Chapter 2

Vatican City, Rome.

The red-leather coated figure of a young man known as Constantine walked across the enormous Piazza San Pietro, the tremendous open space in front of St. Peter's Basilica. He was surrounded by history, by the past. The bells chimed as he passed two great fountains and two semicircular rows of columns that surrounded the large open space. The columns led to and seemed to guard the basilica as they had for centuries.

Constantine walked steadily, a casual but well paced walk. The dark boots he wore treaded across the cobblestones. On one occasion, his foot managed to step on a newspaper clipping. This disrupted the sound of his walk, which often soothed him. He glanced down to see what was written as the headlines. They were not to his liking.

"London Train Wreck"—"Vigilante Constantine Strikes Again"—"Is the London Express safe?"—"Midnight Murders"

Every news report was taking about one thing: what had happened last night. Under the newspaper were very distinguishable wanted posters, clad with the face of the one gazing at it.

"Wanted: Constantine
Dead or Alive
By the Central Intelligence Agency and the World Securities Syndicate"

Constantine gritted his teeth with anger and shame. Dawn's rosy fingers nearly touched the sky. Almost eight hours after it happened and the whole world knew. The light dew of the morning mist filled the air, and descended upon the still objects of the earth. Constantine always felt a moment of reverence whenever he approached the church. There was the weight of the centuries the structure had endured, the sheer size and beauty of this place, and something else: a sense that one of the largest buildings in the world stood for something greater than itself.

Constantine reached the stairs in front of the church, and paused as he removed his mask, revealing his face. Though the same skin and hair color of his mother, the shape of the face and hair was immediately recognizable of the father. It was so much so that if the two were to stand side-by-side, it would be difficult to discern the two in matters of appearance. His thumb and index finger of the right hand held the mask as he approached. Then he stepped into the church and strode across the marble floor.

The light inside the building came from the clerestories, the upper portion of the outer walls that held the stained glass windows. It seemed to be just as open as the space outside. Constantine heard a faint chant of monks, and it took him a while to reach his destination, the structure of the fortress being so big. Constantine opened the thick but light wooden door to an ornate confessional, and stepped in. He descended to his knees, crossed himself, and glanced at the screen. He seemed glad to know that whoever was there would not know it was him, despite the fact that someone was indeed behind that screen.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," he muttered.

"Again?" Replied a familiar voice: it sounded indignant, but still jovial.

Constantine remained silent. The layers of screen were lifted up, and an old friend was seated comfortably.

"I hear news of the once-proud Big Ben," Father Thomas, his old friend and mentor, chuckled, "Welcome back, Constantine."

"It's good to be back," he responded sardonically.

Father Thomas had become much older, and had lost his sight. Still, he remained ever true to his role as guardian, just as he was once with Jeff. But even guardians must be stern.

He spoke directly, "To learn your place, some say you should go to Hell."

"It would be a nice retreat," Constantine replied dryly, his voice defiant and sarcastic as ever.

"Don't misunderstand, my son. While your results of vanquishing evil are recommendable, but your methods are… well…" he hesitated, "…Twenty two people were on that train, Constantine. Twenty two innocent people! Twenty two! You must be more careful."

Constantine gritted his teeth, Father Thomas felt his distress.

"Already the bounty for you in England has increased because of this scandal. Thank God Italy is not on the scout for you, so you are safe… for now."

"Do you think I like this? To be on the late-night America's Most Wanted? To see the fear in people's eyes when I walk down the street?"

Father Thomas knew what the boy was thinking.

"God is not to blame for your past sins, my son. But if you past this test of faith, he will help you discover who you are. In the meantime, to fulfill your penance, you must continue to do God's work."

"Why can't he do it himself?!" he shot back.

Father Thomas was shocked by this comment of blasphemy and insolence.

"You know, your father had a lot more respect."

Constantine made a faint smile, which turned into an arrogant grin, "Well I'm not my father."

He exited the confessional.

---

Beneath the Vatican itself was a heavily endowed armory, made of the same smooth, white, bright material that made up the Vatican Headquarters many years ago. It had since undergone several upgrades since Jeff's duel with Red X, though still mostly the same. The size and occupancy had increased the most. It seemed as a packed mall as Constantine tried to make is way through while other behind-the-scene, or in this case behind-the-cross, people scurried around. He was the only Knight left.

Constantine approached a young man in a friar's robe, seated in a chair at a chemistry table. While the chemicals in test tubes bubbled and boiled, he read from a large textbook and jotted down a few notes. Constantine stood behind him, and cleared his throat to get the person's attention. At this, he whipped around, facing Constantine.

"Ah, there you are!" he said as if he had been searching for Constantine all night, "Did you succeed in apprehending the Cyclops or did you kill him?"

Constantine's arms were akimbo as he frowned in irritation.

"You made a mess, didn't you?" the bookish fellow went on, shaking his head, "That's why they get so annoyed. When they ask you to vanquish a monster, they don't mean take half the city with him."

Constantine snorted and narrowed his eyes.

