King of all Wankers, the Devil, he knew exactly what he was doing. Sticking me with Chas was like sticking James Bond with Gilligan."
Was there an edge of admiration in John's voice? Barnabas wasn't quite sure. He surmised that this was John's way of letting him know that he was a cold son of a bitch, but Barnabas couldn't quite tell how much was genuine and how much was merely a facade.
"So where is your friend now?"
"Chas? I'm not sure, really. A few decades ago, I pissed Chas off one too many times, and he just up and left. I found out later that heaven and hell had been emptied for some reason. Everything had been set free. I figure whatever caused it must have freed Chas too."
John put out his cigarette and headed for the bathroom. Soon the sound of running water could be heard, mingled with the sound of John singing.
"...adventure, death, and glory, the short goodbye, the whispered story..."
Barnabas ignored the cacophony and headed for the hot tub to take care of his own business. He tried to decide whether continuing to travel with John was a good idea, all things considered.
An hour later, John returned and opened the strange trunk that was lying on the living room floor. Inside, Barnabas could see clothing, typical of expensive apparel from the late twentieth century along with other sundries, easily worth a small fortune to a collector.
"I was wondering what that trunk was doing there. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?"
"I called a mate last night and asked him to send it over. I'm going to meet him at the pub later, and I was hoping you'd come along."
Barnabas thought about it, and after some consideration, he decided to accompany him. Ultimately he was very curious as to what this friend of John Constantine was like.
"Of course I will. Where else would I go? We're friends aren't we?"
NorAm: New York City, Downtown
John looked oddly out of place on the streets of New York City wearing clothing that had ostensibly gone out of fashion about a century earlier. Resplendent in his Armani suit, Italian loafers, and trademark trenchcoat, he was walking with a strut that reminded Barnabas of a character in a movie that had once made disco famous. Indeed, no one who saw John today would recognize him as the same man who had been ignominiously clubbed to death the previous day.
They had spent the better part of the afternoon walking around Central Park, enjoying what passed for a clear winter's day in the city in 2112. The sun was only just starting to set, and John and Barnabas were finally on their way to his scheduled appointment with his friend. Barnabas noticed that they studiously avoided NorAm Plaza along the way.
"Where are we going again?"
John grimaced distastefully.
"Some place called 'Warriors,' a high-tech superhero disco. I have no idea what might be goin' through Hob's noggin. I always thought he had better taste."
Barnabas suddenly stopped walking and sat on the sidewalk, forcing John to stop as well and turn around to face him."
"Did you say Hob? As in Hob Gadling? Robert Gadling?"
"Heard of him, have you? Not surprised. He's one of the richest men in the world."
Barnabas harrumphed.
"No, actually I know him. Well, we met once. At a wake. A very long time ago, I might add. I was fairly certain that he'd be dead by now."
Shaking his head, Barnabas continued.
"I'm rather glad I'll be seeing him again. I only wish I could talk to him."
"Why wouldn't you?"
Barnabas leveled an amused stare at John before continuing.
"Because that's one of the first rules that talking dogs learn. It's a bad idea to talk in public places. People tend to stare."
John smirked and awarded Barnabas with a soft chuckle.
"You don't have to worry about that, Barn. Hangin' out with Delirium has left its mark. People will ignore bizarre stuff that happens around ya, and I'm pretty sure that talking dogs qualify."
Barnabas smiled back, reminding John of Tony Blair, the PM who smiled too much to be trusted completely. "Are you sure about this?"
"Taking coals to Newcastle, aren't we? You have me word, Barn. Stuff like this I know about. Cheer up. Believe me, our biggest problem will be getting you in the damned place."
NorAm: New York City, NorAm Plaza
Charlie Monahan was sitting in his patrol vehicle at NorAm Plaza, nervous, tired, and frightened as hell. He'd checked the day reports to find that there was no mention of a dead body being recovered. At first, he'd just been irritated, thinking that he was stuck with the cleanup work himself. Unfortunately, he returned to his beat to find the body missing without a trace.
If nothing else, Charlie knew how to cover his own ass, and he knew that this wasn't good. He was wondering how this might come back to haunt him in the future when a light tapping at the window of his vehicle disturbed his reverie. Putting a hand on his weapon, Charlie looked up to find a man wearing the uniform of a United Nations aide.
Frightened nearly to the point of losing control of his bodily functions, Charlie quickly regained his composure, not wanting to give himself away any more than he already had.
"Officer Monahan, I presume? My name is Simon Endicott, and I am here to offer you a transfer to UN security on behalf of my employer. Considering your current situation, I recommend that you accept. My employer does not take kindly to refusals or ingratitude."
