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 #11
"New Faces & Old Places"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Jason Tippitt
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
"No, Geraldo, I don't think that's going to work..." said Hob, stifling a yawn. He'd been missing for less than a month, but an amazing amount of work can pile up when you're the head of a world-wide conglomerate like Hobbes Enterprises. "You need proof, not just plausible theories."
"But it makes perfect sense," said Geraldo, who would never let an idea for an expose go, no matter how farfetched it might sound. "If you assume that this new Batman was genetically engineered by the Justice League, then it follows that they would have used a combination of genetic material from the original Batman and his arch nemesis, the Joker, to create him..."
The holovid connection automatically compensated for elevated decibel levels, but Hob could still tell that Geraldo was quite agitated. Hob would have just laid down the law with any other writer, but Chung was his most popular holo-novelist, not to mention a good friend.
"...How else would you create the ultimate Batman but by combining the best traits of the original hero and his greatest foe? How else would you account for the stupid risks that this new Batman is taking, not to mention the irreverent sense of humor, the recklessness...?" continued Chung, building up steam.
"Very convincing, but I'm not running any stories even remotely related to the Justice League without substantiation of some kind," said Hob, trying to look sympathetic for Geraldo's benefit. "Get me some proof, and we'll talk. I promise."
And with that, Hob cut the connection, collapsed over his desk and groaned audibly.
"Another one of those days?" asked Rachel, who didn't understand why anyone as wealthy as Hob would bother to do any work himself. The fact that he did was one of many reasons why she respected him as much as she did.
"Every day since I got back," said Hob, looking bleary-eyed. "Not only do I have to keep Chung in line, I also have yet another visit from Detective Bradley to look forward to. No doubt, he wants to quadruple-check my story. Not only that, I've also got a small mountain of emails, fruit baskets, singing holograms, and hand-written letters to sort through from one Kieran O'Kennedy, who's begging me to bring Guinness to New Coast City."
"Well, why don't you?" asked Rachel, who found many of Hob's business decisions somewhat questionable. "You'd make a much bigger profit if you just sold it by the case in the supermarkets."
"None of that," said Hob, leaning back and propping his feet up on the desk. "Guinness was meant to be sold in kegs and served in pints from pubs that have a sense of community, not swilled by closet alcoholics. I'll bring it to New Coast City when I find a pub there worthy of it."
"Well, it's your profit," said Rachel, smiling. It never ceased to amaze her how easily Hob could shrug off the potential for billions of credits in sales. "Um... I don't suppose you've had any word from John?"
"Not even so much as a charge on his expense account," said Hob, who'd hoped she'd have gotten over John by now. "Sorry, Rachel."
"Don't be," said Rachel, forcing a smile. "It's not like I've been waiting by the phone or anything..."
Her use of TwenCen colloquialisms was improving, but Hob could tell by the way she trailed off that she wasn't being entirely truthful. John could be a right bastard at times. No one needed to remind Hob of that, but perhaps someone should have reminded him to warn Rachel.
"Well, don't expect him to call," said Hob, staring at the holo-monitor as if something very important had just crawled into view. "He's not that sort. More often than not, he'll just show up on your doorstep without calling if you get my meaning."
"I do," said Rachel, who knew only too well what Hob was talking about. An honest smile was on her lips, but it was impossible to tell whether it was one of sadness or happiness.
Western Eurasia: London, the Cambridge Club
For months, the most exclusive gentleman's club in Western Eurasia had been rampant with rumor and gossip about the circumstances surrounding the mysterious death of one of its members. Lord Charles Patterson IV, the former U.N. Representative for that territory was now dead, but had he been assassinated by Patriot upstarts, as the Justice League claimed? Or had he actually been removed from power by a political rival? Could that political rival have been his own son?
Many continued to wonder, but few had the nerve to directly question their newest members, who no doubt knew exactly what had happened. Many eyed them warily over their glasses of champagne, but few dared to speak with them directly, lest Patterson's fate befall them as well.
"So how's the kid taking it?" asked Harry, taking a swig of his gin and tonic. "It's been a couple of months already. Is he any better? Any change?"
"I'm afraid young Charles is not quite the man his father was," said Simon Endicott, who had formerly been Patterson's ever-present aide, up until the time of his demise. "I doubt that he ever will be, either."
