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 #9
"The Meaning of Life"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Schuyler Bush
NorAm: New York City, the Waldorf Astoria Hotel
Moans and groans emanated from a mass of twisted sheets and pillows heaped upon the bed. Clothes strewn all about the floor, the place was undeniably a mess. That was pretty much how this particular suite looked every morning, and its resident, John Constantine, was generally considered the bane of housekeeping.
Barnabas watched on as the tenth hour came around. He'd just drawn the curtains, allowing full sunlight to fall directly onto the bed, which served as the impetus for the moans and groans filling the silence. John, as always, struggled to stay asleep, but as always, he finally admitted defeat. Sitting up in bed, he held his head, looking worse than the room did as was his usual wont.
"So how was the poker game?" asked Barnabas, who now made a habit of reminding John about what he'd done the previous night. "I heard you lost the last hand."
"How in blazes did you hear that?" inquired John grumpily, wincing as the sunlight aggravated the slicing pain behind his eyes. Climbing out of bed, he made his way to the bar and poured himself a shot of Glenmorangie, something he'd smuggled out of Hob's private stock for just such emergencies. He felt a thousand times better as soon as the fine, malted scotch glided down his throat.
"I have my sources," said Barnabas, not wanting to divulge that he'd formed a fast friendship with the butler of one of John's poker buddies. Alfred had called to inquire about the status of the game and how soon Masters Clark and Tim could be expected home. They'd gotten to talking and soon discovered that they had much in common.
"Well, don't believe everything you hear," said John, pouring himself some morning coffee. "I let the poor kid win that last hand. Felt sorry for him, I did."
"Poor kid? I thought he was one of the richest men in the world," said Barnabas, a puzzled expression gracing his canine features. "He wasn't wearing that terrible, checkered suit again, was he?" he asked, cocking his head quizzically to one side.
John couldn't quite resist making with a slight chuckle, the cut of that particular suit being something that one didn't forget. "Nah, nothing like that, Barn. Let's just say that those who 'know' don't need tarot cards to do a proper reading. Any cards will do so long as you're the one what's dealing. Anyway, I'm afraid ol' Tim's in for a run of bad luck."
"What kind of bad luck..." began Barnabas, cut off by the suite's com unit. Using the remote, John answered it, triggering the speakerphone function.
"Morning. John here. State your business," he said matter-of-factly, knowing that the hotel staff had been paid very handsomely to screen out unwanted calls.
"John?" asked the woman on the line, the sounds of sobbing and hysteria distorting her voice enough to keep John from recognizing the speaker immediately.
"Rachel? Girl, is that you?" asked John, suddenly wide awake. "What's wrong, luv? What's with all the blubbering?"
"It's Hob! I think he's been kidnapped!"
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
By the time John and Barnabas got to Hob's apartment, the NYPD's Special Crimes Unit was already there, sweeping the place from top to bottom. Seeing John walk in, the eyes of all the junior officers present widened slightly, and they gave him a wide berth.
"Hey, Bradley. Long time no see," said John as he lit up a cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke directly into the detective's face.
"Constantine," said Donvan Bradley, his voice an all-too-familiar grumble. "One of the richest and most reclusive billionaires in my jurisdiction suddenly turns up missing with signs of a violent confrontation. We find your fingerprints all over the place, and when we sweep away the broken glass, we find the letters J and C burned into the carpet. Sound familiar?" he asked, a smile on his face that had the words 'This time, you're ass is mine' written all over it.
John replied with a smile that said 'Better than you have tried' as he locked gazes with Bradley. Neither one backed down until Rachel interrupted their little, staring contest by running to John and hugging him close.
"John, thank God you're here," she said, sobbing into his shoulder. Then, finally noticing the tension between John and Detective Bradley, she backed away. "What... what's going on here?"
Neither wanted to break the silence, but Bradley backed down first, seeing as how it was his duty to name charges. "I'm afraid Mr. Constantine is the prime suspect in Robert Gadling's kidnapping," he said. "Forensics says he was nabbed sometime within the past six hours. Do you have an alibi for that time period, Constantine?"
