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 #4
(Year One, Part Four)
"Tragedies Great and Small"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"
Barnabas sat quietly, watching the foam in John's most recent pint of Guinness settle thickly. The sight was quite beautiful and calming, almost hypnotic in a way, and a pleasant distraction from Monkees hits playing in the background and the current topic of conversation. As often occurs when men drink together, idle banter had soon given way to political discussion.
"So tell me, John, now that you've rejoined what passes for society, what do you think of the 22nd century?"
"Not much different from the old days, really. A little more technology and a little less magic, but hey, that's the way of things. The people who have are still screwing about with the people who don't and politicians are still power-hungry shite bastards."
Barnabas listened quietly, never letting his gaze leave the pint sitting on the table that had become the main focus of his attention. Even so, the opinions of men like John and Hob were not ones to be dismissed or discounted.
"Speaking as one of the haves, I suppose I'm not in much of a position to disagree with you. Still, I wish things were different."
"What? The life of a mega millionaire doesn't suit you?"
John smirked as he considered Hob's various holdings, which amounted to several lifetimes' worth of fortunes. In addition to his publishing business, Hob owned stock in everything from LexCorp to Drake Industries, in addition to a private collection of antiquities that did shame to several museums put together.
"Business is good, John, and it has been for some time. I've lived much longer than any man has a right to, and like most men, I've made my share of mistakes. But I've learned from them, I have, and I can tell you that the current state of affairs is just a powder keg waiting to blow. Terrible times are coming, John. I've seen it happen before, and I've seen it happen over much less."
John furrowed his brow with concern, Hob's opinion being one he had come to value. Sure, he was rich, and he wasn't mortal, but deep down, he was still a peasant, working class. He didn't muck about with magic if he could avoid it, and he did what he could to keep good things like Guinness from fading away. And eternal life without Guinness would truly be hell.
"If you ask me, the problems started with Harras. Seems to me, he did everything in his power to flush the world down the toilet. He completely sold out to big business and took votes away from anyone who couldn't afford it. Nothing's quite made sense since. A shite bastard politician if ever there was one."
"You'll get no argument from me. It wasn't till Robert Harras assumed UN Presidency that it all got turned upside down. Nothing has quite made sense ever since. The Presidents that followed only perpetuated the problems that he started. It's no wonder to me that this Patriot business continues to escalate."
Neither was it a surprise to John.
"So what do you think of this Patriot business? I'm still not sure what to make of them. Depending on who you ask, they're terrorists or freedom fighters and definitely troublemakers. What would you call them?"
Hob stared at his Guinness in a contemplative fashion before answering as he reflected on the history that he'd lived.
"Revolutionaries. Another case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Hob smiled.
"Don't you remember your history lessons, John? Or didn't you bother with proper schooling? I'm talking about the American Revolution, of course, back when King George lost the colonies."
John chuckled.
"You'll forgive me if my knowledge of that's a bit sparse. Didn't have the luxury of living through it like you did, mate."
Hob smiled weakly in return, remembering the disreputable trade that had been his business at the time.
"Land and Indians, John, land and Indians. All that taxation without representation guff was just nonsense, really. Old King George raised the taxes because it was costing too much to fight the Indians while the colonists were expanding west. Old George ordered a stop to the westward expansion, but you know how Americans are. They fought their way west like it was a noble cause. The Indians fought back, and the Crown was forced to levy new taxes to defend the fool idiots. Of course, the people in Boston and Philadelphia had no idea what was going on in the west so they screamed bloody murder about the taxes every time it happened."
Hob took a long, slow sip of his Guinness, allowing time for his words to sink in.
"An interesting way of looking at things, but how is this Patriot business the same thing?" asked John.
"Mark my words, John. Before the year is out, taxes will be hiked and personal freedoms curtailed even more than they are now. And as long as Patriot is pulling this terrorist crap, they'll be getting the blame, not the Justice League, and certainly not the UN.
