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 #12
"God is My Girlfriend"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Rob Nott
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
"I guess old habits die hard," said Rachel, sitting within the deepest recesses of Hob Gadling's penthouse apartment. Hob was away on business, and she was apartment sitting, as always. Of course, she hadn't expected to find herself rummaging through all of his private things like bandit, but old habits die hard, as she'd just said aloud to an empty room.
Some of her oldest memories consisted of secretly sifting through other people's belongings: their books, their possessions, and ultimately, their lives. It was a bad habit, one neither nice nor polite, and as an attorney, she knew it to be illegal as well.
Still, Rachel could never quite help herself. She knew that Hob probably wouldn't mind, and doing it made her feel better. In some ways, doing this made her feel as if she were Byron's age again, full of wonder and glee, with little idea what true unhappiness felt like. And most important of all, it kept her thoughts away from John, and what had become of him, why he hadn't returned.
Almost two years had passed, and still there had been no word, one way or another. Was he dead? Had he ever truly cared about her? Hob had been less than forthcoming, saying only that John would return when he was ready and that he'd been in good health when they'd parted. Indeed, it might be more accurate to say that Hob might purposely have been being obtuse. These were the thoughts that haunted her, and she was well rid of them.
Moving from box to box, chest to chest, Rachel's hands made their way through hundreds of mementos, some no doubt worth several fortunes whereas others, perhaps, had only sentimental value. Eclectic yet grand, Hob's collection of belongings represented the culmination of centuries of living.
One box held a complete set of phonograph recordings by a band called the Beatles, most of them autographed, and above them hung a rack full of nothing but old bowling shirts. Next to that box sat a small chest full of old coins, with double eagles spread around casually like pennies and the more valuable florins and florentinos carefully preserved in mylar. And behind that was an old shoebox filled with nothing but Christmas ornaments, mostly handmade.
Impulsively, Rachel grabbed an old quilt folded neatly in the corner and hugged it to her chest, inhaling the scent of a woman's perfume mixed with the scent of a smoking fire. It was wonderful, walking through another's memories like this, especially memories as wonderful as Hob's. Indeed, it was almost magic.
Looking over the neatly arrayed rows of boxes, Rachel noted that they were all methodically packed, labeled, and sorted, some by date and others by content. All save one. Doing a double take, Rachel noticed that one small box lay completely unmarked, filled with odds and ends that defied any single categorization.
Intrigued, Rachel crawled her way towards the errant container, carefully sifting through its contents. Its contents included an ancient rapier that was practically rusted through, and an old pewter tankard bearing Hob's initials. A deck of ancient playing cards, well-faded, were held together with a rubber band, laying directly atop an ornate box that held a pair of dueling pistols.
Rachel could only imagine what memories these things must have held for Hob, no doubt both good and bad. Setting aside more objects she didn't even recognize, she reached down to the very bottom of the box, pulling out an old manuscript. The pages were yellowed with age, and the words upon them were written in a cursive style that no one in this age could hope to imitate.
Indeed, they were hand-written and practically impossible to decipher. Even so, the title of the manuscript was perfectly legible. 'Constantine' it read, and that was more than enough to send Rachel running off to find a translation holopad. As quickly as possible, she scanned the contents of the ancient pages into Hob's computer, translating them from Middle English into the language's modern form.
The entire process took only a few minutes, but to Rachel, they seemed more like hours. Perhaps even days. Even so, the end result was well worth the wait...
CONSTANTINE: A Play in Five Acts by Bill Shaxberd
PROLOGUE
[A tavern in Florence.]
{Enter Two Gentlemen}
FIRST GENTLEMAN
How cursed is the student too poor of means
To slake his thirst with Bacchan nourishment
Will no Florentine rescue me from want?
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Speak to me no more of curses meager
And a Londoner shall be thine savior
If you woulds't drink with this impoverished soul,
Then foul mine ears no more with talk of curse
Sit, friend, and let me forget such troubles.
FIRST GENTLEMAN
Thou speak'st plain of things infernal bent
Witchery and dealings frightful and foul
As if the devil truly walked the land
Surely, Englishmen know such tales to be
No more than Alexander's papal rants
Meant to fill his coffers, lay low his foes.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
'Tis true, the devil hath made Rome wealthy
With its enemies lying ashen burned
Mere tales doth win great lands and slay great men
Mere voices raised win trials without account
But heed this well; a devil doth exist
He haunts my steps and would'st bring down
All who bear my name or would'st call me friend
So have thy drink and flee whil'st thou still may.