"Sorry, Bradley. Wish I could help, but I was alone and asleep in bed after a long night of poker," said John, seemingly oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. "But my dog can vouch for me," he finished, smiling in Barnabas' direction and drawing Bradley's eyes to the dog as well. The almost human fashion in which Barnabas was disgustedly shaking his head unnerved him a bit.
"John, this is serious!" admonished Rachel, stabbing her index finger into his chest. "But it's also ridiculous," she continued, turning back to the detective. "John and Hob are friends. He has nothing to gain by a kidnapping because Hob would freely give him anything he wanted. He's the most generous man I know," she finished, her voice breaking as more tears began to flow.
"Yeah... well... we'll be keeping in touch," said Bradley, handing Rachel a handkerchief, slightly discomfited by the sight of a woman crying in his presence. Turning back to his examination of the crime scene, Bradley continued with his exhausting investigation.
Hardly even looking around, John just took one look at the broken window before wrapping his arm around Rachel's shoulder to lead her away from all the activity. "Don't worry, luv. Everything will probably turn out alright in the end."
"Well, that's reassuring," she said, pouting, her eyes red. "Do you really think the police will find him?" she asked.
"Not bloody likely," said John, crushing the butt of his cigarette into the nearest ashtray. "They're trying too hard and overlooking the obvious in the process. Most bobbies do."
"What do you mean?" asked Rachel, turning her head to look over the crime scene yet again. "Do you see something they don't?"
"Just the broken window, luv. Take a gander. What do you see?" asked John, tapping the bottom of his pack of cigarettes to get at another fag.
Rachel readily did as suggested, taking yet another look at what remained of the huge, bay window that graced Hob's living room. She didn't notice anything different at first, seeing only the rather large hole in the middle of it, but then she took note of its shape, which was quite odd.
"You know, if I didn't know better I'd say that hole in the window was shaped like a man with wings..."
NorAm: New York City, Ellis Island
The ruins of the Statue of Liberty had been deserted for several months, ever since its destruction at the hands of an enraged Captain Atom. Concerns about lingering radioactivity had caused the police to cordon off the area, but with nothing left to steal or see, no one had bothered to re-open the area to the public. As such, it the perfect location for a covert meeting.
"The package has been received," said a shadowy figure, moving to take the bound, gagged, and unconscious body of Robert Gadling into custody, revealing himself to be Simon Endicott, Lord Patterson's Aide. "I take it his capture presented no difficulties?"
"Even the most resourceful of humans is still only mortal, and as nothing compared to one such as I," replied the winged figure. "Simply see to it that he is delivered to your employer posthaste."
"I shall do so immediately, but first there is another matter to discuss. My employer desires the delivery of another package: the boy," finished Endicott.
In response, the image of the winged figure's body visibly rippled with anger, light shining from him. "Patterson oversteps his bounds!" he rumbled, flames blazing from his eyes. "You do not ask an angel to kidnap children! This one was a friend and ally of the 'Cursed One,' but the boy is innocent. Go back to your 'Lord' and tell him that his request was denied!"
Seemingly unperturbed by the display of anger and power, Endicott pressed the issue. "I am forced to remind you that Lord Patterson serves the same master that you do, and that he has commanded you to aid Lord Patterson in all things that will lead to the downfall of John Constantine," he retorted. "Dare you disobey?"
"No one commands Zimriel!" yelled the winged figure, causing the heavens to thunder and rage. "But a great debt is owed," continued Zimriel, "a debt that even one such as I am obligated to pay. I shall do as your employer asks, but he tries my patience with his presumptuous demands and risks suffering my wrath thereby. As do you," he finished ominously, leaping into the darkening sky.
Invisible to all save those he allowed to make note of his presence, Zimriel soared away majestically, and only after he disappeared from sight did Endicott breathe a sigh of relief. He truly detested these meetings with beings that could instantly reduce him to no more than a pillar of salt. Still, he had little choice.
