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 #10
"Reckonings"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
DEAR ALFRED,
WHERE SHALL I BEGIN? THE PAST FEW DAYS HAVE BEEN VERY EXCITING, VERY EXCITING INDEED. YOU'VE NO DOUBT HEARD ABOUT THE KIDNAPPING OF ROBERT GADLING THROUGH THE VARIOUS NEWS SERVICES. PERHAPS IT'S ONLY A MINOR POINT OF INTEREST IN GOTHAM CITY, BUT HERE IN NEW YORK, MANY HAVE BEEN SHAKEN, MOST ESPECIALLY THE HOUSEHOLD OF RACHEL WALKER. FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, ROBERT IS RACHEL'S GODFATHER, AND SHE BECAME QUITE DISTRAUGHT AS A RESULT OF HIS ABDUCTION. FROM WHAT I UNDERSTAND, JOHN'S CALLOUS ATTITUDE TOWARDS THE SITUATION DIDN'T HELP, BUT HIS SUDDEN DEPARTURE FOR LONDON MADE A BAD SITUATION EVEN WORSE. MOST REGRETTABLY, MY OWN EFFORTS TO COMFORT HER ONLY SERVED TO EXACERBATE MATTERS FURTHER...
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
"The nerve of the man," muttered Rachel as she paced the length and breadth of her apartment, still furious over John's sudden departure. "The same day we finally get into each other's pants, he just takes off without even a word!"
Barnabas watched as she curled her hand into a fist, crumpling up the note that John had left behind. Written on it was a hasty explanation to the effect that he had urgent business in London and didn't know when he'd be back, not truly explaining anything. Indeed, Barnabas could well understand Rachel's frustration.
"I can't believe I misjudged him so badly," continued Rachel, being somewhat overly harsh with herself. "Rose tried to warn me about him, but did I listen? No. No! How could I have been such an idiot!" she cried, collapsing onto the couch, burying her face in her hands.
Barnabas watched uncomfortably as Rachel began to sob. Her anger spent, the tears were finally starting to flow uncontrollably. Not one to stand idly by while another suffered, he jumped onto the couch beside her. Extending a paw, he brushed a few, stray locks of hair away from her face and wiped away some tears.
Stunned by this almost human gesture of compassion, Rachel was even more startled by the intelligence that she could see in Barnabas' eyes. Indeed, she could almost believe her son's fanciful stories about the dog being able to talk.
"You don't have to punish yourself like this," said Barnabas as Rachel's eyes widened in shock. "John left for London to try and find Hob and deal with his kidnappers. Have faith in him. He's trying to do what he thinks is right."
Her mouth agape, Rachel stared at Barnabas quite dumbfounded for several moments. After the shock registered fully, she responded in the only logical manner available. She screamed very loudly, achieving an unusually high pitch, even for a woman.
"Eeeyaaaghhh!"
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
Lord Patterson sat at his desk, idly tapping his fingers upon its surface. By all accounts, John Constantine had taken the bait and was already on his way to London. Agents had already been placed at the airports and docks to insure that his arrival would not go unnoticed. Even so, Charles Patterson IV was not one to leave things to chance.
"How can you sit there so insufferably calm?" queried Patterson, eying the figure of Harry Constantine with some irritation. "Constantine may no longer be in New York, but that's no guarantee that he's truly on his way here to rescue Gadling. For all we know, he's fled elsewhere to disappear yet again!" he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the desk for emphasis.
In response to the tirade, Harry didn't even bat an eye. He just leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on Patterson's desk. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he popped one in his mouth and lit it in a manner reminiscent of John Constantine, not that Patterson noticed. After all, he had never had an opportunity to meet his enemy in person.
"Know thy enemy," said Harry, actively trying to be as insufferably calm as possible. "It's one of the basic rules of conquest, one that no one knew better than old Ollie," he continued, once again referring to the time he spent with Cromwell. "Now there was a leader of men..."
"Oh, do shut up!" retorted Patterson, resuming his seat and grunting with disgust. Following Harry's reanimation, he'd quickly discovered that nothing irritated him more that being compared to one of the most notorious butchers in all of British history and found wanting. "If you have reason to know why Constantine would head our way, then out with it!"
"Oh, he's on his way," said Harry, scattering ashes from his cigarette all over the floor. "Chances were slim with only Gadling in our clutches, but now that we've made a move against the boy, my descendant is bound to arrive, no question. He won't stand idly by while the child is threatened."
"But what does a mere boy matter to Constantine?" asked Patterson, unable to believe that his infamous quarry would be prey to such a simple weakness. "The most ruthless man in history undone by concern for a child not even his own?"
Harry was hardly surprised by Patterson's confusion. After all, how could a man who cared nothing for his own son be expected to comprehend such behavior in any other, let alone John Constantine.
"Let's just say that this most hated man that you fear so much won't have another Newcastle on his hands," said Harry, smiling a smile of absolute confidence.