FIRST GENTLEMAN
I merely drink with thee, not call thee friend
And I would'st have another drink besides
Gentlemen take each other at their word
But a student requires proof of claims
So wild as to require further drink
Tell me more; prove that a devil exists,
And I shall call thee master thrice over.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Then listen well; a tale most infamous
I shall tell of a family noble-born
Who in God's name doth Satan's scheme advance.
{Exeunt}
Rachel was just about to begin reading Act I when she was interrupted by the sound of an incoming call. Reluctantly, she answered it, activating the comm in her Rolex, a gift from Hob.
"Hello? Yes, this is Rachel Walker. Byron's school? Is something wrong? Has something happened? Oh, I see. Yes, I'll come down right away."
Rachel had noted the strange behavior that had overcome her son in recent weeks, ever since John disappeared, a strange curiosity about all things religious, in particular all things Judeo-Christian. Apparently, her son's school had noticed as well, enough to make it an issue. And it really was a problem that she should have addressed long before now.
Quickly, she downloaded the translated manuscript into her watch and grabbed her purse. Returning the manuscript to where she found it, she made sure that everything was back in its proper place before exiting Hob's apartment.
Western Eurasia: London
Just on the outskirts of King's College lies a small house boasting a Victorian style of architecture. Largely assumed to be the home of one of the university's professors, it is actually the home of a U.N. employee who provides special services on behalf of high-level government officials, in particular Lord Charles Patterson IV, the U.N. representative for all of Western Eurasia, and now to his son, Lord Charles Patterson V. His name is Simon Endicott.
His rise to power within official channels remains something of a mystery, largely due to his ability to remain hidden in the shadows, to inspire fear in his enemies, and to do so unobtrusively. His services are valued as much for his ability as for his discretion, the latter a quality that most special operatives lack. Many envied him his success, and many more would have given much to know the secret behind that success.
Simon Endicott had many secrets, and his home was no different. Hidden beneath the house were multiple sub-levels with stainless steel walls, and the most advanced security systems available to modern technology, not to mention modern mysticism. And hidden away in the deepest recesses of this private fortress was the secret behind his resourcefulness, the source of his power.
The austere halls reverberated with the sound of his footsteps and hummed with the telltale static of electrical current running through them. Finally, he reached his destination, a vault with walls made from a specially-engineered transparent metal that emitted its own natural energy, a nearly-blinding white light. And locked within this vault was a dark and seemingly lifeless thing, twisted and bent. It's difficult to see through the light, but with effort, more detail can be discerned, enough to tell that it is not a thing but a person. In fact, it is a man. And it is not so much a vault as it is a prison.
"Do you hate me? Do you wish me dead? Do you still yearn to return to your precious Opal?"
Laughter rang through the lifeless halls, but it could not be heard by the dark genie trapped within the strange, man-made lamp that held him captive, that held his powers captive for use by his keeper. Lovingly, he traced his fingers across the arcane symbols engraved into the outside of this cage, and he spoke to the still, unmoving figure with his lips pressed against it. No sound passed from without to within, but Simon Endicott cared not as he knew only too well the thoughts and motivations of his ill-used slave and well gloried in his power over him.
"Hate me all you wish. Demand vengeance as you will. But you will never be free."
NorAm: New York City, Cathedral
The city of New York had retained many historic sites that long predated the twencen, and of these, many considered Cathedral to be the most impressive. And with the Statue of Liberty now lying in ruins, few could gainsay them. It was in these halls that Reverend Georges Thiers maintained his offices and where he counseled those having crises of faith. In these cynical times, true faith was becoming more and more of a rarity, and he considered it his duty to do whatever he could to maintain it wherever it existed.
More often than not, the only people in New York who retained faith in anything, let alone the existence of God, were children. As such, Reverend Thiers had made his counsel available to all of the local schools. Every child could be expected to go through a crisis of faith. After all, if you let them know that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are merely figments of their imagination, then only the simplest of them would not extend that logic to include the concept of God. And only in the rarest of cases did anything more serious require his attention in this regard.
