Trigger warning for brief mentions of and illusions too child abuse, underage prostitution, and sexual assault.
"The kid is gone."
Robin kept her gaze down into the dark liquid of her coffee cup. She took a moment to answer, adding a splash of creaming and stirring it in.
She took a sip. "I know. I saw it this morning. He also took the coin jug."
That had been started as an experiment, in addition to being an unofficial calendar of their time in this world. Neither of them wanted to count the days the'd been in this world. Doing so felt so... cold and absolute, like they were admitting to being stuck here with no idea how to get home. Filling a milk jug with random coins they found or that were left over from paying bills with cash -something they preferred to do whenever possible, less of a paper trail that way- had proved to be a way of watching the time pass without having to put an official number on it. Instead of measuring in years or days or hours, they could just say, "Oh, we've been here for 3/4ths of a milk jug."
They'd filled that jug up twice now, and had been working towards the third.
"I'm surprised he managed to haul that thing out of here in his condition. Even without the blood loss and bullet wound, that thing probably weighed like 80 lbs, and he's a scrawny brat." Franky opened the fridge, stared inside for a long minute, before closing the door and looking back over his shoulder. "It looks like he raided our fridge too. He took all of our hard boiled eggs and breakfast protein bars... Pickles too, not sure the reason behind that one."
"There's a pillow case missing from the linen closet in the hall. I suspect John was just throwing anything he could grab into it, no rhyme or reason. Still, both Sanji and Chopper always swore that pickles can help you heal from injuries so I'm hoping he does end up eating them," Robin said. She finally looked up from her coffee. "How about pancakes?"
"Hmmmm, you know me, babe, I'm a MAN! Pancakes sound good but I need my protein in the morning."
Robin laughed. "Sounds good. I'll make the pancakes, you make the eggs and sausages. Provided we still have them, of course."
The kitchen lapsed into a comfortable silence as they went about their separate tasks, their kitchen large enough that even Franky's bulky frame could move about freely without getting in her way. Soon, the smell of fat, juicy sausages grilling filled the air as Franky scrambled eggs.
Robin poured some of the batter onto a hot skillet. "How do you want your pancakes? Chocolate chips? Blueberries? Bananas?"
"Throw in some bananas and chocolate chips, that way they balance each other out."
"I don't believe that is how such things work," Robin teased, even as she acquiesced to his request. "I'm just adding blueberries myself."
"And that is why you were always Chopper's favorite," Franky replied. "We should probably ask the kid what he-"
He cut himself off abruptly, sighing and letting his head drop. Robin smiled sadly, saying nothing.
"We should have expected he'd run," Frank said after a moment. "I must have run away half-a-dozen times that first year Tom took me in."
"And you came back?" Robin asked.
Franky shrugged his massive shoulders. "Sometimes. Usually if the weather was really bad or I got hungry and couldn't find food. Other times, Yokozawa, Kokoro or Iceberg would find me and drag me back. Ice-For-Brains always complained about the trouble I caused, but Mr. Tom and Kokoro would just laugh and bring up that he did the same thing when he was my age. I don't know... maybe it's just a natural reaction when you're a kid who had to survive on your own for a while. You want to run before you can be hurt again."
His words rang so true that Robin nearly dropped her spatula. 'Yes. Eventually, you get to the point that you think feeling nothing and letting no one in is a better alternative to the pain of constant betrayal. And then that is better to die on your own terms than to lose what you've come to love. But that is not sustainable. No one is born to be alone, not in our world, this world, or any other. Not Franky, not me, and not John.'
"So, the question remains, how do you want to handle the John problem going forward," Franky finished, unaware of Robin's internal retrospection.
Once more, she took a second before answering. Flipping over the pancakes and sprouting a few extra pairs of arms to start the breakfast clean up. With the eggs and milk tucked back in the fridge, she said, "We'll have to find him again. He mentioned that he was squatting somewhere in the city, though I am unsure that he'll return there for the long term. I won't force him back though; I doubt that will do much good in the long term."
Franky nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I was a stupid little kid. Don't get me wrong, I was a SUPPPAAAA inventor and shipwright, even back then, but I couldn't take care of myself. Not really. John though, he's young and dumb, but he ain't weak or stupid. He's survived on his own for a while now. He won't appreciate us acting like we know what's best for him."
