Author's Notes: Welcome to Use of Weapons! This story is the 2nd in my Hellblazer series. It's a re-telling of The Family Man comic arc set in Gotham, starting almost identically to the original comic and spinning off in wildly different directions due to the involvement of other DC comics characters and superheroes.

It's technically a sequel to The Ones We Leave Behind, but is mostly intended to be readable on it's own. There's references to the prior story but I do my best to explain clearly the very small number of plot points (Mostly confined to the first two chapters) that carry through. Let me know if any explanations are unclear so I can edit in better ones!

I saw something gleaming inside the cabinet, but the door had been too warped by the fighting for me to get to it. It had caved in from some blow or another in just the wrong way, bending inwards without shattering, and now it stuck any time I tried to pull it back outwards.

I had to take a screwdriver to the hinges before I could get inside, rummaging about for anything still intact. There was something shining, silver I was hoping. Something I could pawn for a decent price.

What I found was a statue of Shiva, shattered in half. Silver, yes, but at this point only really useful for scrap. I tossed it into the trash pile before stepping back, and surveying the rest of the shop.

It used to belong to an old friend of mine, Maurice. The Marleybones and Whistles, a shitty little occult knick-knack shop he used as a front to deal in actual powerful magical artefacts out of a bunker and a couple of offices in the back. The Justice League had come through a week or two back and totalled the place, and since Maurice was skipping town, well…

He'd gone and given permission to use the to his old buddy, John Constantine, who'd saved his arse from the League when they'd come knocking.

That's me, by the way. Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.

I hadn't really had any reason to come back here since then. I had my own place to live, after all, and didn't have much use for a, uh, burning fucking wreck. But as much as I hate to admit it, money had been tight lately, and I felt like doing a little scavenging. Due to some kind of weird paperwork jurisdictional thing around superhero battles,the regular cops hadn't come to repossess the place or declare it a health hazard or something, and nobody else wanted to touch a place the capes had been fighting over in case it was cursed or had lingering monsters hiding in the wreckage or something. I'd just about made my way through the storefront and scored a nice little pile of mostly intact pieces of tosh to take down to the local pawn shop, alongside a second pile of actual trash that wasn't even worth taking down to the nearest tip.

Now it was time to search the back offices.

I'd already been through his bunker, he'd cleared it out. All the genuine artefacts of power and value had gone with him when he'd buggered off to Switzerland or wherever he was going, but there were still a few offices back here which the League hadn't been able to touch. It only took a little bit of cleverness with a lockpick before I found myself in a cramped little office searching through papers. It was small enough the desk had blocked the door from opening all the way, and I had to flatten myself to fit in the gap between the desk and all the paper cabinets.

See, the thing about Maurice was that he really wasn't an occultist at heart. That was just the culture that he'd come from. He'd been a right hellion in his youth, from what I'd heard, but his real addiction was the trade.

No self-respecting practitioner of the mystic arts would go near some of the trash he hawked. Anybody with enough passion and knowledge to acquire enough examples of the real deal would be embarrassed to touch anything like his storefront stock… and anybody without the passion would be too busy making a mint off the storefront knick-knacks to bother trying to accrue the knowledge needed to get ahold of the more esoteric items he sold out of the offices.

But his love wasn't for magic or money, it was for the deal. Convincing some unsuspecting moron to shell out their hard-earned cash for dross was thrilling to him in just the same way as wheeling and dealing to secure an truly unique score by convincing and jostling a dozen different parties, dealers and clients to make them all agree to sign away their priceless artefacts at a bargain price.

It was all just big and small hits of the same drug, all feeding that addiction. And hey, everybody's gotta fill that hole inside themselves somehow, so who was I to judge?

But between the big artefacts and the useless toss, were the in-betweens, all of which were stored here. Safes and boxes full of seemingly random junk, but random junk with pre-arranged buyers who were very interested in getting ahold of it, each item coming with detailed documentation, all organised via the cabinets full of papers and the writing desk in the middle of the room.

The boxes were big and small, deep and shallow, wide and thin. Some cardboard, some metal, some locked and some unlocked. The lock codes were mostly buried in the paperwork, and I knew a few of Maurice's favourite passwords, since for all his cleverness he wasn't cautious enough to invest in any security for anything that wasn't one of the top items he couldn't afford to lose. Plus, he didn't really expect anybody to bother to come rooting around back here, he wasn't a big enough player to be a real target.