MISS WALKER IS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO HEARING ME EXPRESS MYSELF CLEARLY. SHE'S KNOWN ME TO BE A RESERVED INDIVIDUAL WHO TENDS TO KEEP TO HIMSELF. AFTER I CALMED HER DOWN, I EXPLAINED A NUMBER OF MATTERS HOPING TO ALLAY HER CONCERNS, BUT TO NO AVAIL. ULTIMATELY, SHE MADE THE SAME MISTAKE THAT TOO MANY HUMANS... I MEAN PEOPLE... MAKE WHEN FEELING FRUSTRATED, LONELY, AND UNFULFILLED. IN OTHER WORDS, SHE ATTEMPTED TO DEAL WITH HER PROBLEMS BY BEHAVING LIKE JOHN.
The Dreaming: The HellBlazer
Rachel sat at the bar glumly, furiously downing shot after shot of the worst rotgut available. Her world had been turned almost completely upside down, and she somehow came to believe that things would be set right if she made herself feel even worse. Luckily for her, she was only dreaming.
"What's the matter, luv?" asked Sir Ringo, hopping up onto the bar stool beside her. "Having a spat with your lover? World not treating you right? Why not tell us all about it."
Not even batting an eye, Rachel just stared hard at the empty shot glass in her hands. "You tell me," she began, something of an edge to her voice. "A few days ago, I was leading a perfectly normal life, except for this Dreaming business. Now, I find out that my boyfriend is over a hundred years old and has a dog that can talk."
"Things all topsy-turvy?" asked Sir Ringo. "Well, I'm sure things will look less bleak in the morning."
Rachel ignored the well-meaning but useless advice, continuing on with her rant. "I slept with him, Ringo, in an elevator of all places! I thought I knew him, but it turns out I don't know anything! Not really... how could I have been so damned stupid?"
"Don't be so hard on yourself, luv," said Sir Ringo, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "John just has that effect on women. You're not the first to come in here ready to kill him, and you won't be the last, I'll wager."
"Wha... what do you mean?" asked Rachel, somewhat taken aback. "Other women have been in this pub complaining about John?"
"Heavens, yes!" exclaimed Sir Ringo, chuckling merrily. "So many that I've quite lost track. Kit, Kathy, Eve... so many names. It's difficult to remember all of them. Why don't you come along and pay a visit to the gallery?"
"Gallery?" asked Rachel, moving to follow Sir Ringo. He led her to a side door of the pub that she'd somehow never noticed before; stepping through behind him, she found herself in a corridor lined with portraits of beautiful women, most of them naked like herself.
One of the exceptions was the portrait of a woman wearing fishnet stockings and a top hat labeled Zatanna. Another was of a young woman in schoolgirl's clothing labeled Mercury. Otherwise, it was just what Sir Ringo had led her to believe, a gallery of nude portraits of the many, many women that John had known intimately during his lifetime.
Rachel could hardly believe her own eyes, and the curious sensation she felt was curiously akin to drowning. Lost in the sea of John's past sexual conquests, she began to wonder whether she'd ever really meant anything to him at all.
"How fab!" exclaimed Sir Ringo, mildly surprised. "Here's yours, luv, right here between Kit and Kathy and across from the shrine to Astra. Most impressive, that is. John must be particularly fond of you."
"What makes you say that?" asked Rachel, wanting very much to grab hold of any excuse not to feel as forlorn as she now did. "Who are Kit and Kathy? Who or what is Astra?"
"Who are Kit and Kathy? Both those stories are too long to tell, luv," said Sir Ringo, who'd spent far too much time drinking with both of them for his own liking. "But if you really want to know more about Astra, all you need do is have a look behind you."
That said, Sir Ringo made his way back to the pub, his bar stool evidently calling to him. Turning around, Rachel saw yet another thing she hadn't noticed before, black velvet curtains separating the main gallery from another room. Making her way through them, she walked into a dark room lit by a solitary lamp.
Hardly a shrine, there was nothing else in the room except some antiquated machinery that Rachel didn't even recognize at first glance. Eventually, she identified the larger object as a television and the smaller object on top of it as a VCR. A tape-based media storage device in the VCR was labeled 'Newcastle.'
Rachel pressed the 'play' button, and the screen flickered to life, starting to play a music video of some sort titled 'Astra.' The opening shot was that of a little girl sitting on a chair alone in a dark and empty house. As she sang, the images on the screen began to flow and change.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
The words were strangely haunting, and the little girl's voice was more haunting still. The combination of innocence and hopelessness evident in the tone of her voice was rapidly bringing tears to Rachel's eyes. A song originally made famous by Doris Day, Rachel recognized that the song was never intended to evoke such heartache, a fact that only served to make things worse.
On the screen, the little girl ran in terror from something dark and malevolent, perhaps her father, into the arms of a man that Rachel recognized to be a much younger version of John. Apparently, the girl thought of John as her protector, a sentiment that he shared willingly. Unlike the sound, the image was very sweet indeed.
When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here's what my sweetheart said.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
She watched as John reassured the little girl and began scribing symbols onto the floor, lighting candles and looking as cocky and arrogant as Rachel had ever seen him. He had friends with him, friends who seemed to trust that John knew what he was doing. Gestures were made, words were spoken, and suddenly, a demon appeared.