"No, it's best to wait for him to come to us. We'll find him, watch from a distance, and wait. Either for him to come to us or for something bad enough to happen to justify stepping in," Robin finished. The pancakes finally done, she stacked them up high onto a plate and turned off the skillet. "Let's put that out of our minds for now. Breakfast is done!"
Belly full of pancakes, sausages, and eggs, Robin returned to her study with a fresh cup of coffee. 'Alright, Mr. Cain, let's learn who you are.'
Opening the first of encrypted files she and Franky had been sent that morning, Robin began to read. And, the further down the page she got, the more intrigued she became.
'David Cain is one of the world's premier assassins.'
'...skilled in hundreds of martial art forms, in addition to weapon usage and explosives.'
'An expert in espionage and other forms of covert operations, with ties to MI6...'
'...known victims have included some of the most famous and powerful people on the planet. Hits likely ordered by some of the other most famous and powerful people on the planet.'
'...rates are known to be outrageously expensive.'
"Well, isn't that interesting," Robin mused. She wasn't sure where she fell on the 'famous and powerful' spectrum. 'Nico Franks' was certainly important, but there were likely many in this world who'd never even heard the name. No, nothing like the universally known Nico Robin was in her own home world. Still, surely going after her couldn't have been cheap. So whoever hired him had to be of means as well.
The most recent members of the elite she'd dealt with were Bruce Wayne, and Lex Luthor, both of them had cause for her to be suspicious. Luthor, for all his slimy charm and well-polished public façade, was easy to clock for his ill intentions. He openly coveted Robin and Franky's company, and the inventions they created. Her 'friend' at the patent office had given her the heads up that several Lex Luthor's own companies had tried to submit patents for lesser versions of Thousand Solution products. So, yes, he was a safe bet.
'Then again, Wayne is certainly hiding something. And I think it is time to figure out what that is.'
Pulling out her phone, she called up her secretary. "Hello, Cheryl? Yes, I know it is last minute, but I need you to contact Lex Luthor's people to arrange a dinner meeting between us. Offer to let him pick the place. That sort of power should make him seem safe. I also want you to go through the list of event invites I have gotten recently and RSVP yes to one where Bruce Wayne will also be attending."
On the other end of the line, the woman paused. "...This is a pretty new request, boss. Can I ask what this is about?"
"Oh, I just think it's time to get to know the competition on more... personal terms," Robin said, twirling a lock of her hair around a finger. "If you can arrange these things for me by this time tomorrow, I'll see to it that there will be a fruit and chocolate basket on your desk on Friday, along with a $500 VISA gift card."
"Ma'am, yes Ma'am!"
Robin chucked as Cheryl hung up, no doubt to immediately start pouring over her computer. Robin was generous with her employees (Franky was as well, though the staff was less appreciative of the talking, highly opinionated coffee makers he tended to produce for the various break rooms), especially when they deserved it. Pay was good, bonuses were common, health and dental insurance was the best Robin and Franky could find, breaks were encouraged, they offered paid maternity and paternity leave, complimentary lunches were ordered on a regular basis, and break rooms were always stocked with a variety of good snacks. When there was issues or failures, they were dealt with firmly or fairly. Some abused the privileges Robin and Franky allowed, but they were always swiftly dealt with. And, over the past few years, they'd cultivated a loyal, hardworking staff that they'd come to be extremely proud and fond of.
It was not their nakama, but it was something.
Just as Robin was about to open the second series of files, her phone buzzed. She glanced down to see a text message from Cheryl.
Hey Boss, I forgot to tell you that I got a call from Officer Richard Grayson. He is hoping to meet with you sometime this week.
Excellent. Robin texted back. Arrange it for noon on Wednesday.
With that plan moving along well, Robin opened the second series of files. The first was a birth certificate for one John Thomas Constantine, born in Liverpool, England to Mary Ann and Thomas Constantine. The next two files were scans of death certificates for James Michael Constantine and Mary Ann Constantine. One dead before they took their first breath and the other died bringing new life into the world.