John took a moment stare at his own drink before responding. "That is pretty stupid. You're right, Hob. I guess Patriot's sailing four sheets to the wind with their tactics."
As yet another early hit by the Monkees hit the sound system, John checked the time and took the opportunity to excuse himself. "Be right back, lads. Gonna step outside and have me a smoke. Try not to talk about me too much behind my back while I'm gone," he said with a smirk.
NorAm: New York City, NorAm Plaza
Charlie Monahan could hardly believe his own ears. A job in UN Security! People waited all their lives to get that kind of gig. He'd been waiting all his life for an opportunity like this, and here it was, offered up to him on a silver platter right out of the blue.
"Naturally, there exists a precondition to this arrangement."
A catch. There was always a catch. Nothing ever worked out for Charlie Monahan. For every goal he'd ever set for himself as a child, there was always some test he couldn't pass or some standard he couldn't meet. Afraid to ask, Charlie asked anyway.
"What is it that I have to do?"
The man smiled. "The previous evening, you were seen pummeling a man to death in this very alley. After you killed him, you were seen dragging his body behind the dumpster in this same alley. Not a very thorough means of disposing of a corpse, but that matter is hardly relevant as several moments later, that same corpse recovered and soon walked away. For reasons that my employer chooses not to explain, my employer wishes this man eliminated, and that is the task that is required of you. Do you understand, Mr. Monahan?"
Stunned, Charlie just sat there with his mouth open, considering what he'd been told. They wanted him to kill somebody? They wanted him to kill the guy he thought he'd killed last night? Officer Monahan wasn't quite sure what to make of that. For a moment, he wondered what the true nature of this offer of employment would be and what the consequences of accepting or declining would amount to, but he quickly dismissed these niggling doubts.
"Is that all?" he asked. After all, if that bum was still alive, then Charlie would have to get rid of him anyway.
"Yes, Mr. Monahan, that is all. Currently, the gentleman in question can be found at an establishment called 'Warriors.' I am told that he is there still. Go there, wait for him to exit the establishment, and eliminate him. Succeed and the position I've offered is yours. Do you accept the terms of this arrangement, Mr. Monahan?"
Charlie smiled. For the first time in his life, it looked like he was going to get a break. After all, he'd already gotten the upper hand on the guy once. How hard could it be to do it again? "I do."
And the man smiled back, pleased that matters had been resolved so quickly. This man was indeed a fool, readily expendable, and the perfect stooge for this test of Constantine's abilities.
"Excellent. I suggest that you make haste to that establishment forthwith. I shall monitor your progress with great anticipation."
NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"
Just after John stepped out, an argument developed between the owner of Warriors and a gatecrasher. They both stepped outside to resolve their difficulties and Barnabas was glad to see them go.
"Wouldn't you know it? Just when I'm starting to get comfortable with this place, a scuffle breaks out."
Hob leaned back and smiled.
"Well, it is opening night. These things happen. Besides, the distraction is a useful one. With the crowd intent on the fight, they won't pay any attention to a talking dog, what with John not being here. Even so, we should probably keep our voices low."
Widening his eyes, Barnabas let out a low whistle.
"That's right. John's enchantment only works when he's with me. By the by, how is it that you could understand me?"
"Weird is a relative thing, is all. What's passing strange to someone else seems commonplace to a man who's been around for more than seven centuries. Even so, I'm surprised to find you hanging about with the likes of John."
Barnabas cocked his head to one side in a curious fashion.
"And why's that? Actually, we only met last night, but I already feel something of a kinship with him. Probably because he reminds me so much of both of my former masters."
Not surprised, Hob emptied his pint down his throat before responding.
"He's a Constantine, Barnabas, a true Constantine. They live terrible lives and die terrible deaths, and their time on this earth is by nature chaotic, destructive, and self-destructive. I've known a few Constantines in my lifetime, but mark my words, John's the best and the worst of the lot."
Barnabas noted the grave expression on Hob's face, taking some time to ponder his words before continuing.
"How did you and John become friends?"
Smiling, Hob responded.