The items were almost all magic in nature. Almost all. The Holy Thighbone of St Fiacre, a pickled jar of what was allegedly shadhavar teeth, a box full of numismatic talismans, some kind of supposedly haunted brandy… something which as best I could tell was somebody's attempt to make a flour mill out of tibetan prayer wheels... a canister of something marked as a biohazard, too, which I refused to touch. All of them had a listed buyer allegedly on the hook for them, though that wasn't anything I could really use, given they were listed by number and not name. 'Buyer 1-330' didn't really tell me where to go to actually turn these things in for cash, and I doubted my local pawn broker would be too interested in a pickled jar of teeth or a thighbone of a saint I was pretty sure didn't actually exist. So as much as I was sure it had killed poor Maurice to abandon this stuff, aside from a couple of marketable items, none of this was of any real value to me, and I couldn't really sell much of it on either.

Still, after an evening's work, I'd gotten through pretty much every item, either establishing it as useless or moving it into the 'keep' pile in the shopfront. There was only one item left to go, that being the locked safe under the desk.

It was a big, heavy, ugly thing made of wrought iron. I didn't know they still made them like this, anymore. If I didn't know he had better ways to ward them off I'd figure he was paranoid about fairies getting in, given how the thing was just a heavy lump of cold bloody iron, a lock, and not a lot else.

Speculating wouldn't get me anywhere, though. I got to work on opening it. By that time night had fallen, the moon was high in the sky and it was getting around time for me to go, but I wanted to fully finish working over the place before I went home for sleep.

Besides, I was curious what was inside.

I tried pulling some simple divination tricks to try to figure the passcode, since it was a combination lock. No dice. Used a divining rod to try to pick numbers… didn't work.

Crowbar to the thing? No such luck.

Shovel? Nah.

In the end I had a brainwave, tried pouring the preservative from the Shadhavar teeth inside the lock. The teeth aren't even the valuable bit of the Shadhavar anyway, they're a kind of unicorn, you want the horn. Something inside the lock hissed and let out a foul looking smoke… and then it dropped open with a click.

I did not want to know what was in that preservative, but at least I was in. I peered inside, and…

I might've expected stolen medieval icons, or suppressed books, smuggled out of a vatican library.

But cocaine? Crass, boring old cocaine?

I feel dissapointed in you, Maurice. I thought even you had a bit more class than this, a bit more self-respect. A bit more… panache.

But I also feel very, very rich.

I counted out the little bags one by one. I had no clue how much coke was worth, but… one, two, three…

Ten, twelve, fourteen…

Didn't exactly know the street value, but there was about two kilograms here, sorted into hungred-gram bags.

And I knew full well this stuff was usually traded by the gram for most of a hundred quid.

Which by my maths meant I was probably in the area of ten thousand pounds richer.

I was just doing the math in my head when I heard a knock on the door. I panicked, I'm not afraid to admit. My first thought was the obvious one.

"Shit, it's the law!"

I dashed to the toilets, stuffing the bags in them. It broke my heart to throw that much money away, but it was better than getting arrested, and there wasn't exactly a back exit I could book it out of to escape.

Besides, I'd had enough legal trouble lately anyway… and I'd be able to float on by with the perfectly legal items I'd be stealing from the shopfront alone.

Thank christ the plumbing was working, I guess. Ten thousand bloody quid, spiralling down the drain, more literally than I'd ever hoped I'd have to see. Son of a bitch.

The knocking from the front door kept getting more insistent as I pulled myself together. Right, John. Don't make them suspicious, answer the damn door.

"All right, all right. Can't a guy have a crap in peace without…?"

I opened the door up. It was pretty much propped onto its hinges, having been blown off them during the fighting.

The guy standing on the other side didn't look like a cop, but they took all shapes and sizes… and he could always have been plainclothes. A tall, lanky bastard with spectacles, a long face and hair that looked like straw both in terms of colour and consistency.

He was dressed like a professor. Wore a beige suit, scruffy, worn and threaded. But he didn't hold himself like a professor at all. Too confident, though maybe that came with his age. He was an older guy, with crows feet around his eyes. Ex-millitary who'd retired to academia, maybe?

Or, again, maybe he was a plainclothes officer here to investigate the weird guy in the trenchcoat looting the abandoned shop.

"Good morning." He said, adjusting his glasses and giving me a nod of greeting, with a shocking lack of suspicion towards the guy who was, I say again, rooting around in a wrecked shop well after it should have closed. "I apologise, are you a new employee? I was expecting to find Maurice here."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry but he's away at the minute. We're renovating the place. Ah, obviously." I gestured back towards the utter devastation behind me. "If you want I could take a message? Or else you could come back in a few days, once we're done?"

He peered back at the mess of the shop, taking off his glasses and rubbing them with a little cloth from his pocket before putting them back on to squint through. "Oh dear. Of course, I can come back later. Just… It's been such a long walk from the bus station. I don't suppose I could come inside and catch my breath, Mister…?"

"Constantine. John Constantine." I tell him, before going "And it's, uh-" The door, still free from its hinges, fell backwards, landing on the floor with a bang. "It's not exactly safe…" I say, rubbing the back of my neck. I feel bad refusing the old sod, I do, but…

"Safety is a relative concept, Mister Constantine." Replied the nebbish looking academic with the straw hair, giving me a wink. "It needs risk to properly define it."