NorAm: New York City, Warriors
Expecting much worse, John and Barnabas were both pleasantly surprised upon their arrival at 'Warriors.' Completely refurbished, all of the holographic eyesores gone, the place had a twentieth century feel to it that inspired both of them to reminisce on better times. An old-fashioned banner read 'Opening Night,' and a long line was formed outside the bar awaiting entry. Bypassing the line, John just walked up to the door, Barnabas at his heels.
"I'm sorry, but dogs are not allowed."
The two bouncers were quite sizable, and Barnabas thought it unlikely that John would be successful in budging them, magic or no. But then again, that's the way all bouncers look.
"My name's John and this is my friend, Barn. We're guests of Mr. Gadling."
"Robert Gadling?"
The two bouncers started whispering to each other, and then one of them headed into the bar. He soon returned with another man in tow. John took a good look at the sport jacket, 'Warriors' t-shirt, and jeans and wondered whether this could be the owner, not believing that the proprietor of such a trendy establishment would dress in a manner that was considered unfashionable over a century ago.
"Friends of Mr. Gadling, are ya? I'm Guy Gardner, the owner. He told me he was expecting guests, but he didn't say anything to me about any dog. Is he housebroken?"
Offended, Barnabas harrumphed.
"I thought they stopped making Americans like this decades ago."
Barnabas was pleased to find that his comment was completely ignored by everyone present except John, who couldn't help snickering a bit.
"You don't have to worry on that score, mate. Barn here, he's quite bright, even for a dog his age."
Guy bent down to make a closer examination and made note of the look of intelligence in Barnabas' eyes. That look reminded him of a dog that he'd once had. Guy straightened back up before replying.
"Well, normally I wouldn't do this, but I think I'll make an exception in this case, seeing as how you're friends with Bob Gadling and all. Welcome to 'Warriors.'"
With that, the bouncers made way, and Guy pointed them in the direction of the booth they were looking for. Barnabas drew more than a few curious stares as they entered, but they soon spotted Hob sitting in a booth in the far corner.
"What are they looking at me for? Don't they see that man in the black and red plaid suit?"
"Come on, Barn. Be nice."
Hob looked up and smiled as they approached. On the table in front of him was a wooden box and a tall glass filled with a dark liquid.
"John, you old devil, is that you? I hardly recognize you."
"What do ya mean, Hob? You old pirate. All I did was shave and chop me barnet."
"My arse you did, John. You look downright respectable. And who's this with you? I'd never have guessed you'd take to animals, John."
Hob looked at Barnabas and wondered why he seemed so familiar to him. He stopped wondering when Barnabas spoke.
"I'm not surprised you don't recognize me, Hob. It has been a long time and men forget upon waking as they say."
"Barnabas?"
"Yes, Hob, of course it's Barnabas. How many talking dogs have you known in your more than considerable lifetime?"
Hob Gadling chuckled, instantly recognizing the irascible tone.
"Quite a few in my sleep, actually. But I never thought I'd see you again."
"Anything can happen if you live long enough."
A waitress walked up to the table and smiled.
"Can I get anything for you gentlemen?"
Hob and John both ignored the way that Barnabas started looking around to see who she might be referring to.
"Allow me, John. Jean, lass, would you be a darling and bring us a few pints of Guinness along with some fish and chips and some ribs? And keep it coming, will you? There's a good lass."
"Of course, Mr. Gadling."
Jean smiled and left to retrieve their order.
"Did I hear you right, Hob? Guinness? I thought they stopped making good stout ages ago."
"They did. Fortunately, I had a lot of it in stock when it happened. A few months ago, I noticed that my supply was starting to run out. Paid out a small fortune to research the stuff and start up a new brewery with the same name. The owner here shares our taste for the stuff, and I've obliged him by providing a steady supply."
Obviously pleased with himself, Hob's smile widened when Jean returned with their drinks and a bowl of water for Barnabas. Taking up their pints, John and Hob both stood as they clinked their glasses together for a toast in unison. Even Barnabas raised his head and sat a little taller.
"To making life worth the living."
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
The gates of Parliament had been closed for nearly half a century. Once the center of British politics, the antiquated structure had long since been converted into another museum of antiquities. But unlike the other one, this museum was filled with artifacts that originated in the British Isles, rather than those stolen from Egypt, Rome, and other lands where the former British Empire had once cast its long shadow.
It was the last place that Lord Charles Patterson IV wanted to be and the one place to which he was obligated to go. Even worse, he was obliged to bring his son, Charles Patterson V, with him. Holding a seat on the United Nations had its privileges, and one of them was being beholden to no one. But there were responsibilities that even he could not ignore, responsibilities to one's ancestors, to one's compatriots, and to one's benefactors.
And it was all because the infamous John Constantine, for some inexplicable reason, had decided to rear his ugly head like the specter of death.