With the brazen hauteur of a king, John attempted to command the demon and failed. He spoke the demon's name, and the demon just laughed in his face. The laughter began to echo, and the sound of it merged flawlessly with the rhythm and beat of the song being sung.
Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich
I tell them tenderly.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Rachel understood even before the song reached its conclusion that this little girl had no future and would never have children of her own. John's trusting friends soon lay dead, lying in pools of their own blood, and the little girl was swallowed almost whole by the demon that he'd summoned. Lost and alone, only John was spared.
He knelt by the empty chair in the in the dark and empty house, surrounded by the dead bodies of his friends. In his arms, he held the little girl's severed arm and clutched it tightly to his chest, wailing silently into the night. And with that, the song ended, the image fading to black.
Horrified, Rachel was surprised to find herself kneeling on the floor as John had been on the screen, crying silent tears. Holding a closed fist over her heart, she also berated herself for having judged John so harshly for not revealing more about his past.
There were many things she wasn't yet ready to know.
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
Unaccustomed to the role of jailer, young Charles Patterson V sat nervously in his chair, trying very hard not to fidget. He looked extremely uncomfortable, to the point where even Hob felt bad for him, to the point where he found himself trying to strike up idle conversation.
"What's wrong, lad? Why so glum? After all, I'm the prisoner here, not you," said Hob, making a halfhearted attempt at being cheerful.
"It's terribly awkward," said Charles, his spirits somewhat lifted. "Not to mention improper. Kidnapping wealthy philanthropists just isn't the done thing, you know. It's all just so... so... American," he finished with distaste.
"Forgive me if I can't sympathize," said Hob, stifling a chuckle. Indeed, he was secretly pleased to see that some things hadn't changed. "If you don't mind my asking, what makes you believe kidnapping me will help you capture John?"
"Truly, I wish I knew," said Charles, shrugging his shoulders, "but they don't really tell me anything. I'm just supposed to accept that it will. Personally, I'm not even certain that he really exists."
"What makes you say that?" asked Hob, even more amused. Living in New York City, he rarely had the opportunity to appreciate such simpleminded skepticism, and he found himself enjoying it.
"As a child, I was raised on stories about John Constantine," said Charles, eyes downcast as if he were embarrassed to speak of it. "You know, fairy stories about demons and magic, spirits and curses. I never really believed them, and most of them were quite fanciful."
His curiosity piqued, Hob attempted to probe further. "How about an example? It would help pass the time, and there's not much else to do."
"Well, alright then," said Charles, somewhat sheepishly. "I'll tell you since you ask, but keep in mind that it's a story I first heard as a nine-year-old about a genie who grants three young boys a wish each. One of these boys is John Constantine."
Hob, who had heard few stories if any about John's childhood, did not interrupt. Indeed, he was eager to hear this tale.
"The first boy wishes for wealth. He gets it, but he's killed by a thief who steals that wealth from him," began Charles, warming up to his story. "The second boy wishes for power. He's granted power, but he ends up getting killed by someone who fears him because of it."
Having heard other versions of this same tale before, Hob was somewhat disappointed by the lack of originality. Even so, he couldn't help wondering how this version would end, considering that John was involved.
"Finally, it was John Constantine's turn to wish," said Charles, unconsciously steepling his fingers as was his father's habit when telling stories. "He sees that the two other boys ended up dead so he thinks long and hard about what to wish for. He knows that it would be better not to, but he just can't resist the lure of the wish."
"What happened?" asked Hob, intrigued. "What did he wish for?"
Charles hesitated before continuing, trying to divine the story's significance, as his father had always demanded when he was told the story as a child. "In the end, John wished for knowledge, to know the rules that the genie lived by, the rules by which wishes were granted."
"That's it?" asked Hob, somewhat incredulous. "Isn't there more?"
"No," said Charles, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm afraid not. My father made me analyze the story quite thoroughly, though. As a boy, I thought it was just an anecdote about how John Constantine viewed the practice of magic. You know, something that would make his wishes come true. Later, I came up with a somewhat more complex theory."
"Which was?" prompted Hob, trying to get a bead on the extent of Charles' deductive and analytical skills.
"Well, instead of focusing on what he wished for, I tried focusing on why he wished for it and came up with two reasons," said Charles, turning his head to look Hob squarely in the eyes. "I think he gambled that wishing for knowledge wouldn't leave him dead as wishing for wealth or power or any other worldly gain would."
"That's just one reason," pressed Hob, narrowing his eyes. "What's the other."
Charles responded, his tone cold, possibly from fear and possibly from awe. "I think John purposely wished for something that he could take with him even if he died. Like certain theologians have argued, your education is the only thing you take with you."
Impressed despite himself, Hob smiled at Charles, even though he knew of a fair certainty that the story was false regardless of the fact that the analysis somehow rang true. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I think that's a tall tale. Even so, I thoroughly enjoyed the telling."