"At least I won't have to deal with that particular angel after today," he said aloud to no one in particular, a smile of satisfaction slowly creeping onto his face. Pulling out his datapad, Endicott entered the code that would instantaneously transport Robert Gadling across the Atlantic.
"Not after today."
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
As John and Rachel stepped into Hob's private elevator, John could practically feel Bradley's eyes burning holes into the back of his head. As soon as the doors closed, Rachel set the elevator for a slow descent, such that it would take a good half hour to reach her desired floor.
"Something on your mind, luv?" asked John, lighting up yet another cigarette in what seemed to Rachel an endless cycle.
"John... we need to talk," began Rachel, hesitant to bring up such a delicate topic under such awkward circumstances. "I've done a little digging into your background that doesn't involve computers or police records, and I know that you're older than you look... that you've made a lot of enemies... that you've been lying to me and keeping secrets," she concluded, turning around dramatically to give John a penetrating stare. "I understand if you don't want to tell me everything right away, but I do need you to tell me the truth about one thing: Was Hob kidnapped because of you?"
For the briefest of seconds, some sadness creeped its way into John's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Taking one last drag, John broke eye contact to drop the remains of his cigarette to the floor and crush the life out of it with his foot before doing exactly as Rachel asked. He looked her straight in the eyes and told her the truth.
"Don't know for sure, luv, but yeah. I think he was."
Rachel bowed her head and blinked away a few tears, not out of sorrow that she'd guessed right, but out of happiness that John hadn't disappointed her with more dishonesty. Lost in the moment, she hugged him close and laid her head against his chest. "So what do we do now?" she asked, looking up at him and smiling.
"What do you mean, luv? I mean, nothing much to do but wait, right?" asked John, betraying no emotion. "And hope Bradley can take his eyes off yours truly long enough to find the real kidnappers?"
Stunned, Rachel backed away from John ever so slightly. "What... what do you mean? Don't you know who did it? Aren't you going to try and rescue him or something?"
"Rescue?" asked John in the most insufferably callous tone he could muster. "Sorry, luv, but I'm not gonna risk me own neck over anyone, not even Hob. Besides, I've no idea which of me enemies has nicked Hob. Too many to count, really."
"How can you say that?" yelled Rachel, completely outraged. "Your best friend has been kidnapped, and you're not going to do anything? What if they'd kidnapped me? Or Byron...?"
"Sorry, luv, but I'm a Constantine," said John, casually lighting up another fag. "I don't mean to be a callous, ruthless, self-serving wanker. I just am."
And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Winding back her hand, she slapped John hard across the face, knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. She was about to slap him again when John caught her hand and pulled her close, kissing her hard on the mouth.
"You bastard son-of-a-bitch! I hate you!" screamed Rachel, pulling her hand free and slapping John yet again, her wedding band leaving a bloody scar across his cheek.
And before she knew what she was doing, Rachel pushed John against the side of the elevator and kissed him back with equal passion.
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
Hob Gadling awoke to find himself in a cell not much different from the one John had been in just a few months ago, the only light in the cell directed straight at his face, blinding him. Wincing visibly, he let out a soft groan.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize the light would bother you so much," said an unfamiliar voice. "Here, let me redirect it for you. Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable? A glass of water, perhaps?"
Once the light was turned away from his eyes, Hob's sight quickly readjusted, allowing him to see the immaculately dressed young gentleman speaking to him. "Damn, I'm in London, aren't I?"
At that statement, young Charles Patterson blanched visibly. "How... how could you possibly know that you're in London?" he asked, stammering. "You were transported here directly. It shouldn't be possible..."
"Where else would a kidnapper address his prisoner with such nervous gentility and politeness?" said Hob, sarcastically. "Now who the hell are you and what do you want with me?"
"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. I should have realized you'd be curious about that," he said, finding it difficult to look Hob in the face. Indeed, he was quite embarrassed by the entire situation.
"My name is Charles, and I'm afraid you've been kidnapped. My father intends to use you as bait to draw in your friend, John Constantine," said Charles, fidgeting a bit. "He has something that my father wants, and we're hoping to arrange a trade."