"That's not necessarily a bad thing, now is it?" asked Harry, downing the rest of his drink. "His old man thought he could get somewhere by kissing an angel's boots, but that's a quick road to nowhere. Real power is something you take, not have given to you."
"Is that so?" asked Simon, steepling his fingers before him in a manner consistent with that of his previous employer. "Others might argue that power is power, regardless of how it is acquired."
"Fat lot of good it does any of them," said Harry, snapping his fingers to order another round. "Neither a borrower nor a lender be, mate. Otherwise, you spend your whole life in payback, one way or another. Anyway, how goes the search for Gabriel's heart?"
"Nothing but dead ends, I'm afraid," said Simon, looking dismayed. "It's doubtful that anyone but Constantine knows of its whereabouts. Needless to say, that route is no longer a viable option, what with Etrigan's involvement. Quite a surprise that, eh? Still, we are attempting to broach the matter from another angle."
"Really? And what exactly might that be if you don't mind my asking?" inquired Harry, his eyes narrowing.
"We've heard through very reliable sources that Constantine acquired Lord Gabriel's heart through the aid of his demonic counterpart," said Simon, hoping that this was more than just a rumor. "It's believed that he may know something of the heart's whereabouts."
"Demonic counterpart?" asked Harry, trying to seem genuinely curious. "Are you talking about Etrigan?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Naturally, you wouldn't know," said Simon, who'd forgotten how long it had been since Harry had last walked the earth. He had adapted to the 22nd century surprisingly well. "It's an involved tale, but Constantine has a demonic double, which he created via his own magic. This double, the Demon Constantine as he's been called, stole the reformed heart of Gabriel from the First of the Fallen shortly before this war between heaven and hell began."
"No doubt this Demon Constantine had no idea how significant the heart truly was," said Harry, who still couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. "Any leads?"
"Not yet, but something will turn up eventually," said Simon, allowing himself some small measure of hope. "Something always does."
"Yeah, I suppose that's true," said Harry, who suddenly found himself wishing that he'd never been removed from his ancestor's grave.
NorAm: New York City, Central Park
Several months had passed since Barnabas had last walked through Central Park. Ever since he'd gotten mixed up with John and Hob, he'd become accustomed to living in luxury, safe within the protective walls of Hobbes Tower and the Waldorf Astoria. Sad to say, this meant he'd also largely ignored his other friends and hadn't so much as said hello to any of them for far too long.
As he'd feared, most of his former friends were now long gone. It had been a harsh winter so far, and most of the homeless dogs roaming the streets of New York would have headed south long ago. Under normal circumstances, Barnabas would have left with them, but he'd been too busy with his new friends to bother with them anymore.
"I'd better start watching myself, or else I might end up like John," he said to no one in particular.
Barnabas felt terrible about it, awful really, and it made him feel even worse that he was only now looking for them because he needed assistance. John was long gone, and he probably wouldn't be back anytime soon. In the meantime, it was his job to look after Byron and Rachel, protect them from anyone who might want to get at John through them.
The list of potential enemies was fairly long, and too many of them had supernatural ties. For all of his many talents, Barnabas couldn't really do much to counter their efforts, and that encounter on the play level the previous month still had him spooked. He needed help, and he needed the supernatural kind. Petey was the only dog he knew that fit the bill.
Barnabas had always thought Petey an undignified name for a dog, but he supposed it suited his friend well enough. Besides which, he wasn't really a dog, just a demon who spent most of his time in canine shape. If nothing else, he had good taste, and with any luck, he would still be around, watching over the homeless and doing what he could to keep them safe in his little corner of the park...
"Do my eyes deceive me? Am I seeink vhat I think I'm seeink?" said what appeared to be an ordinary dog, lying in a burrow near a tree. "Barnabas, my old friend, it has been too long, but of course you are velcome. Please, come in out of the cold. Ve have much to be talkink about, yes?"