"That's a long story. Suffice to say that we met a long time ago and that we caught up with each other again a short while back. He's a good friend, and he tries to be a good man, but I could never walk his road with him. And that's why I'm surprised to find you in his company. What's your next move going to be?"
Barnabas had to think about that one.
"I'm not sure. I guess I'll stick with John until I find reason to leave."
"Then watch your back and his. John collects enemies like dogs collect bones. Now that he's come out of hiding, his enemies are bound to catch up with him eventually if they haven't already. And then, it'll be open season. It's going to be a bloody foxhunt out there and John's the bloody fox."
"Bones and foxhunts, indeed." Barnabas harrumphed. It sounded like the fight was outside had reached some kind of resolution so his next words were particularly low.
Trying to distract himself from such thoughts, Barnabas let his gaze wander to the wooden box on the table.
"Just out of curiosity, what's in that box you brought with you?"
"This? Just a little protection, something to help John get through the rough times that most definitely lie ahead. He left it in my keeping when he decided that discretion was the better part of valor."
Hob opened the box to reveal an ancient revolver, an old-style six-shooter straight out of the American west.
"You call that protection? In case you hadn't noticed, most people use lasers and such nowadays. I doubt that a revolver will do John much good."
Hob smiled. "This one's special, though. It used to be one of a pair that belonged to someone that John called the Saint of Killers. The story John told me says that God himself forged them out of a flaming sword that belonged to His angel of death. Don't worry, this thing packs more punch than you might think. I only wish I knew what happened to the other half of the pair."
"How did John get his hands on it?" asked Barnabas, eying the old antique with more respect.
Hob's brow wrinkled as he tried to jog his memory. "Don't entirely remember. John told me some story about having retrieved it in heaven. Then he went into some philosophical rigamarole about there being an infinite number of dimensions but only one heaven and hell that leads to all of them. Didn't really understand it."
Hearing that, Barnabas gave out a low whistle. Maybe traveling with John Constantine wouldn't be as dangerous as he thought. Maybe it would be much worse.
NorAm: New York City, Alley
No sooner had John lit up than a huge biker fought his way past the bouncers and started causing trouble. He used the distraction to step into a side alley, knowing that his midnight appointment would want some privacy.
Leaning his back against a wall of the alley, John let the shadows wrap themselves around him. And just as he did so, another figure separated itself from the shadows in front of him.
"This was almost too easy."
Pleased by the distraction of the noise from the brawl taking place on the street, Charlie Monahan stared hard at his prey, a smile on his face and a police baton in his hand, the same one he'd used to beat John the previous night. Of course, John looked very different today, well-groomed and well-dressed, but not even Charlie Monahan could forget the face of a man that he'd killed.
John, of course, recognized the face of the man that had killed him, despite the fact that he'd been very drunk when it happened. He listened as the police baton began to hum, ready to release a blast of lethal energy at him at point blank range. Hardly fazed, John just looked at his watch as the seconds counted down to midnight.
"But not quite that simple, you stupid, fat bastard. Up yours."
An expression of rage was quickly replaced by one of confusion and disbelief. As Charlie Monahan dropped his baton, some blood trickled down out of the corner of his mouth and a gurgling sound emanated from his throat. His body collapsed to the ground as the life force drained away from his body, revealing the form of a beautiful and innocent-looking girl standing behind him. Her beauty and innocence were belied only by the look of pleasure on her face and the dagger dripping with blood that she slowly withdrew from Charlie Monahan's anal cavity.
"Hello, Ellie. Been a long time."
John stared long and hard at the demoness standing before him, a former lover and a former friend who suffered him to live only because her own survival depended on it. The succubus Chantinelle was the only succubus ever to succeed at the seduction of angels, and she had succeeded more than once. John had to continually remind himself of what she truly was whenever the situation warranted that they meet in person.
"Yes, John, it has been a long time. But not nearly long enough. Why have you summoned me here?"