"Trade? Trade me for what?" asked Hob, not liking his predicament or the way this conversation was going one bit.
"Well... I'm afraid I don't know, exactly," said Charles, chuckling nervously. "I'm afraid my father has neglected to share that particular detail with me. Still, he seems fairly confident that we won't have to execute you if that's of any comfort," he finished, not certain what else he should say.
"Are you quite certain you couldn't do with a drink?"
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
Barnabas raised an eyebrow when John and Rachel finally showed up at her apartment, both of them with their clothes and hair in complete disarray. The remnants of a scar were visible on John's cheek, but despite that, he seemed extremely pleased with himself.
Indeed, Rachel seemed unusually happy as well under the circumstances, what with Hob being missing and all. At her bedroom door, they kissed each other passionately and made a show of finally tearing themselves away from each other before the door was closed.
"So do I want to know what that was all about?" asked Barnabas, his curiosity somewhat piqued.
"Probably not," said John, smiling as he stepped into the living room. Byron was watching the holovid with rapt attention, and John plopped himself down on the couch next to him. "So what's on the telly, mate?"
"Hi, Uncle John," said Byron, not looking away from the screen, but still being careful not to spill any cereal on his favorite pajamas, which sported images of Superman, the Flash, and other 'classic' members of the Justice League. "It's some old cartoon they holovized called 'Scooby Doo.' Kinda neat."
"Is that old show still running?" asked John, amazed yet somehow strangely comforted by the fact that some things hadn't changed.
"Yeah, it's supposed to be really, really old," said Byron, munching away. "Did you used to watch it when you were a kid, Uncle John?"
Naturally, this comment drew a snicker from Barnabas and yet another grimace from John, but he let it slide. "Yeah, I used to watch this all the time when I was your age."
"Really?" asked Byron, mentally picturing John as a chain-smoking nine-year old wearing a trench coat and tie.
"Bloody right," answered John, somewhat fond memories creeping through his mind. "Me and me mates had this theory that the show was really about a bunch of kids hopped up on acid. After all, you just don't run into ghosts that often, and for the most part, dogs don't talk. Hell, they even drove to China once."
"Do tell," said Barnabas sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"What's acid?" asked Byron, pretty sure that John didn't mean the sulfuric variety that superheroes always managed to barely avoid getting dropped into.
"It's a slang term for a hallucinogenic commonly used during the late twentieth century," answered Barnabas, giving John a warning glance about mentioning such things in front of Byron, who was still highly impressionable.
"Oh," said Byron, trying to imagine John as a normal kid and failing. "What other cartoons did you use to watch?"
"All kinds of stuff, really," answered John, desperately craving a cigarette but not wanting to smoke in front of the boy. "Didn't matter if it was good or not. If it was on the telly, I watched it. 'George of the Jungle.' 'Rocky & Bullwinkle.' It was all good fun."
Byron laughed. "I've seen those, too. My favorite is 'Speed Racer,' I think," said Byron, pleased by the fact that John and he had something in common. "Uncle Hob holovizes all those old shows on his network."
"He does, does he?" asked John, a few lines of guilt and sadness crossing his features.
"Yeah, isn't it great?" said Byron, not really expecting an answer. "Uncle Hob does lots of weird old stuff that probably no one else cares about. He's neat that way."
"Yeah, Hob's a good mate. A great guy..."
The Dreaming: The HellBlazer
Rachel was making her second trip to the HellBlazer, the pub that served as John Constantine's personal corner of the Dreaming. Silently, she admonished herself for having expected too much of him. After all, even if Hob had been kidnapped by John's enemies, that wasn't his fault, and expecting him to intervene was just plain unreasonable.
John was anything but superhuman, and anyone capable of kidnapping someone as important as Robert Gadling under the noses of both the NYPD and the Justice League was probably very dangerous. Still, even if John couldn't do anything, that didn't mean she couldn't.
Having found the pub, Rachel quickly stepped in, removed her clothes, and made her way directly to the bar. Having found her man, Rachel got straight to the point: "A friend of mine's been kidnapped, and I want him back. You're a detective, right? Well, I want to hire you for the job. Name your price."