'What a tragic beginning,' Robin thought as she started clicking through some school records.
John was smart, that much was clear. There were many comments for teachers that mentioned John's 'keen intellect' and 'easy wit,' yet there were also repeated mentions of poor attitude towards authority, near constant rule breaking, and many absences. With all that in mind, it didn't surprise Robin when she clicked her mouse again and found herself staring at a long series of reports from England's child protective services. Bruises, cuts, split lips, black eyes, broken fingers, and an arm pulled completely out of its socket had all chronicled, often with the photos. Yet, as Robin read on, she was horrified to learn that it wasn't enough to justify taking John away from his household, especially since the boy himself was apparently never willing to speak with authorities about his injuries.
'That... man better hope were never to cross paths,' Robin thought, gritting her teeth and gripping the computer mouse tighter.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. For as much as she refused to abide by the mistreatment as children -the thought hitting too close to the past of many of Robin's loved ones- letting that rage overtake her would do Robin no good as she did her research. Next up was a single missing person's report, filed roughly three years ago by one Cheryl Constantine. The investigation seems to have been just a brief canvassing by the local police, and no follow up was noted. Clearly, no one cared enough to actually search for or try to protect the boy. Perhaps that had been the case for his entire life?
Double Checking the dates, Robin pulled over a legal pad and grabbed a pen. Sketching out a rough timeline starting at the time of John's birth and ending a present day, Robin penciled in all the ones she'd learned.
'Let's see, the missing persons report is the last concrete mention of John in the public records. He next appears in connection to the fire at the Casanova Club six months later,' she thought. 'But why would a child be at such a place?'
Of course, there were many reasons that a young boy would be at a sketchy nightclub, but not that Robin cared to think much about. The next file was a portfolio of the club's owner, Alex Logue. The man's criminal record was as long as Robin's arm and filled with everything from public urination to domestic. Reading it made the historian feel slimy and ill. Their informant had left his own notes and speculation on the man.
There are rumors that Logue was involved with the occult. Can't speak on that, but his fondness for massive drug fueled orgies was well known. For what I can drag up, the bastard invited his VIPs to engage in all sorts for messed up shit. Blood, bondage, kids... After reading about what Logue forced his own daughter, Astra, into, I kinda wish the guy wasn't dead. I'd like the chance to kill him myself.
'Me too, my friend,' Robin thought darkly. Then a thought occurred to her, 'Astra... How old was she?'
A quick check into the little information they had on the girl, Robin's suspicions were confirmed. "Close in age to John. Perhaps it wasn't the club itself that attracted him, but rather someone there? Friends maybe?"
Just then, a dark speculation filled Robin's mind. Had John started the fire? Did he start it trying to save Astra Logue, only for it all to go horribly, horrifically wrong?
Robin would have to ask him next time they met.
Moving on, the next file was a few more police reports. None of these listed the culprits as 'John Constantine,' instead reporting on the thefts, loitering, truancy, and... prostitution of Billie Bators, Glenn Jett, Jerry Ramone, and Henry Reed. But the fingerprints all matched, as did the mug shots. Robin frowned as she scanned the photos, John looking gaunter and more beat up in each. This series of arrests lasted for roughly six months until... until John had appeared in Robin's life.
'So what happened in that time?' she wondered. 'How did you disappear for so long, and what happened to make you need to hide yourself with magic?'
Logic dictated that, if John was attempting to use magic to hide, then the person he was hiding from also had magic. There was also the boy's reaction when Robin questioned who he was hiding from.
Satisfied by the information she'd gained, Robin opened and sent a reply to their contact's private email address.
Excellent, thank you. The rest of your payment will be sent along shortly. If you wish to make double your regular fee, then I need you to find out the last known location of David Cain and any information possible on the activities of John Constantine between the last police report and him turning up in Bludhaven. Oh, and see if you can dig up any secrets on Bruce Wayne while you're at it.
Robin didn't sign her name, her contact would know who she was. Instead just sending it on its way and leaning back in her chair to ponder the different mysteries she had on her hands.