Chantinelle's thoughts went to the masking sigils that John had inscribed upon her body more than a century earlier. They were all that stood in the way of her destruction, punishment for having dared to produce a child with an angel. Indeed, there were those above and below who still sought her destruction. The masking sigils hid her from their notice, and the sigils were dependent on John's continued existence. But naturally, they couldn't hide her from the notice of the man who'd inscribed them.
"Don't worry, Ellie, I'll make this quick. I just have a question that needs answering is all."
John's mind wandered back about fifty years to the day that Chas had left him.
"What do you mean you're leaving? You can't leave! You're a ghost! And I'm the sorry bastard you're cursed to haunt."
"Screw you, John! I always knew you were an arsehole, but I didn't know you were a complete and total piece of shite till now. I've half a mind to stay just to piss about with you like you always did with me."
"Half a mind is right, you berk! Go then. Get lost! Maybe I'll finally have me some peace."
"Not bloody likely, you wanker!"
And with that, Chas faded from view, never to be seen again, or so John had hoped at the time.
"Gods, but I miss Chas sometimes." His thoughts finally wandering back to the situation at hand, John continued with his question.
"About fifty years ago, God took an extended vacation. Heaven and Hell were emptied, and all the dead were set free. Last night, after this fat bastard killed me, I met up with Occult who told me about a war being waged over heaven and Hell by armies of the dead. Before he could tell me more, I came back. I need to know. Is such a war being waged between Heaven and Hell?"
Chantinelle smiled knowingly. "Why do you ask, John? Are you worried? Or are you just tired of skulking about in the gutter?"
Returning her cold gaze, John took a drag on his cigarette, releasing a steady stream of smoke from his lips as he responded. "Survival's a rough game. And we all do what we have to do to survive."
John reflected on the vast number of enemies he'd buried over the years. He sometimes wondered how he'd managed to survive them all, but the answer was pretty simple, really. He was still alive because they were dead and couldn't really bother him anymore. When that changed, he'd had no choice but to go into hiding. His enemies had been formidable enough when they were alive and would be almost impossible to deal with now that they were dead. The Spook Group had taught him as much way back when.
"It surprises me that you didn't seek confirmation before crawling out of your hole. You're taking quite a risk."
"There's risk in everything, Ell, but terrible times are coming. I can tell. I need to come out of hiding, but I also need to know."
Ellie listened on, obviously with some amusement. "Is that concern I hear in your voice? Do you actually care about what happens to this world? I'd have thought your thinking would have gone the way of the existentialists long since."
John chuckled. Not even he was that arrogant. Indeed, John knew well that not everything was glorious, and it went beyond conceit to think that a future that wasn't glorious was no future at all. And it was supreme arrogance to think that if France couldn't have a glorious future, then no one else possibly could.
"The rantings of pompous French bastards? I think not."
Knowing that John's fragile conscience would surely get him into more trouble than she could ever set against him, Chantinelle smiled inhumanly from ear to ear, reminding John of the manner of creature that she truly was.
"Then let's get this over with, John. What you have heard is true. A war is about to rage in the Afterlife, and most of your old enemies will be too concerned with these other matters to bother with you. Most, but not all. Your dead ancestors have already chosen sides, but the nastier bits of yourself that you left in Hell remain unaccounted for. Does that allay your concerns?"
"No, but it answers my question, don't it? Thanks, Ellie. I'll be seeing you."
Dismissed, Chantinelle stepped forward to give John a parting kiss, one that would make him long for her in the centuries to come. John had the sensation that Chantinelle's tongue was leaping down his throat, rubbing against the walls of his heart, and sucking the lifeblood from it. Using her cheek, she pressed the tip of John's cigarette against his face as well, inflicting pain as well as pleasure upon him. Finally, she stepped away and was gone as silently as she came.
"Farewell, John Constantine."
John was somewhat sorry to see her go. After dragging the corpse to the darkest corner of the alley, John stepped back inside to rejoin Barnabas and Hob, just as the brawl in the street came to an end. Looking back at the shadows, John whispered an unnecessary farewell.