Smiling back, Charles blushed, as he was unaccustomed to praise, especially from a natural father figure like Hob. "Like I said, they're just fairy stories. When I grew older, I was told even more fanciful versions of the same story, versions where instead of a genie granting three wishes, a soul is being sold to three demons, Constantine's own soul no less."
Charles began to chuckle softly, but Hob was strangely silent.
BYRON TOOK JOHN'S DISAPPEARING ACT NO BETTER THAN RACHEL. THE POOR BOY HAS HAD ONLY TWO FATHER FIGURES IN HIS LIFE, AND BOTH OF THEM ARE NOW MISSING. FROM PERSONAL EXPERIENCE, I KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE ABANDONED, AND I FIND MYSELF WORRYING ABOUT HIM. AN EXCEPTIONAL BOY, HE IDOLIZES JOHN FAR TOO MUCH FOR HIS OWN GOOD...
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
Alone in his room, Byron Walker sat at the head of his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, head bowed. Feeling lost and alone, he reached for the toy soldier from the birthday present that John had given him, holding it in his hands, looking for comfort.
"Well, John's gone," said Byron to the toy soldier, his eyes red from the flow of tears. "Uncle Hob's been kidnapped, and John's gone off to try and rescue him. He didn't even say goodbye, and I might never see Uncle John or Uncle Hob ever again."
Naturally, the toy soldier said and did nothing.
"Yeah, I know," said Byron, sounding unconvinced. "He probably just didn't want to worry me. Still, he should have said something before he left. Mom's real upset, and Barnabas seems real worried. It's just not right."
The toy soldier's lifeless eyes betrayed no emotion, and naturally, made no response.
"What's that?" asked Byron, tilting his head curiously. "Yeah, maybe I'm a little upset, too. I mean, I believed in him. I trusted him to stay, and now he's gone. Just like Hob. Just like all the others."
Again, the toy soldier said nothing. It was only a toy, and toys didn't talk. Still, Byron had somehow hoped that it would. After all, dogs weren't supposed to talk either. Bowing his head yet again, Byron completed his train of thought in a much more subdued tone of voice.
"Just like dad."
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
The awkward silence that had risen up between them was quite unbearable. Charles could hardly stand it, but luckily for him, it was soon broken by the sudden appearance of his father and Harry Constantine.
"I trust that my son has seen adequately to your needs and comfort," said Patterson, walking into the prison facility of his secret headquarters. "We wouldn't want to extend anything less than the utmost courtesy to the great Hob Gadling."
Not impressed and somewhat annoyed, Hob just shook his head disgustedly. Naturally, he recognized the UN representative for Western Europe that he'd voted against. Grimacing with distaste, he turned his attention to the other visitor, finding him strangely familiar. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked.
"What? You don't remember?" asked Harry, feigning shock and disappointment. "It's been a few hundred years, but still, I find myself just a tad bit offended." The words drew surprised looks from both Charles and Hob.
"A few hundred years?" asked Charles in disbelief. "Just what are you talking about Mr. Constantine?"
"Constantine..." muttered Hob, struggling to put a name to the man's face. Eventually, recognition struck him. "Harry. Harry Constantine. Cromwell's whipping boy."
"You do remember!" exclaimed Harry, feigning pleasure. "Been meaning to ring you for over a century, but being mostly dead and buried got in the way."
"How terrible for you," said Hob, gritting his teeth. "So you've gone from licking Cromwell's boots to kissing Patterson's huge arse? Quite a step down, don't you think?"
Offended, Patterson's eyebrows bristled whereas Charles found himself struggling to stifle more chuckling. Harry, on the other hand, took the insult in stride.
"Like I've been saying all this time, he's no Cromwell, but a dead man six feet under can't pick and choose who's going to dig him up. I owe the bastard, and there just isn't room for more than one Constantine in this world," said Harry, taking a drag on his cigarette. The gesture reminded Hob of John.
Ignoring Harry's insult, Patterson just turned him another baleful glare before forcing his attention back on Hob. "Imagine my surprise when I was told that the great philanthropist, Hob Gadling, was nearly one thousand years young, immortal for all intents and purposes. That's quite a trick. I don't suppose you'd be willing to share it with me?"
"What? The secret of eternal youth? The secret of immortality?" asked Hob, rhetorically. "Don't grow old. Don't die. Simple."
Not amused, Patterson was visibly losing what passed for patience with him. "Need I elaborate on the precariousness of your situation?" he asked, his hands folded behind his back. "You are my prisoner. Normally, it would be impossible to release you, but under the circumstances..."
"If you let me go and I talk about the kidnapping, you'll go public about my immortality," said Hob, not surprised. "I won't want that to happen so there's no reason not to let me go if I make it worth your while."
"So you do understand," said Patterson, looking smug. "Are we agreed?"
"Fair enough," said Hob, trying to be amicable. "Don't grow old. Don't die. Plain and simple."
"Is that how Constantine's remained alive for so long?" asked Patterson with more than a little irritation. His distrustful nature made it impossible for him to take Hob at his word.