"Oh all right, you're in a 'mood.' Well, come on, I've got a couple things that'll put the spring back in your step."

Constantine pulled out his sword and let the young man examine it.

"Oh looks like your sword could use a polish, I'll get to it."

"Thank you, Brother Mark."

The way Constantine pronounced his name was rather unique. In American dialect, the 'r' in Mark is stressed, but Mark himself preferred that the 'ma' be stressed. It would sound like Mawk. Brother Mawk.

"But first," Brother Mark began, "I've got a few new things that you'll find very interesting."

"I'm sure I will," Constantine replied sarcastically.

Brother Mark was Father Thomas' successor. Just before the good man lost his sight, Father Thomas took the once choir and altar boy under his wing a few years after Jeff died. He was about the same age as Constantine, perhaps a little older. This was clearly the same person who gave Constantine the glass balls of tracking liquid and night-vision glasses. Brother Mark knew what he was talking about. And if there was one thing he knew better than anyone, especially at his age, it was about the little 'trinkets' he gave to Constantine. He had hoped to hand them out to others as well, but with Jeff's demise, no other Knights remained, until Constantine arrived.

"Here's something new," Mark affirmed, practically announcing his own genius. He picked two circles, the exact same appearances that were on Constantine's belt and cuffs. He removed the original yellow circle with red gem and attached the new one on instead. Constantine looked at him in bewilderment.

He squeezed the other one he held in his hand. Abruptly, a flat, six-inch radius circle, made of red light. "This is my latest invention," he began, "Wristers."

"Wristers?"

"Yes, Wristers. Small force-fields with a 12-inch diameter than emit from these circles. They are the ideal shields. Capable of blocking any range or melee attack that is produced from an evil entity. They are made of the same crystallic-light material as your pistols, designed to dampen any evil energy within contact. They attach to your wrist, so I call them 'Wristers.'

"Actually," Mark added, muttering to himself, "They attach to back of the forearm, but I was close enough."

Constantine looked at the bookish friar with profound amusement. Though he knew of Mark's inventive intellect and creative thinking process, making exciting names was not his strong point. Constantine raised an eyebrow and shook his head slightly. Mark didn't notice.

"You must be joking," Constantine stated

"I never joke about my work."

"I feel like James Bond."

Constantine's eyes caught sight of a long rifle on the table. He walked over and picked it up. It was rather heavy.

"Ooo, this I like," he mentioned, "It looks like an elephant gun."

"Well, um, in a manner it is."

"Did you invent this?"

"Well, er," Mark hesitated as he rubbed the back of his head, "Legend speaks of a gifted craftsman who created a rifle so powerful that it was cast into the netherworld so no mortal could wield it. And your father retrieved it. It's tremendously powerful."

"Hmm… The Big Bang." Constantine said

"I'd like to call it the One Shot Rifle, or just One Shot."

"You didn't even invent it!" Constantine replied with a mild tone of outrage.

"No, but I did invent the bullet," he chuckled as he held up a thumb-size chunk of metal, "Y'know that saying, 'It's not the gun that kills, it's the bullet?' Well, after six months of research and development, trial and error, I finally made a bullet with metal that could withstand the combustion force of that rifle."

"So?"

"So you only get one shot. The metal that the bullet is made of is extremely rare. But it kills any monster with a single shot! Just don't miss."

"Well, Mark, I guess that gives you rights to name it. The One Shot it is."

"That there is the most powerful weapon you could ask for. Just pull the trigger, and hold on."

"How am I supposed to carry it around?"

Brother Mark snatched the One Shot out of Constantine's hands, held it by the middle, applied pressure so that it split and folded over. Then Brother Mark led Constantine to a small circular object on the table. It was another circle, similar to the ones Constantine wore on his belt, but instead of a red gem in the center, there was a silver gem.

Constantine picked it up and examined it, "Hmm, What special name has been deemed to this?"

"Uh, I don't know. It's strange. I've been working on that for two whole years, and I can't think of a suitable name for it."

"What does it do?"

"Instant teleportation. It's a miniature version of Ra's Al Ghul's Transmat device. It attaches to your belt buckle. Press it firmly and it immediately teleports you back to here."

"Only here?"

"Well," he flipped it over, showing the back, "You can input your own coordinates. But they better be the exact coordinates." He greatly stressed the word 'exact.'

"How come?"

"When I modeled this after the Transmat, I had to make certain… cutbacks. This is extremely limited. The power cell can only carry out one transaction."

"Mark, we're not back in the Stone Age. Get with the program."

"Hey! You'd be surprised just how limited technology really is! Instead of hulling around a wagon-size ray gun, I've shrunk it down to a simple finger tap. Oh it might come in handy. Out of a tight situation and all that."

Constantine was still confused, "Only once?" he complained again.

"Oh, you can recharge it when you get back here, you just can't use it to teleport around your enemies."

Constantine sighed, and realized how fortunate he was, "Well, I like it. Thank you, Mark. I'm sure it will come in handy."

At this Mark smiled.

"Oh! One last thing."

"Yes?" Constantine asked as he was about to walk away

"A message came for you."