1. Who sent David Cain after her?
2. Why was Cain sent after her with the intention to scare and injure, but not kill?
3. Why were the Justice League involved?
4. What was John's connection to the Casanova Club?
5. What was he doing during the missing months in the timeline?
6. Who was he hiding from?
'And #7, where is he now?' Robin wondered. The more she dug into these mysteries, the more worried for the boy she was. While he was far from helpless, John was still injured and seemed to have few allies in the world. If something happened, who would he turn to? 'And yet, John might need to find himself in trouble before he accepts help. I can hardly drag John back here kicking and screaming.'
Well, she could but Robin had no desire to make a prisoner out of John. Robin knew the value of freedom and the ability to choose one's own path in life, after all.
For now, Robin forced those thoughts out of her mind. Even with all those mysteries spinning about, there was still work to be done, the socially legitimate kind. Payroll had to be looked over, a few new patents had to be sent in, and the advertising budget needed to be approved for some of their new products. More than that, as Thousand Solutions started to expand into other countries, she needed to brush up on international business regulations. Robin may be a pirate but she had a respect for the law.
Sometimes.
Under the right circumstances.
When they were reasonable.
Well, if nothing else, breaking the law could bring unwanted attention to Robin, Franky, and their company. No one needed that.
A few hours later, Robin rose from her seat to stretch out and check the clock. 'Lunchtime. I'd hardly realized how much time had passed.'
Heading towards the kitchen, she passed Franky's workshop, its sign lit up red. 'Yes, Franky did mention he had some projects to work on today.'
Breakfast had been large and filling enough that Robin couldn't justify cooking something up. Instead she threw together a nice chicken salad sandwich with a mug of hazelnut coffee and a glass of lemonade. Deciding to eat in the sunroom today, she loaded her meal up onto a tray and headed through the maze-like halls of her home. Yet, when she passed the library, a strange little gleam caught her eye and stopped Robin dead in her tracks.
"What is that?" she wondered. Brow furrowed, Robin put the tray down on the coffee table to investigate.
The gleam was coming from something metal wedged between the seat cushion and the arm of the couch. Only a small bit of it was poking out, but when Robin pulled it out, she recognized the object immediately.
"Oh no," she whispered, eyes widening at the sight of her old magnifying glass.
John had a pretty good set up here, it was the only reason he stayed. The studio apartment building may have been condemned, but the bones were still solid. The windows were still intact, there weren't any holes in the walls, the roof only had a few leaks, and the apartment he was squatting in ever had a fireplace that was still usable. Bludhaven was colder on average than Liverpool, but at least it had less rain than the UK, so John could deal with the help of his fireplace.
Honestly, finding this place was such a stroke of good luck that it made John think that God might not hate him as much as he always thought. Hell, the place still had furniture inside. Or, at least, it had a faded, sagging sofa, a small table with two folding chairs, a small dresser, and the desk in the corner. all better than nothing. John had bought two camping stoves, a travel freezer, blankets, and a couple of cheap pots with a stolen credit card (that he'd promptly ditched afterwards, John was no fool), and set himself up a nice little nest. He slept on the sofa (generic brand painkiller mixed with whiskey handled the back pain that came from it), stored food in the freezer (kept it away from bugs and rats), dragged one of the chairs to the desk to make it a study area for his books and potion ingredients. John (usually) ate at the table, and kept everything else he had in the dresser. One of the camping stoves, he used for cooking, while the other was reserved for potion brewing. Why, it was almost a proper home.
Sure, maybe the place didn't have running water or electricity but, hell, neither did John's old house in Liverpool. Not with how often his old man forgot to pay the bills (or, more accurately, drank away). And there was a YMCA around the corner that didn't ask questions when John went there to shower and wash his clothes. Batteries were easy to steal too, so he could power his lantern and radio for as long as he needed to. There was really no downside in living here. It might not be the Hilton, but it was nice, it was solid, it was good, and, most importantly, it was...
'Safe,' John thought. 'It's safe and not anywhere near Ni-.'
He killed that line of thinking immediately, stuffing one of the stolen protein bars into his mouth and chewing it vengefully before chasing it with a shot of whiskey. The protein bar probably didn't deserve the rough treatment. It tasted good, with fruit, nuts, and a little bit of chocolate all baked into a mixed oats and peanut butter base. They were also filling, with three of them being enough to fill John's stomach for most of the day. Which was good because, with John's busted shoulder, it was harder to pick pockets or steal food.