"No, that's something completely different," said Hob, who knew with a certainty that Patterson would never believe any answer he gave, much less the truth. "Constantines are an unusual lot. I've known more than a few in my lifetime, and I've never known whether to fear them or pity them, immortal or no."
"It happens to us all," said Harry, reciting words he'd spoken to a much younger John Constantine over a century ago. "We get a sniff of sorcery and oh! What plans we make! We'll shake creation and leave nothing but smiles and wit and a reputation all men envy!" Harry even went so far as to imitate the hissing rasp that had been his voice prior to his regeneration.
"Yes, it would seem that every generation of Constantines since Kon-sten-tyn, the first Constantine, has suffered from the same curse," said Charles, thinking out loud. "Perhaps Merlin imposed the curse upon Kon-sten-tyn's heirs as vengeance for his betrayal. Perhaps the Constantines are the rightful heirs to the throne of England and are made to suffer for the sins of the crown that they do not wear."
"If that's true, then it pisses me off that John has to suffer for the sins of shit-eating bastards like you!" exclaimed Hob vehemently, directing the scathing remark at Patterson.
"Same here," said John Constantine from the far corner of the room, drawing stunned glances from everyone present.
ON THE OTHER HAND, I FIND MYSELF STRANGELY UNCONCERNED ABOUT JOHN. I REALIZE I'VE DESCRIBED HIM TO YOU AS LITTLE MORE THAN A DRUNKEN, CHAIN-SMOKING MISANTHROPE WHO'S PRONE TO TAKING ABSURD RISKS JUST TO IMPRESS WOMEN, BUT HE'S ACTUALLY VERY INTELLIGENT. I'M ACTUALLY CONFIDENT THAT HE WILL RETURN TRIUMPHANTLY WITH ROBERT GADLING AT HIS SIDE.
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
As soon as his presence was made known, security forces appeared out of nowhere led by Simon Endicott, Lord Patterson's ever-present aide. In short order, John Constantine's arms and legs were secured, and he was being beaten savagely about the head and face with the butt end of plasma rifles.
In a matter of minutes, all of John's ribs were cracked or broken, as were most of the other bones in his body. Both of his eyes were badly bruised and swollen, and his kneecaps were completely shattered. Bleeding from several orifices, John was on the verge of losing consciousness when Patterson finally intervened.
"Enough," said Patterson, observing the efficiency of his personal security forces with grim pleasure. "I want him completely incapacitated and severely injured, but not dead and not unconscious. Place him in the cell next to Gadling's."
None too gently, the three men dragged John's broken body into the waiting cell, leaving a trail of his own blood in his wake. John collapsed onto the floor, apparently unable to move, and the cell's force field was quickly activated.
"Was all that really necessary?" asked Hob, seemingly unmoved by the violent display.
"I am impressed by your detachment and apparent lack of concern," said Patterson, who kept his distance. "I was under the impression that you two were mates."
"We are," said Hob, who struggled to ignore John's moaning, groaning, and suffering. "Still, I've seen worse beatings."
"No doubt," said Patterson, looking smugly satisfied. "And you obviously know better than to grant me the advantage of knowing that this bothers you. Well played, Mr. Gadling, well played."
"Save your praises," replied Hob, his response revealing more about his true feelings than he wished. "Your time might be better spent looking after your son."
At the other end of the room, looking as pale as Hob remembered Death and the rest of the Endless to be, Charles was leaning against the wall, struggling to hold down his breakfast. To his credit, he hadn't lost control of his bodily functions, but it looked as if that were still a possibility.
"Oh, buck up, Charles! Be a man! You're a Patterson, and it's long past time you started acting like one!" exclaimed Patterson, checking his watch. "Besides which, you're about to be witness to a most auspicious occasion."
"Exp... ecting... someone you... wanker?" asked John, his words slurred and forced, blood spittling forth from his mouth.
"He speaks!" exclaimed Patterson, extraordinarily pleased with himself. "Excellent! Your moment of destiny awaits. My orders were to beat you into submission, ensure that you were helpless, but leave you conscious and able to speak. You have my gratitude for allowing me to keep my word."
"Go... fuck... yourself!" spat out John, struggling to get up onto his knees and failing. "Takes more than a... piece o' shite like you... to break me..."
"And so it has," said Patterson, who suddenly seemed nervous with expectation.
"Should have known you weren't the real brains behind this operation," said Hob, trying to draw attention away from John. "Mind telling me who is?"
"Would that I could, Mr. Gadling, but my Lord requires that his identity remain secure," said Patterson, nodding his head toward his aide, indicating that it was time. "I consider you very much my peer, and granting you such knowledge would necessitate your demise. Believe it or not, I prefer that you continue to live."
At Patterson's side, Endicott pressed a button on his handheld remote, sending a current of electricity through the metal floor of Hob's cell, forcing him into unconsciousness. To absolutely insure privacy, the force fields enclosing him darkened to opaque, and white noise generators kicked in to insure that he did not reawaken.