"Good morning, Sir," said Byron, who couldn't help fidgeting a bit. The chair was just a little too big for him, such that his feet dangled above the floor, and all of the very old and thick books and religious antiquities disturbed him quite a bit. Many of them were quite graphic, displaying the figure of Christ in scenes of bloody anguish, and his discomfort was more than justified. "Are you having a nice day, Sir?"
Byron was anything but impolite on most occasions, but he was being extra polite today. This morning, his teacher had had a surprise for him, a most unpleasant surprise. All smiles, she'd told him that he was going to go pay a visit to Cathedral and speak with one of the priests there. She'd been concerned about him, about some of the things he'd said at school, and about some of the things that the other children had been saying about him. Byron didn't have to ask to know what she was talking about. And now, here he was in the office of Father Georges Thiers.
Byron had heard her mother talking about him while she was preparing Uncle John's case for trial. A renowned exorcist, his understanding of the occult and the supernatural was said to be without peer, and here Byron was sitting in his office. What was he here for? To have a demon exorcised from him? Was that why he could understand what Barnabas could say? Was that why his mother spent so little time with him? Was that why... why John had abandoned him and fled without a word?
Naturally, these were all ridiculous notions, but they were the horrifying thoughts that occupied a young boy's mind when he was unexpectedly placed in this kind of situation. But another possibility was also tugging at the back of his mind. This man was a priest, what he had perceived for most of his life to be God's emissary. Had he, perhaps, called him here to speak to him on God's behalf? Was she not displeased with him? After all these months, did she want him back?
Such were the unreasonable hopes that a young boy had when placed unexpectedly into such an unusual situation.
"A very nice day," said Father Thiers, folding his hands upon his lap and smiling down upon Byron, a strangely cherubic smile. "I hope you're not too uncomfortable. You're not in any trouble, and there's no need for you to be nervous. I just want to talk, and your teacher just wants you to talk to me. She's worried about you, Byron. She's very worried, and she wouldn't have sent you here unless she thought I could help."
"I'm not nervous," said Byron, the lie coming easily to him. After all, it was the polite thing for him to say, and he was a very good boy. His teacher had told him so on many an occasion. "But why is my teacher worried about me? Did I do something wrong? Did someone say I did something wrong?"
Father Thiers smiled down at the boy, the very model of patience and understanding. He liked all children, of course, but he naturally preferred the ones that were polite, intelligent, and had the decency to call him 'Sir.' He considered it something of an eccentricity, not a conceit, although his age had made this distinction easier to make.
"No, young Mr. Walker, you didn't do anything wrong, and you're not in any trouble," said Father Thiers, smiling politely as the light of the room reflected off of his bald head. Byron couldn't help but stare although he quickly turned his eyes back to the priest's face, knowing that it was impolite to stare at such things. "So please stop fidgeting. Your teacher and I are just... concerned. Concerned about your moral well-being. That's all."
"Concerned about what, sir?" asked Byron, beginning to feel uncomfortable again. He already had a good idea where this was going, and he had no one to blame for his current predicament but himself, which essentially made it all that much worse.
"I'm talking about these stories you've been telling at school," began Father Thiers, his brow furrowing. "About having met God? About how God appeared to you as a little girl in the park? And about how God is your girlfriend? Yes, we are very concerned about these stories that you've been telling to the other children, very concerned indeed. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Walker?"
"It was on play level, sir. Play level at Hobbes Tower. Not in the park," clarified Byron, a bit sheepishly. He could tell from his tone that Father Thiers didn't believe that he'd encountered God, and Byron had the feeling that he'd be difficult to convince. But he refused to lie, even if it got him into more trouble. His mother wouldn't want him to lie. God wouldn't want him to lie, no matter what.
"I see," said Father Thiers, his eyes narrowing. The boy was beginning to try his patience. Perhaps he was just a small boy, but his words were blasphemous. And even a child should know better. "And what makes you so certain that this girl you supposedly met this one time was God?"
"Because she said so, sir," offered Byron, his eyes still downcast. The words sounded strange to even Byron, but he wasn't about to recant. He was telling the truth. "And it was more than just the one time, sir."
"Oh?" queried Father Thiers, raising an eyebrow. "Well, this I hadn't heard. And just where and when do you meet?"
"In my dreams, sir. In my dreams."