He wasn't much in terms of power as far as demons go, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
"It has been too long, old friend," said Barnabas, mildly ashamed. "I'm afraid I've been neglecting too many of my old friends, especially you."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Petey, taking on his demonic form. Few people wandered around Central Park in the dead of winter, and no one was around to notice. Despite the claws, fangs, horns, and wings, he looked quite friendly and seemed surprisingly amicable. "It has not been so long for ones such as ve, who are livink so much longer than most. How are you, my old friend? How can I be helpink you?"
"Is it that obvious?" asked Barnabas, wincing. "I guess I'm not much of a friend, coming to visit only in time of need. My manners used to be much better. I am sorry, but I do need your help."
"No apologizinks, please," said Petey, a broad grin on his face. "I am happy just to be seeink you again, and I am most happy to be helpink in any vay I can. You have only to ask, my friend. What problem is it that you are havink?"
Barnabas hardly knew where to begin. Should he start with his relationship with the most hated man or the angel he'd helped murder? Or should he start with the witch boy he'd most recently chased away?
"It's a long story so I suppose I should start at the beginning."
NorAm: Washington, D.C.
John Constantine had fled London at the earliest opportunity, a bit too early for his tastes. He wasn't sorry to leave, mind you. After all, the city held more bad memories for him than good, and most of the people he'd once known there were now dead. Still, he would miss being able to buy his Silk Cut, and the few cartons he'd been able to take with him wouldn't last long.
"Damn Hob and his ethics against peddling smokes, anyway," said John, putting a fag in his mouth and lighting it. Becoming more relaxed almost immediately, he allowed himself to ignore his many worries somewhat. Harry was no doubt busy planning something suitably nasty for him, something that would be enacted through third or fourth parties, and he could feel Etrigan's influence growing stronger within him. Having called upon him, it would now be that much harder to keep him in check. Indeed, the sooner he tracked down Jason Blood, the better.
The neighborhood was no longer quite as posh as he'd remembered it, but the mansion he'd finally reached hadn't changed much at all. Wintersgate Manor was just as dignified as he'd remembered it, and no doubt, Baron Winters was just as enigmatic as ever.
John forced himself to suppress a chuckle, thinking about Winters and his exile to this mansion, surrounded by portals through time and space with no means of exploring them himself. In the past, he'd amused himself far too much at Winters' expense, and it wouldn't be easy getting the bastard to help him out now. Even so, Winters was still his best shot at finding Blood.
"Well, no use just standing here," said John, making his way to the front door of the manor. "Nothing for it but to knock and say hello."
Grabbing the antiquated door knocker, John rapped it hard, three times. "Winters! You in there? Open up!" he exclaimed, feeling certain that the Baron knew it was him and was keeping him waiting on purpose. After a suitably long wait and successive knocking, he finally got a response.
"Well, who would have guessed it," said a familiar voice through some unseen intercom system. "Could that possibly be John Constantine darkening my doorstep after all these years? And if so, what possible reason could he have for coming uninvited? Could it be that the redoubtable John Constantine needs my help?"
"Same old Winters," said John, blowing a puff of smoke at the door, hoping that it also hid the camera that Winters was looking through. "Now, if you'll stop being pompous for a minute, I'll tell you what I want. I'm looking for Jason Blood. Know where he is?"
"Somewhere intended to keep him from being found by the likes of you, I would imagine," said Winters, masterfully snide with his comments. "And it's my intention to keep things that way."
"Let me in, damn you!" exclaimed John, pounding on the door with his fist. "Let me in, or I'll smash this house down all around you!"
"How? By huffing and puffing?" asked Winters, not impressed. Constantine seemed surprisingly agitated, and he found himself wondering whether he couldn't be agitated further into doing something stupid. "And why, might I ask, are you rhyming?"
That did it. Just as John became completely red in the face, the door opened of its own accord, and he barreled through it. Disoriented by the change in brightness, his eyes quickly adjusted, but that served only to make him even more disoriented. Instead of finding himself inside the manor, John found himself outside and in the open air, only it was day where it had previously been night.
Looking around, people were dressed in fashions that were centuries old, and most everyone was speaking a foreign language that he thought was Italian. It took a few moments to get past his disbelief, but eventually, he put two and two together and started berating himself mentally for his own stupidity. He'd allowed Winters to get to him, and now he was stuck in another time and place, with no sure way of finding his way back.
"Bloody hell, not again..."
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #11 -