Mere moments later, three angelic beings suddenly appeared in the room. In point of fact, they were angels, each exquisitely beautiful, surrounded by an aura of divine power. Overcome by their powerful presence, Charles fell to his knees, and Harry backed away quickly with Endicott close at hand. Patterson, on the other hand, genuflected before the triumvirate in a stately fashion, bowing his head reverently.
Once it was determined that all was as it should be, the three angels parted, revealing the presence of a fourth figure who'd been standing behind them. Dressed in a Keravin suit whose cut betrayed an antiquated sense of style and tradition, his hair was blonde-gold, his eyes the clearest blue. Apparently only human, he was still flawlessly handsome, but impossibly, he seemed to stand taller than the angels in his entourage.
Stepping forward, he extended his right hand and allowed Patterson to kiss it as a demonstration of his fealty. His gaze he directed towards John Constantine who stared back through bruised and bloodshot eyes.
For his part, John found it difficult to focus, but eventually, his vision cleared. His eyes widened almost instantly with recognition, and perhaps even fear. He hadn't faced this particular enemy in over a century, and he'd looked very different during their last encounter.
"The years have... been... good to you," croaked John, gritting his teeth to keep the pain at bay.
"More so, perhaps, than to you," said the fourth figure. "But my time is limited. I will not waste it exchanging pleasantries or dealing with you any longer than necessary."
Folding his hands behind his back, in a fashion that Patterson was obviously in the habit of imitating, the fourth figure began pacing the room. "Do you know what goes on, Constantine? God has abandoned the Silver City, and war rages between Heaven and Hell. At any moment, either side could win or lose, and the fate of all reality hangs in the balance." Standing tall, the fourth figure looked down on John as if from on high.
"My involvement could shift that balance, but only if I am restored to my former glory, the fullness of my power! And only you, John Constantine, stand in my way! If you care anything for this world or your own miserable existence, then you will stand against me no more. Return to me what is rightfully mine!"
His voice rising to a deafening volume, his ire elevating to a state where even the angels were frightened, the fourth figure thrust a grasping and accusing hand towards John's cell.
"I am the archangel Gabriel, whose fall you orchestrated, and I want my heart back!"
The Dreaming: The HellBlazer
Rachel Walker sat at what had become her customary barstool, resting her head on its cool wooden surface. Not only was she feeling both miserable and guilty, she had a hangover that just wouldn't go away. She tried to drive the pain away by digging the heels of her palms into her eyes, failing miserably. Fortunately, an unexpected surprise would soon draw her out of her misery.
"The Butter and Egg man was big time with gunsels all over the place, but a good dick doesn't queer on a job just because he might get bumped off," said Clint Flicker, taking a seat next to his client.
A few seconds later, everyone in the bar yelled "Hob!" in unison as if welcoming back an old friend who'd been absent far too long. Raising her head, hardly daring to believe or hope, Rachel saw Hob Gadling standing in the doorway, alive and well and looking slightly embarrassed.
Rushing up to him, she wrapped him in a fierce hug as tears of happiness flowed down her face. Hob returned the embrace, but awkwardly, and it was only then that Rachel remembered that she was naked. Her face reddening, Rachel pulled away and attempted to cover herself with her hands as Hob quickly turned around.
"I'm glad to see you too, Rachel, but maybe it would be better if we did this outside," said Hob, briskly taking his leave of her. As soon as he was gone, Rachel pulled on her clothes as quickly as possible and followed after him, still blushing. Once outside, they shared a laugh and hugged each other again, this time with much more emotion.
"I'm so glad you're alright," said Rachel, happy beyond words. "It's so good to have you back."
"It's good to be back," said Hob, who truly appreciated her concern. "I only wish things were alright, but it's not so yet. Have you forgotten, Rachel? We're dreaming."
Her eyes widening with realization, Rachel backed away from Hob, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. "No. No! Damn it, it's not fair!" she screamed. "What happened, Hob? Where are you really?"
"I'm not really sure," said Hob, trying to remember. "One moment I was walking into my flat, pissed off at John for dealing me nothing but bad hands all night. Next moment, I hear glass breaking, and I'm out for the count. Then I wake up in a hidden jail cell somewhere in London."
"London?" asked Rachel, the wheels of her thought processes visibly turning as often happened in dreams. "So John was on the right track. Did he find you?"
"I'm afraid he did," said Hob, who understood only too well how precarious John's situation was. "They were never really after me. I was just bait to lure John in, and now they've got him right where they want him."
"Do you think he'll be alright?" pleaded Rachel, stepping forward to hold Hob close. "Will you be alright?"
"I honestly don't know," said Hob, who was beginning to wonder whether life as he knew it would soon be over. "I've seen John pull off some unbelievable bluffs over the years, but I'm not sure if he'll be able to get out of this one. I just don't know."
Over the centuries, he'd come to understand that he was still alive because Death wouldn't take anyone who saw no point in death and truly wanted only to live. According to John, however, Death was no longer in residence, having abandoned her realm over some business he was better off not knowing. Did that mean that if Patterson killed him now, he would stay dead?