'I stole 24 of them, they'll get me through four days. Five if I'm careful. I can stretch them even further if I also eat the eggs and pickles.'
Well, John Constantine had never known a healthy diet. Why start now?
John sighed, shuffling around in an attempt to get into a more comfortable position on the couch while also not putting any extra pressure on his injured shoulder. The traitorous thought that he missed Ro- Nico's weirdly large, overly soft couch crossed his mind, John squashed that thought like it was one of the cockroaches that sometimes skittered about.
He focused hard on the book in his hands, working his way through the handwritten Latin text scrawled on the parchment pages in spidery handwriting. If John was reading this right, than this was an advanced scrying spell.
'I'll need to get a mirror for that one,' John thought, turning the page delicately. The book was good, thick with exciting new spells and potions to try. 'Hope the Zatanna wouldn't be too sore to find it missing.'
John had gone to the Zatara household looking for sanctuary and, more importantly, a teacher. He'd found the first temporarily but, when Zatanna refused to teach him, John went looking for knowledge himself. It had backfired completely but it wasn't like John could go back and change things. The stealing after he'd been thrown out was done out of pettiness as much as it was out of desperation. Even after... even after he ended up with Nick, he studied those stolen spell books every chance he got. Good thing too, it was the teleportation spell he found in there that allowed John to eventually escape.
"Fire spell, eh? I like those. Let's see, 'Burning Touch'... What do you do?" John squinted at the tiny words, reading out loud, "Defensive spell, gives one a hot, burn touch that lasts as long as the caster maintains focus... Sounds easy enough."
If nothing else, he might be able to use it to light his cigarettes or make popcorn.
He read over the incantation a few times before finally feeling ready to speak it. The first thing any aspiring mage learned was that fucking up an incantation was a good way to get someone (or, more importantly, yourself) killed. Pre-reading was always a must.
"Ignis ignis manus ignis! Afferte mihi potestatem ignis!"
The thing about magic was that it was simple, any idiot could do it with a bit of time and effort. All you need to do is want something badly enough and then let yourself have it by focusing your desire through some fancy words or a mirror. The real problem was controlling the magic you summoned once you actually had it.
"Shit!" John said, jumping up when the tips of fingers started to glow bright red-orange. The movement jarred his shoulder, causing John to hiss in pain. On instinct, he reached up to touch the sore area. To... predictable results.
"SHIT!" he screamed as the hot, burning pain. The cloth of his shirt grayed and smoldered at the heat, though thankfully did not catch fire. John shook his hands out until the glow disappeared, "Bloody hell, not trying that one again. That book wasn't kidding about needing to focus."
Deciding that was enough for tonight (he didn't fancy having to deal with any apartment fires after all the other shit he'd gone through recently), John returned his book to its place on his desk. After a nighttime cocktail of painkillers and whiskey, the young Laughing Mage gingerly arranged himself on the couch, trying to find a position where the least amount of springs were poking him as possible. Stretching the blankets out, John closed his eyes and let the alcohol-aided exhaustion carry him to sleep. Hopefully he wouldn't dream tonight.
John had a lifetime of reasons to be a light sleeper. And damn if it couldn't be helpful at times.
His eyes snapped open, John completely awake, heart racing, and every nerve in his body alert. Deep inside John's mind, a millennial's old primal instinct screamed "DANGER!" and demanded that he run. Still, he forced himself to remain absolutely motionless as John scanned the room with his eyes. Even in the dark of the night, the ambient light of the city filtered through his newspaper-covered windows was enough that John was able to make out the various shapes in the gloom. How strange it was that, despite John's familiarity with his temporary shelter, each outline now seemed more ominous than the last.
Nothing... nothing... nothing... noth- There! There was someone in the corner!
John squeezed his eyes closed, digging his fingernails into his palm under the blankets. 'It's just a nightmare! It's just my imagination! It's just a trick of the light! When I open my eyes, it'll be gone!'