Western Eurasia: London, The Estate of Lord Patterson
Hidden in the Cotswolds, halfway between Bath and Chipping Campden lay what was widely regarded as the single most beautiful private estate in all of Western Eurasia. Pristine in its naturaly beauty, the estate boasted every luxury one could imagine, including courses for golf and fields for equestrienne pursuits. It was more like luxury resort than a private estate. Once one of the prime tourist attractions in all of the British Isles, the entire area was now reserved for the private enjoyment of a single family, and now a single man.
Lord Charles Patterson V sat alone in his empty mansion, a mansion that boasted over four hundred rooms. Soon after the funeral that had been held for his father on the estates, he'd sent all the servants and guests away, ostensibly to mourn. With the passing of his father, he'd been made Lord of the Estate, inheriting all that had once been his father's, including his seat in Parliament. Indeed, he'd been inundated with calls from false well-wishers for the past few weeks, and he'd desperately needed some time alone, time to grow into his new role.
Needless to say, it had been a very new experience for him. The most common everyday tasks were completely new to him, such as dressing himself in the morning, preparing his own meals, and bathing himself. Raised by servants his entire life, it had even taken him a few moments to find the handles on the toilet and bidet respectively. Completely alone for the first time in his life, it was only natural that he should start talking to himself, being alone in such a large and empty place.
"Yo-del-e-hee-hoo!"
Patterson listened as the sound of his voice carried through the entire mansion, echoing back to him gracefully. He found himself turning left and right to be sure that he was alone, that no one was listening, scratching at five days growth of beard as he did so.
"I suppose I must be going a bit daft. Not surprising in this creepy old place. Nothing but ghosts all over the place."
Completely oblivious to the fact that security were still present on the borders of the estate, watching his every move on various holo-monitors. Collectively, they shook their heads. Young Patterson was not his father, and they tended to doubt that he would ever properly fill his father's shoes. All in all, they were simply grateful that he hadn't managed to injure himself, and that he was no longer running around without any clothes.
"Are you one of them then? Flitting about and criticizing my every move?"
Patterson spun himself wildly about, expecting to see his father's spirit lurking behind every corner, every object. He could practically see the disapproving glare. He could practically hear the angry bellow.
"Incompetent buffoon! Gutless, sniveling worm!"
These had been but a few of his late father's favorite belittling things to say in condemnation of him. His father had never managed to see him as anything other than naive and weak, a slave to his own emotions. He'd heard them all his life, and he could hardly countenance the possibility that he might never hear them again. Hanging his head, he could only stand there dully as his father's words echoed back to him in his own voice.
"You were a terrible father, you know. You've left me everything, your power, your position, and your title, but they say that the only thing a father truly needs to leave his son is a good example of how to be a man. Instead, you left me a good example of how to be a ruthless, dictatorial bastard son-of-a-bitch who thrives on power and hate."
Indeed, his late father had been the consummate image of a perfect British Lord. No doubt, his spirit would not rest easily until he became the same. And as suddenly as this thought occurred to him, a smile appeared unexpectedly on his face, a cruel and wicked smile.
"So be it."
ACT 1, SCENE 1
[The Vatican. The Pope's Chambers.]
{Enter Alexander and Cesare}
CESARE
How goes't the campaign 'gainst the savage
In Amerigo's distant paradise?
Hath they yet embraced the Lord and thy rule
So loving and beneficent to all?
ALEXANDER
Concern thyself not with enterprises
Beyond thy understanding or privilege
Rome's will shall prevail without thine advice
And better without so cease thy prattling.
CESARE
Apologies, father and eminence,
But mine curiosity hath been piqued.
'Tis rarely that I am called to thy side
So far removed from mine own small estate.
ALEXANDER
So you discount my will and prattle on?
How it pains me that mine son doth rebel
Ever more concerned with his own affairs
Than those of his great father, most holy.
CESARE
Only one father and not the other.
Which father? He who sits before me here?
Or he who sits before me, visage grim?
For I love one father with all my heart.
ALEXANDER
Thou dost blaspheme before thy fathers both.
You dare o'ermuch in thy bitterness.
But on matters sore have I need of thee,
Enow to spare thee for thine sister's sake.
CESARE
Sister? And what of the gap-toothed stripling?
What need hath I of her or she of me?
My father's work is no place for children.
That I know and remember all too well.
ALEXANDER
Child no more, but woman grown, in full bloom.
A beauty in eyes of both God and man,
Blessed with virtues tantalizingly fair.