Holding onto Rachel just that much more tightly, Hob tried to take comfort in the fact that he'd lived a very full life, that his death would leave loved ones like Rachel and Byron more than comfortable financially. Still, he had always assumed that if he ever did die, it would be at a time and place of his own choosing. It more than irked Hob that a worthless bastard like Patterson might be the one to rob him of that privilege.
"Death's a mug's game," whispered Hob, repeating the words that had become his personal mantra for living.
"Death's a mug's game," repeated Rachel, and the words were enough to renew some small sense of hope.
HOW CAN I BE SO CERTAIN THAT JOHN WILL RETURN THE VICTOR? IN ALL HONESTY, IT'S DIFFICULT TO EXPLAIN. JOHN'S CHOSEN LIFESTYLE DOES LITTLE TO INSPIRE CONFIDENCE, BUT I FIND MYSELF BELIEVING IN HIM ANYWAY. WHY? BECAUSE JOHN REFUSES TO BE BEATEN, AND NEVER DOES ANYTHING WITHOUT SOME PURPOSE BEHIND IT, EVEN IF IT SEEMS INCREDIBLY STUPID. AND LIKE ANY GOOD MAGICIAN, HE ALWAYS KEEPS ONE LAST TRICK HIDDEN UP HIS SLEEVE...
Western Eurasia: London, Parliament
A tense silence filled the room as John and Gabriel engaged in a petty contest of wills. All others present kept quiet out of fear, but the fallen archangel and the most hated man did so purely out of spite. The silence was finally broken by a soft chuckle from John at Gabriel's expense, dry, hoarse, and slightly mad.
"Where is it? What have you done with my heart?" shrieked Gabriel, forcing all but the other angels to hold their hands to their ears.
"Gone..." muttered John, his eyes closed, steeling himself for more punishment to come.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?" exclaimed Gabriel in complete outrage, shaking clenched fists. "What did you do with it? Barter it in exchange for the immortality you now enjoy? Piss in it and feed it to one of your enemies? What have you done with my heart?"
Ignoring Gabriel's tirade, John just continued muttering to himself. "Gone o form of man..." he said, apparently delirious. It was a good performance, and it fooled everyone but Harry, whose cigarette fell out of his mouth.
"What in creation are you blabbering about?" exclaimed Gabriel, angered by the thought that John was attempting to play games with him.
"Arise the demon..." continued John, opening his eyes and directing his gaze squarely at Gabriel, who finally comprehended the danger that he would soon be facing.
"You bastard..." whispered Gabriel, backing away nervously, his angelic bodyguards closing around him.
"Etrigan!" yelled John, his teeth bared, blood staining his lips.
Prompted by the utterance of that unholy name, John's body began to convulse, reshaping itself into a much larger form. His skin became dry and yellow, hot to the touch, and his fingers extended into claws capable of ripping through the hardest of metals. His trench coat reformed into a tattered blue cape, and the rest of his clothing reformed into a simple suit of red.
In no time at all, John Constantine was no more, his presence replaced by that of a creature out of nightmare, the first demon ever born to hell.
"Are you surprised by this merry scene
Crafted by this rascal, Constantine?
A perfect match, this twisted one
For hell's first foremost favored son!"
Ripping through the cell's force fields with the greatest of ease, Etrigan moved on to claw into the nearest angel. Too stunned to mount a proper defense, the angel was nothing more than a mass of blood and shredded flesh in less time than it took for Etrigan to complete his first rhyme.
The two remaining angels were not quite so slow, and flaming swords instantly appeared in their hands as Gabriel made his escape, fading from view. "This isn't over..." he said, unwilling to risk himself even though the odds remained in his favor.
"Gone so soon? Coward you are!
This mortal shell is braver by far!
You've gone and ruined Etrigan's fun
Better to fight than to cut and run!"
Etrigan easily sidestepped the slicing arc of the first angel's flaming sword as he breathed a gout of searing flame at his face, blinding him and marring his perfect beauty. Bringing his claws to bear, the Demon severed the angel's arm at the elbow while his other clawed hand claimed the flaming sword that it held.
Raising it to block an overhead strike by the other angel, Etrigan smoothly reversed the direction of his strike to lop off the head of the now blind angel. Terrible in his wrath, the remaining angel attacked the Demon with renewed vigor. No longer paralyzed by fear, Patterson's security forces foolishly joined in the battle, meeting swift deaths at the hands of an eldritch blast from Etrigan's free hand.
"What great fools these mortals be
But no more fool than this angel I see!
Your master has fled, the battle is won!
Wouldn't you call this skirmish done?"
Too wise to even consider the possibility that Etrigan might spare him, the last angel pressed his attack as Etrigan wasted time dealing with Patterson's men. A deft strike dislodged the flaming sword from the Demon's hands, and it seemed that he was now all but helpless.
Confident of his victory, the angel paused momentarily before making the deathblow, and that was his final mistake. From out of nowhere, Etrigan produced a gun, an ancient six-shooter whose design was more than two centuries old. As he pulled the trigger, a blast of divine retribution struck the angel square in the chest, opening a cavity larger than his head, killing him instantly.