"Goodbye, Ellie."
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
His antique cellular pressed to his ear, Lord Patterson listened with an expression between pleasure and disappointment plastered to his features.
"Very well. Dispose of the body as I instructed and maintain your vigilance. Inform me immediately of any further developments."
"There is news?"
Harry Constantine's voice was hoarse and gravelly, perhaps from disuse, perhaps because of his undead state.
"Yes. Constantine dispatched the constable with the aid of some woman. The reports say that she appeared and disappeared through shadows. It sounds as if Constantine may be in league with the metahumans."
Dry laughter erupted from Harry's throat.
"Hah ha hah! A demoness more likely, and a powerful ally she would be. You must move more carefully, now that he is aware of you."
Lord Patterson crossed his eyes, not pleased with Harry's tone.
"Do not concern yourself. He will not suspect my involvement. The constable was chosen for this initial contact because Constantine would assume he was merely covering his own tracks. Indeed, he will suspect nothing."
Harry sneered as well as he could manage without lips, thinking Patterson an overconfident fool that would soon end up dead.
"Do not underestimate him. I have met this one before, and he is not to be trifled with."
Stunned, Lord Patterson reacted vehemently.
"How is that possible? You've been interred in the earth for centuries!"
Anger evident in his eyes, Harry responded with even greater vehemence, without even raising his voice.
"The answer is simple. He found me and dug me up. He said he'd researched his family and found out about the curse that was laid upon me. He said that he wanted to know where he came from. I remember well the look of arrogance on his face. And I could see in his eyes that he thought me worthy only of his hate and disdain. As casually as you please, he kicked me back into my grave and piled the dirt back on top of me, leaving me to suffer with my curse."
Patterson found it difficult to accept that even Constantine could have such disrespect for his blood, his lineage. Noting his stunned reaction, Harry decided to reassure the new-found ally foolish enough to think himself his master.
"Do not concern yourself, for my vengeance shall be sweet. There is hatred between us, debts unpaid, and a reckoning still to be had. I shall repay him for the harm he did and the disrespect he showed me a thousandfold. Blood is thick, but sometimes hatred is thicker."
And despite his own hatred, Lord Patterson in that moment pitied his enemy.
NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"
John returned to find Barnabas resting his eyes and Hob in the middle of a book written by Darian Order.
"The Nouveaux Romantic Movement? Damn it, Hob, I thought you had better taste."
Chuckling, John sat back down, and Barnabas opened his eyes.
"I do. I just think it's interesting how much people can get wrong when romanticizing the past. They almost completely ignore all the bad stuff and never get the good stuff exactly right. It reminds me of the medieval renaissance fairs that were popular back in your day."
"Then why'd you spend credits on it?"
Hob smiled.
"I didn't. One of my companies publishes it. I'm just looking for a clue as to why superheroes in tight costumes are suddenly popping back up all over the place, crawling out of the woodwork. To my way of thinking, battles like the one that just took place outside are going to become commonplace. Do you have any ideas?"
"I haven't the foggiest. A crazy American thing, I always thought. You'd never catch a Brit in that kind of getup. Sure, there was that Mirror Master guy, but he was a Scot, and a criminal to boot, so he doesn't really count."
Smiling again, Hob chuckled.
"Actually, I wonder why that is? Why shouldn't Brits go running around in tight costumes? The Yanks get away with it."
Barnabas harrumphed, having decided to show them the real reason why cynic means dog-faced.
"No mystery there. Speaking as one who saw the 'Full Monty,' I'd say the answer is obvious."
In unison, both John and Hob awarded Barnabas with insulted glares before bursting into laughter. As the evening was drawing to a close, Hob offered up a toast. As he raised his Guinness, John raised his as well, and even Barnabas stood up, poised over the pint that had been his entertainment for the evening.
"To devils, rogues, and misfits in the cosmic scheme of things. May all be given their due. And to John, welcome back."
In unison, all three of them drank in honor of the odd toast.
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #4 -