The time hath arrived that vows be taken.
CESARE
To maintain that virtue, her father's prize?
No surety is holy orders here,
For others hath fallen in spite of them,
And her treasured virtue might yet be lost.
ALEXANDER
A treasure not to be maintained but spent,
A vow not to serve God, but her father.
Its value shall only decrease with time,
So I would see her wed, but not to God.
CESARE
If not to God then to whom shall she wed?
Two betrothals lie already annulled.
ALEXANDER
Her husband shall Giovanni now be.
CESARE
My brother? An unforgiveable sin.
But nay, you mean Sforza of Milan,
Not the second Duke of fair Gandia.
A worthy choice, an alliance fair sought.
Will Milan agree to this proposal?
ALEXANDER
That I leave to you, my Cardinal son,
For I shall be fair busy with matters
Politic concerning my son, the Duke.
I pray you understand his place and yours.
{Exeunt Alexander}
CESARE
If as matchmaker I am called to serve,
Then so shall I practice as you deserve.
But think not the Duke has thy favor won
For I am most truly my father's son.
{Exeunt}
NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower
Rachel and Byron returned home in uncomfortable silence. The meeting with the school principal had been awkward, and the meeting with Father Thiers had been awkward as well, only moreso. Regardless of her status as an accomplished attorney, she still felt uncomfortable around certain types of authority figures, including principals and priests, a tendency shared by many single mothers.
"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Rachel, taking a seat next to her son on the couch. He looked so forlorn that she could barely restrain herself from taking him in her arms and covering him with kisses. "I'm not mad, I'm just concerned. Is something bothering you?"
"I know," said Byron, loosening his tie and leaning back to rest his head on the back of the couch with his face turned away from his mother. Being only nine years old, he had no idea how much this simple, reflexive action caused her pain. "I don't know what's wrong, Mom. I'm not sure if anything is wrong. I'm not sure what I know."
Even though she knew he wouldn't like it, Rachel patted her son's head, running her fingers through his hair. She couldn't help it. He looked so lost. He looked so sad and forlorn.
"Tell me. What's bothering you?"
"I'm not sure. Everything. Nothing. I talked to a priest today, but he didn't have any answers for me. All he did was question what I believed. And now I don't know what I believe anymore."
Rachel couldn't help pouting. It was a natural tendency she carried with her since she was Byron's age, the tendency to pout when she didn't know what else to do, what to say.
"Is this maybe about John?"
Byron continued to stare into space directly away from his mother. He'd flinched only just a little at his mother's touch, and even that had made him feel slightly ashamed. She was his mother. She loved him. And he was troubled to find that now that he was getting older, he no longer knew exactly how to love her back.
"Maybe. I don't know. Everything's different now that he's gone, and I wish he were here. I have questions. Questions about God. Questions about angels. Questions that I think he could answer. Do you think he believed in them, mom? Do you think he believed in angels?"
Unbidden, a smile graced Rachel's lips, and she laughed just a little in response to a memory. The laughter grew until it became a resonant and lively thing all its own.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing. You just reminded me of something that John said to me one night before he went away."
Happy in the memory, Rachel leaned closer to Byron, forgetting for the moment any reason why she shouldn't do so.
"We were watching one of your uncle Hob's old holovids, a movie from the twencen called 'City of Angels.' It was a movie about angels who found mortal women so beautiful that they voluntarily fell from heaven so they could love them. John didn't like it much. He spent practically the whole time I was watching it complaining about the lead actor, Nicholas Cage. How ugly he was. How he didn't know how to kiss right. How he couldn't act his way out of a paper bag."
"Is he really that bad?"
"I didn't think so, but John really disliked him for some reason. I'm not sure why. Anyway, I liked it. It all just seemed so romantic, the idea that these perfect beings would give up heaven just for the love of a beautiful woman, and I asked John what he thought about it, whether he believed something like that could actually happen."
"And what did he say?"
Rachel's smile resurfaced. And instead of just saying what had happened, she decided to act it out, try to imitate John as best she could. Turning to Byron, she grabbed him forcefully the shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. She did her best to make the expression on her face seem as shocked and distressed as possible. And she imitated his voice and accent as well as she could manage. It was more than enough to break the awful tension and return some childishly-carefree happiness to her unusually-introspective young son.
"Rachel... luv... you've figured out me secret."
- End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #12 -