"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Listening to Etrigan's triumphant laugh, Patterson soiled himself and collapsed to his knees. Charles had already fainted dead away, and Endicott was strangely nowhere to be seen. Even so, the Demon ignored them completely, focusing his attention on Harry, the only person he still considered a threat.
"So I'm next, is that it?" asked Harry, who was truly afraid for his unlife despite the flippant remark. "Is a few months hunting down one of my descendants all I get?"
"No more lies! Etrigan knows!
The stench of hell has reached my nose
So worry not, down is my gun
Letting you live will be more fun!"
And with that, Etrigan bowed gracefully, holding his cape. Not really sure why he'd been granted a reprieve, Harry didn't question it. Taking his cue from the Demon, he began speaking the words that would banish him again for a time.
"Gone, the Demon, Etrigan
Return again o form of man."
Instantly, Etrigan's form darkened and seemed to shrink in upon itself, returning to the familiar form of John Constantine. A few moans and groans escaped his lips, but otherwise, his body was completely healed, his injuries little more than yet another painful memory.
"Let you live, did he?" asked John, in desperate need of a cigarette. "Bollocks, what's the world coming to if you can't trust a demon to do your killing for you?"
"What did you expect?" asked Harry in return, kind enough to pass John a fag and give him a light. "Even demons won't turn against their own, not without good reason. If only us Constantines could be as loyal to each other. Anyway, how'd you end up with Etrigan bound to your soul? It saved your arse this time, but you can't think this a good thing."
"I don't, and I regret it already," said John, staring at his cigarette. "Happened quite a while back. Etrigan needed to bind himself to another human soul, otherwise both him and Jason would be dead. Jason was long gone and didn't want to be found, and he needed a soul already tainted by hell and tied to Merlin somehow. I was the only one what fit that bill."
"And you agreed?" asked Harry, incredulously, unsure what to make of it.
"Wasn't really given much of a choice," said John, with distaste it seemed, "and time was running out. I'm stuck with Etrigan until that wanker, Blood, can be found. And now that I've let Etrigan out once, I'm going to have to look that much harder."
"It's just like you to help out some strange demon and screw family," said Harry, obviously hacked off.
"What are you complaining about?" asked John, savoring a drag. "I gave you what you asked for, all those years ago," he said, referring to a time just prior to the eruption of the conflict now raging between Heaven and Hell in the Afterlife. "You begged me to sneak you out of hell and find you a new body on earth. Done."
"Not exactly new, you wanker," said Harry, mildly irritated. "Bollocks! You stuck me in a body buried six feet under, a rotting corpse at that!"
"What did you expect? Bodies magicked enough to hold a demon aren't that easy to come by," countered John, doing what he could to hide an impish grin. "Besides, it's always easier if it's family. Harry's body was the best I could do on short notice, and you'd think even my demon half could show a little gratitude."
"It'll be a cold day in hell before that happens," said Harry, revealed to be in truth the Demon Constantine. "And call me Harry. I've gotten used to it. Still, I'll consider us even if you tell me what you did with the Snob's heart."
"Trust me, you don't want to know," said John, who couldn't quite suppress a chuckle.
"What's so damned funny..." began Harry when understanding dawned upon him, and he raised a hand to his own chest. "You didn't..."
"Last I saw the real Harry, I'd cut off his head with a spade," said John, shrugging his shoulders. "Takes a lotta power to reanimate a corpse that old without a head. I made do with what I had available."
"Bloody hell."
Ignoring John, Harry moved towards Patterson as fast as he could. Taking his head in his hands, Harry twisted Patterson's neck using his supernatural strength, leaving him dead before he even knew what Harry was about. He'd been a useful pawn to date, but he couldn't be allowed to live, knowing now where Gabriel's heart had been hidden.
"This isn't over," said Harry, and with that, he was off and running.
"Don't I know it," said John, walking towards Hob's cell. Pressing some controls on the wall panel, he deactivated its force fields and other various systems completely. Almost instantly, Hob awoke, seemingly surprised to find that he was still alive.
"Is it over?" asked Hob, surveying the damage and letting out a low whistle when his gaze turned to the corpses of the angels. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm better off not knowing. Can we go home now?"
"As soon as you want," said John, helping him up, "but I won't be going back with you. Try to explain it to everyone if you can, especially Barnabas, Rachel, and Byron. Hate to cut and run, but it just isn't safe to go back just yet. I don't fancy any of this happening again."
"Nor do I," agreed Hob, following John out. "It won't be easy explaining why you won't come back, but they'll be glad to know that you're alright. Still, I'd really like to know how you did it. The rescue, I mean. It seemed hopeless."
"Nothing much," said John as he led Hob out of the hidden subterranean complex. "Just something I promised myself I'd never do."
Together, they made their escape through tunnels that John had already walked long before the first Patterson met his demise over a century ago, leaving Charles the only survivor of his latest struggle with that family. Would the cycle continue? Only time would tell.
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #10 -