"Father, what are we doing here at this time of night? You've been very mysterious all evening. You telephone me, insist that I meet you here at this ungodly hour, and don't tell me a bloody thing. You promised me an explanation when I got here, now let's have it!"
Lord Patterson just closed his eyes and exhaled slowly before raising his hand to slap his son in the face. A large, strapping young man, Charles was not so much harmed as stunned. He reached up to rub his hand against the injury, wondering what could possibly have his father so agitated. It had been years since his father had found the need to inflict corporal punishment on him.
"Soon, you will have all the answers you seek. You are here because you are my son and because you are a Patterson. Remember who you are."
With that, Lord Patterson removed an identicard from his topcoat and used it to enter the museum. The lights turned on automatically as he entered, and he walked in slowly, following a well-remembered path across several winding halls and down several flights of stairs. He walked up to a section of bas-relief imagery depicting Henry VIII and his court. Depressing the eyes of the king, a small keyhole was revealed, designed for an old-fashioned mechanical key.
Charles watched with interest as his father reached inside his shirt to remove a small, velvet bag that was hanging from a silver chain around his neck. Lord Patterson opened it and removed an iron key in an almost reverent fashion. He placed the key in the keyhole and turned it until a clicking sound was clearly audible. What must have been a trick of the light reflecting off of the metal caused the key to glow momentarily.
Following that, the entire section of bas-relief imagery sunk into the wall behind it, revealing a man-sized opening as stale air rushed out at them. The passage that it led into was both dark and ominous.
"Father, don't you think we should have brought some bodyguards in with us? You are an UN representative, after all."
His father just grimaced in distaste.
"Do not sully this moment with your petty concerns for safety. I am about to introduce you to the secret of the success of the Patterson family since the time of my grandfather, your great-grandfather. Do you know what that secret is?"
Charles repeated the answer that had been ingrained into his memory as a small boy. With a mild combination of boredom, shame, and distaste, he answered.
"Ruthlessness."
"Yes, my son, ruthlessness. Absolute ruthlessness. The kind that is born only of the greatest hatred. The kind that requires extraordinary power and influence to execute."
Lord Patterson locked eyes with his son for several moments before turning away to enter the passageway, his son following closely behind. They passed through several twisting corridors as Lord Patterson continued.
"That is the same answer that I was forced to memorize as a child, but you do not yet truly understand its meaning, just as I did not until my father brought me here, just as his father brought him before me, just as I have now brought you. Do you remember who the most hated man is?"
Charles groaned inwardly. Was he to be plagued by this nonsensical fairy tale even in adulthood? The very concept offended him now that he was grown as much as the story frightened him as a child. Had his father gone completely daft? Hidden passageways? The family secret? Just what was his father up to?
"Not that business about John Constantine again? The man is long dead by now if he ever lived at all! The very idea that magic is real, that demons and angels exist, and that this John Constantine could beat the Devil himself at his own game! It's absolutely preposterous!"
Lord Patterson just smiled, remembering that he had uttered very similar words to his own father some thirty odd years ago.
"I was skeptical as well until the day that I was presented with absolute proof that it was all true. John Constantine does still live, and we Pattersons are obligated to hunt him down and see to his destruction by a pact made long ago in exchange for temporal power. None of us has as yet succeeded, but my father was fortunate enough to stumble onto the means to his possible destruction."
Charles could only think that it was time for the loony bin for sure and that the scandal would ruin the family name for several generations. In desperation, he covered his ears with his hands, hoping that the gesture would somehow force his father to end this madness, but his father just ignored him and continued.
"Yes, ruthlessness has been the key to your family's success, and yet also the reason why Constantine still lives. For as ruthless as we are, a Constantine is more ruthless by far."
The corridors finally led them to a room, and Lord Patterson slowly approached a sealed casket lying in its center. A funeral casket, it was oddly constructed of solid metal and marked 'Archaeology: Ireland, Drogheda.' A mad grin flashed across Lord Patterson's face as he grabbed the edge of the casket and stood poised to open the lid.
"I assume you are familiar with the history of the Drogheda massacre, which transpired in Ireland under Cromwell? Well, that slaughter was led by this man who was cursed with immortality by the Ribbon Queen!"
Saying these words, Lord Patterson forced open the lid of the casket, revealing a badly decayed corpse wearing the tatters of medieval-looking attire. The stench was almost unbearable, and Charles gagged as he became convinced that his father was insane. But that conviction died as soon as the corpse sat up, hacking and coughing, forcing Charles to question his own sanity.
"Who dares disturb the rest of Harry Constantine?"
Charles felt his knees buckle, and he collapsed onto the hard floor, scampering away in horror as quickly as he could. His father just smiled a smile that stretched almost from ear to ear, knowing that his son would no longer have any doubts.
"You see, my son, the only way to destroy a Constantine is with another Constantine."
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #3 -