I had absolutely no idea what to reply to that. So I let him come inside. He hung his jacket up one one of the few remaining intact chars, passing by me afterwards.

"The duality of man, what is danger without knowledge of it's lack? Fear without calm." He said, as he peers at the two piles of merchandise. His eyes land on what looks to be some kind of brass plate carved with greek looking murals.

"Or good without evil." I replied, going to follow him in, picking up and closing the door behind him. The windows were blown out, so it wouldn't help with the draft, but at the very least it would keep the hoodlums out.

"Ah! I see you are, like me, one of the tormented." He smiled. I could get a closer look at what he'd picked up, now. It wasn't a brass plate, it was much too big. He was struggling to heft it. It looked more like a replica shield, with a picture of a gorgon in black being flanked by two men with much too wide, much too toothy smiles.

"Tormented sounds like me, yeah. Have to be, to work in a place like this one." I chuckle, grinning. "Utter tat from wall to wall. Though you seem to like that one?"

He hoists it up with a huff. He doesn't look strong enough to lift it, and I can see his muscles strain. Old man has some strength, by the looks. "It's a replica of the shield of Agamemnon, from the Iliad. An… old co-worker told me about it once, at length. How much? Assuming you're still open to process sales?"

"Uh- mate, look, you don't want that." I rub the back of my neck, getting a closer look at it. It's not even real brass, and the paint would probably fleck under my fingernail. This guy looks like a discerning customer, but… "You said you were after Maurice, yeah? Looking to buy? I hate to badmouth him in his absence, but… you can get better elsewhere, you know."

"Oh, I'm well aware." He says, eyes lighting up, brushing a finger across the edge of the metal. "This is not what I was here to purchase. I'm no expert, I relied on Maurice for that, but I know he wouldn't keep anything of true value out front. No, I want this for my wall. I collect similar such items, after all. This is for my personal use, not work. So again I ask… how much?"

I smile a little. Maybe he was right about me being like him after all, if he knew just how tacky this stuff was. "Y'know what? For you, consider it free, mate. Assuming you'll be good to haul it out of here?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll manage." He said, laying it down with an audible thunk as it hit the ground. He gave me a thankful smile, re-adjusting his glasses. "Ah, I apologise, you must be bored of hearing me prattle, and making constant requests. But this appointment with Maurice was of somewhat long-standing. I believe he had something for me in the back-room?"

Oh, I was liking him more by the second. I was curious now. Anybody who could pick out a specific greek replica from the mural alone was worth paying attention to, but- I had to wonder which item was his. The shadhavar teeth? There wasn't anything quasi-greek back there, maybe he was religious? The saint's thighbone?

"It should be a canister marked biohazard. For customer #0004. I'm a chemist, you see, and he has a way of getting ahold of, ah… unique and esoteric substances for me. We enjoy a regular trade in such things, and this shipment is… particularly important for my work. I've come all the way from America for it."

I stiffened a little. Huh. Well now I was doubly curious, and here I thought he was a professor of the occult or something. "Sure, mate, sure." I said, turning to fetch it. "I'll be right back. You just sit right here, yeah? Rest your legs."

I went into the back office to fetch the item. It felt… light? The weight was evenly distributed, I couldn't feel a liquid sloshing around inside it or anything. If anything it felt like it was empty, though I still handled it with care. No need to get incautious around hazardous materials. There weren't any labels to tell me what it might be, trust me, I checked. The only indication was the biohazard signs and skulls all over it.

It didn't even look magical… but I could feel a bit of an aura around it. The thing just radiated danger, and not just from the overabundance of warning signage. I didn't like it, wasn't sure I was comfortable handing out a mystery canister to a random stranger, but… well.

I knew Maurice dealt in rough customers, and this was better than the old cocaine dealers coming around.

The professor was busy staring at his new shield when I came back. He seemed fascinated with it, studying the mural on the front closely, studying it. He only looked back up when I came back in, extending a hand out to take the canister. I gingerly handed it over, but he seemed much less cautious around it than I was. Guess he handled the stuff every day. He quickly checked the box, the casing, weighed it up in his hands…

And then said "All seems to be in order. I'll have the money transferred into Maurice's account by nightfall, plus… a little something for your trouble, too."

He passes me a slip of money. Fifty bucks, American currency. I wince a little knowing the exchange rate these days, going "Oh, you really don't need to…"

"Well of course I don't need to. But I rather want to. You've been unfailingly polite, and a great help. Ah, one more thing… I don't suppose I could trouble you for use of the lavatory? The bladder, you know, loses elasticity with age."

"Second door on the left." I tell him, as he wanders out, leaving me alone with the shield, the canister… and his jacket.