Staring off into space, slowly and methodically drinking his scotch, Clint Flicker, Private Dick didn't even bat an eye, responding with only a few, simple words:
"She was a pushy dame, but she had a case..."
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
The night was still and quiet as the angel known as Zimriel swept down on the apartment that held his unsuspecting prey. A child, he thought to himself. A true innocent. He reminded himself that he was above and beyond such paltry things as concern over a single mortal's fate, that mortals were meant to fear such as he.
Even so, he willed himself to simply pass through the window instead of crashing through it. There was no need to make a dramatic entrance as there was nothing to be gained by instilling fear in the child. After all, the enemy would know to tie the second kidnapping to the first. Indeed, such rationalizations are common even amongst his kind. Angels may not lie to others, but sometimes... sometimes... even angels will lie to themselves.
Invisible to mortal eyes, the angel stood there, watching his prey as he laughed at antics perpetrated by fictional characters that were real only to him. Extending his presence, Zimriel willed the child and other mortals in the area into an unnatural sleep, thinking it better to steal Byron away like a thief in the night. He was just about to be done with this unpleasant task when he was distracted by something completely unexpected, the sound of a dog barking.
"Bollocks! That's enough out of you, bird boy. One more move, and I blow you to kingdom come," warned John, leveling his gun at the heavenly intruder.
"What? Who?" asked Zimriel, truly surprised for what was, perhaps, the very first time in his eternal existence. Seeing the hated enemy, his eyes widened in a combination of shock and outrage.
"Don't you know?" asked John, giving the angel a rueful glare. "I'm Dick Dastardly..."
"...and I'm Muttley," continued Barnabas.
"And we're here to stop one pigeon!" they finished in unison as John fired a blast of divine retribution into Zimriel's chest, leaving a smoking crater where his heart had once been.
Collapsing onto the floor, Zimriel struggled to raise his head and look the enemy in the eye, vainly trying to rise back up. "How...?"
Lighting up a fag, John casually took a drag as he approached the fallen Zimriel, stepping onto what was left of his neck. "Angels... demons... you're all the same. Bastards!" he yelled, spitting on Zimriel's face. "Any last words?" asked John, cocking back the hammer of his six gun for one more shot, this one aimed at Zimriel's head.
"Damn you, Constantine. Damn you, but don't think you've won! My Lord will avenge me! He'll get you! He'll get you...!"
John cut short Zimriel's tirade by pulling the trigger, obliterating Zimriel's head and instantaneously reducing the rest of his angelic body to dust.
"And my little dog, too, right?" asked John, obviously pleased with his handiwork this night, making a show of blowing the residual smoke from the barrel of his weapon and putting it away.
"Don't give anyone any ideas," said Barnabas, shuddering. "You never know who might be listening. Anyway, will Byron be okay?" he asked in a worried tone.
"Yeah, the kid'll be okay," answered John, looking over at Byron protectively. "Now that the angel's been dusted, his power over Byron should fade, more like as not by dawn. Anyway, I've a good idea who's gone and nicked Hob, now."
"Really?" asked Barnabas, perking up his ears and raising an eyebrow. "Well, then... what happens next. Will you rescue him yourself or let the police handle it?"
"Don't have much choice now, do I?" asked John, thoroughly pissed. "That's what the blighters want, Barn. They want me to go after Hob and walk right into whatever trap they've set."
"Then don't go," said Barnabas, his usual, cynical manner noticeably absent. "Let someone else handle it, or maybe ask Guy for help."
"Can't do that, Barn. If I don't go, then they'll just come after Byron again, and maybe next time, we won't be so lucky. And even Guy doesn't stand much of a chance against an angel, not without the right tricks up his sleeve," said John, resigning himself to what he would have to do next.
Dropping the remains of his cigarette into Zimriel's ashes, John wondered how he was going to explain the mess to Rachel. He also wondered how angry she was going to be when he told her that he was off to London, once again raising a hand to his cheek. "Bloody hell."
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #9 -