Summoning all the idiotic courage he could, John forced his eyes open and nearly leapt out of the couch when he saw that the figure had moved closer. He swallowed his scream, and closed his eyes again.
'Shit! The bloody thing is still there. Okay, if it's real it is probably either a shade, spirit, or demon. Both of which will be weaker in the light. Lightlightlight... The lantern!' John glanced down at the floor beside the couch where his battery powered camping lantern. Even in the dark, the red on/off switch was visible. He swallowed hard, and slowly -excruciatingly slowly- moved his hand down the couch and toward the switch. He had to catch this thing off-guard.
"I wouldn't do that, Johnny. We both know things always seem safer in the dark."
'Nick!'
John dry heaved at the sound of the man's voice. But he didn't let himself freeze up, John grabbed the handle of the lantern and hurled it at the dark figure's head. Not wasting a second, he threw himself off the couch and twoards the door. He had to put distance between himself and Nick; after that, he could use the portal spell to get to the other side of the fucking country. But, because God hated him, John's legs tangled in the blankets and he went down hard.
THUD!
Pain shot through his knees and his head bounced off the floor, making him bite down on the soft flesh of his lip. As blood started to gush down his chin, the ache in John's shoulder started up again. When he touched it this time, John felt something hot and slick on his fingertips.
Heavy footsteps approached, the wooden floor groaning underneath their owner's weight. "Oh, Johnny... What have you done to yourself?"
"Fuck you," John groaned.
A strong hand seized the collar of his shirt, hauling John onto his feet before throwing him against a wall. In the brief second he was released, John tried to bolt for the door again, only for Nick to grab a handful of his hair and pull him back.
"Now, now. We've talked about this, kiddo," Nick said. He was so close now that John could see his face, make out the color of eyes, the slant of his nose, and the curl of his lips. That man's face... so handsome and achingly familiar. It made John want to hurl. "Are you going to calm down, or do I need to punish you?"
John grinned and spat a wad of bloody spit into the man's eyes. "How the hell did you find me?"
Nick wiped his face off, rage nearly glowing in his eyes, but he took a deep breath and smiled. With his free hand, he cupped John's cheek, stroking his thumb up and down for a moment. Then he dug it into John's brand new split lip, causing the young mage to writher in pain.
"I lost you for a while there, Johnny. Your magical signature completely disappeared out of nowhere," he said. "I was worried someone finally ended your sorry existence, or you did it yourself. I was thinking, 'What a waste!' Can you imagine my delight when it popped back up?"
Immediately, John pawed at his throat, feeling desperately for the thin metal chain he'd attached to the enchanted magnifying glass too. 'How did I lose it? How did I not realize it was gone? Fuck, why did I put that weight augmentation spell on it?'
Nick chuckled at John's fear, patting his cheek. "It's alright, kiddo. I'm here to bring you home."
"I'm going back to that place! Let me-Argh!"
A wad of cloth, maybe one of John's own shirts, was shoved into his mouth, cutting off his words and keeping him from casting any spells in one foul swoop.
"But first-" Nick continued, as if John hadn't spoken at all at all. As if John wasn't scratching at his hands and struggling to get free. As if John wasn't terrified.
He snapped his fingers and tight, wriggling bindings wrapped around John's wrists and ankles. John glanced down and saw serpentine eyes staring back up at him.
'Snakes. Why'd it have to be snakes?'
"The harder you struggle, the tighter they'll become. So I'd calm down if I were you, Johnny, " Nick advised, his voice calm and friendly. Completely in contrast to his tone, the man threw John back onto the busted sofa with so much force it almost overturned the couch.
"Umpf!" The impact brought more pain, and John gagged when he couldn't properly gasp. 'Get your head on. You can't beat Nick like this; you have to outsmart him, just like last time.'
So he calmed down. John calmed down and watched with narrowed eyes as Nick tittered around the apartment. The man retrieved the thrown lantern, turning it one and putting it on the table. He poured himself some whiskey from John's private stash, savoring the first sip, before pulling over the folding chair.
Settling himself in, somehow managing to look like a king on his throne, the older mage looked John dead in the eye. "Now Johnny... What did you do with the Books of Magic?"
Hey guys, thanks for being patient with this chapter! Hope you liked it!