I really can't help it. It comes naturally. Whilst he's out I rifle through his pockets. I'm curious just who this mystery man is.

Plane tickets to and from Gotham. A phone number, scribbled on a piece of paper, monogrammed. "M.M". I hear the doorknob turn after a minute, stuff everything back into the pockets they came from, take a step back.

"Ah, blessed relief." He says, grabbing the coat, sliding it back on. I go to get the door for him, smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'll let Maurice know you called?"

"Yes, that would be best. And a pleasure to meet you too, Mister Constantine. Thank you for your co-operation."

And with that, the professor closed the door behind him, and lugged both of his new purchases away.

I could only imagine the looks he'd get carrying all that onto a bus. Heh, poor bastard. Still, at least I made somebody happy today. Maybe that would make up for the horror of shoving all that cash down the toilet for no good reason in a blind panic.

I turned back to the pile. It's pretty obvious I can't really keep all this stuff here long. Maurice's got too many contacts, somebody's bound to get suspicious. All well and good if I can make a quick fifty chatting to one of his clients, sure. But what happens when one of the bloody coke dealers shows up?

No, think I'd better just take the loot and run. I'll get Chas to help me move everything back to my apartment tomorrow, but in the meantime… I head to the backroom. To the piles of cash from the safe, bundling it up. Too much to fit in me pockets, and I'll get mugged if I try to go to the nearest bloody cab-rank with cash visibly bulging out of my coat, but…

I'm still trying to work out how to avoid leaving it all here when my eyes draw to the spot where the biohazard canister used to be.

I can still feel that evil little aura in the air around it. I can almost smell it. The kind of thing that sets your nerves on edge, like the moment in a horror movie just before the scare chord. Tension. Fear and dread.

Who was that guy?

Every good office has a phone, and I find Maurice's. It's buried under a pile of papers, but I dig it out. What was the number for his buddy, M.M? Two-one-one… uhh-

First number I try is a kebab shop. Second time I get through, though. A scottish accent drifts through the speakers.

"Howzitgan? I'm on a job at the minute, so sadly I'm not open for new clients at the minute. But if you want ta' leave a message, I ken-"

I stopped a moment, confused. New clients, on a job? What was he-

I cleared my throat. Tried to put on my best attempt at that academic American accent the professor had spoken in, quietly muffled, hoping it would cover up any imperfections in the imitation.

"I just picked up the package from Maurice's. Wanted to keep you in the loop. And-" Time for a gamble. I'm assuming this guy was working for the professor, so… "I wanted to discuss if afterwards we could extend our… contract?"

A moment's silence, before the man on the other end let out a genuine laugh. "Hah! Nice try. On yuir bike, pal, I weren't born yesterday. Yer accent's horrible anyway, you sound like a drunk scouser. Next time at least get an actual american t'try to pretend to be me boss. But, uh… if'n you really have picked up the fear toxin? I recommend you run far, far away with it. Boss won't be happy 'bout that."

Wait, what? The fear tox- the line went dead with a click. He'd hung up. I just stared at the phone for a long, long time.

The fear toxin. Plane tickets to Gotham. He- oh no. Oh no, no, no! I dropped the phone and rushed to the door, out into the street. Looked left and right, no sign of him.

I thought he was a bloody old college professor or occultist or something, here to pick up something for research, or a curio or collector's item or something. I thought I'd been giving a harmless knick-knack to a nobody.

Instead I'd only gone and given an occult bioweapon to the fucking Scarecrow.

Oh Maurice. Maurice, you fucking idiot, you absolute prick. Did you know? Did you know what you were doing? I went back inside, back to his back-room items.

How many of these were for Supervillains, huh? The Justice League called him an arms dealer, and only after helping him escape do I find out they were fucking right?! He'd played me for a fool, he said he'd had no idea and I'd believed him!

Shadhavar Horn played music that makes your ears bleed, what are the teeth for, huh? The thighbone- what could you summon with that, what kind of demons could you call in trade?

What would somebody need with over a thousand good luck charms?

No. No, I can't take this back home with me. People will come looking anyway, and I can't sell it, not anymore, I've got to, I've got to-

I grabbed the haunted brandy from the pile. Poured it out, over everything. Lead a line of it out towards the front shop, which was a pile of wooden bloody flinders anyway.

I grabbed a match, I lit it up.

Make a fire. Use the heat to cauterise the pain. Let the hypnotic, dancing lights distract me from the images of just how much fear and terror the Scarecrow could cause with something like that. With occult weapons as well as chemical at his disposal.

I watched as nearly a million quid in cash and occult merchandise went up in smoke, cursed Maurice's name, and turned around.

Gotham.

In my frozen heart, I knew. As soon as I'd handed over that canister it was probably already too late. But I'll go there. I'll go there, now, and at least try to make it right.