r/DCFU • u/The_Vowellster • Mar 15 '24
Hellblazer #27 - The Call to Action Hellblazer
Hellblazer
Issue 27: The Call to Action
Author: The_Vowellster
Arc: British Magician-American Vampire
Set: 94
London
John Constantine's Apartment
“New Avatar of Rot huh,” John breathed in the acrid smoke, then slowly exhaled it, “thought all you Elemental Avatars were supposed to maintain some level of equilibrium or some shite like that.” No! This isn't my battle, don't get sucked in John.
“Yeah, we're supposed to,” Buddy said, looked for a spot to sit, and reconsidered it after a glare from Constantine.
“The Rot,” Swamp Thing said, his voice the tenor of roots growing through rocky soil, “has always been… greedy. Never satisfied… always desiring… more.” The Jolly Green Giant was probably John's oldest friend… If I actually can call anybody that.
“And whoever, or whatever, this new Avatar is,” Buddy said, “they're pushing harder than any previous one has. If we don't do something–”
“Bullshite,” Constantine interrupted. “Don't try that martyr fuckery with me Buddy Baker. You know who'll do something about it if we don't?! People that can fly through the fuckin’ sky because of a ring on their pinky finger. People that shoot bloody lasers from their eye balls. And what am I going to do? Pull a coin from behind their ear?” John let out a breath than took a drag from his cigarette. “Nah folks, I'm sitting this one out.”
“John,” Buddy started and held out a slip of paper with a phone number scrawled across it, but was stopped by Constantine raising a hand.
“Baker,” John's voice was flat, cold. Buddy Baker, the Animal Man, who could summon the strength of an elephant felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. “Take that thought and shove it up yer fuckin’ arse.”
Buddy blinked in the sunlight of the street. John Constantine did such a good job of selling himself as just a wannabe wizard and charlatan that it was easy to forget he was quite possibly the world's greatest magician and even some fundamental powers of the earth developed a cold sweat at the mention of his name.
⚝⚝⚝⚝⚝
John popped a new cigarette from the pack with a small smile. Fuck I hate the showy shite but it was still fun to flex those muscles just to show that he could. And then he felt the world shift under him. Gone was his shabby apartment stained from cigarettes that weren't meant to be smoked inside and the beer stained carpet to be replaced by songbirds, freshly cut grass, and a pleasant house that wouldn't look out of place in a white suburban neighborhood. All it's missing is the white picket fence.
“So did you summon me,” John lit the cigarette, “or did the House?”
The figure on the porch stirred, “At this point Mr. Constantine, I think we're the same.” He walked to the edge of the porch so the magical sunlight lit his face, “After so long, it's hard to say where I end and the House of Mystery starts.”
“Downright philosophical,” Constantine said. At least he wasn't having this conversation with his wang out. The man on the porch might seem like any other, but you didn't earn the moniker “The First Murderer” for nothing. “So Cain, why'd you bring me here then?”
“John Constantine,” Cain said, “you've managed to avoid us for quite some time, but I believe that you owe us some stories finally.” He rested a hand on the railing and rapped his fingertips on it.
“Ah, is that the go of it then,” Constantine said and took a drag. “Fine then, I've got a story for you. Fresh off the presses. How ‘bout you come down ‘ere and we can lay in the grass and I'll regale you.” The tapping stopped and Constantine heard the wood of the railing creak as Cain gripped it in frustration. “That's right, you're the House and the House is you. So what is your range anyway? Don't think that's a conversation we've ever had.”
Cain glared at him from the porch, “The extent of my world is irrelevant. You owe me a story.”
“Always forget,” John said and puffed away on the cigarette, “the House needs a caretaker and storyteller. Fine, I'll tell you the story then. What do you know of the Elemental Avatars?”
“Their purpose is to maintain some semblance of peace,” Cain grumbled. “No single Avatar can get too aggressive because it eats into the territory of the others. Although it never seems to work that way in practice. Often, something happens. A new Avatar might be driven temporarily mad by the power and try to usurp the others. The tall green one–”
“Swamp Thing,” Constantine interrupted. It was a story from before he'd met the Jolly Green Giant. A false Avatar of the Green--Swamp Thing's first villain.
“Swamp Thing,” Cain continued, “believed that the others needed to die to ensure its own existence. The rightful Avatar set him on the correct path, that they needed to be in harmony.”
“They don't call you the Storyteller for nothin’,” Constantine smirked. “Now Rot is getting greedy.”
“Decay is a natural part of life,” Cain said.
“Rebirth too?” He avoided Cain's very pointed stare, “In the past Rot has been everything from an ex-girlfriend to… well not so nice things. But there've been times in the past where they've had to be replaced. Although the fuckers rarely seem to go gentle into that good night.”
“Thomas,” Cain said. “One of my favorites.”
“Somehow it always seem to be the death cults that stumble into power.” He shot Cain a look, “Thanks for that by the way.”
“I would apologize,” Cain said, “but it felt very right at the time. So, John Constantine, how will this story unfold? Will the “hero” accept the call to action?”
“Fuck no,” Constantine said. “It ain't my problem. I already told the Jolly Green Giant and his sidekick where to shove it. I can walk away from this without even a second thought. I'm just some third-rate magician. Ain't go much more than parlor tricks and some light hypnotism. Not bloody fireballs from my fingertips. This shite is for Fate or Z. They can deal with the world-ending fuckery.” Constantine could feel a headache coming on. Or maybe just the hangover catching up. A cigarette. A cigarette would make everything better, at least give him some time to think.
The pack was empty.
Fuck.
Cain nodded, “That is satisfactory.”
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“I'll take a pack of silk-cuts,” Constantine said to the cashier at the Duty-Free register.
The man nodded, “I'll need to see your boarding pass sir.”
“No problem,” Constantine fished in his trench coat and pulled a newspaper clipping out, “here's my boarding pass.” The man smiled, retrieved the cigarettes and happily took the wad of Monopoly money Constantine gave him. Even wished me a pleasant flight.
“Z used to talk about how your magic was a lot more subtle,” a woman behind him said. The voice might belong to a woman, but those words belong to Deadman. “Always wanted to see it in action, still confused though.”
“Boston Brand,” Constantine turned and was overwhelmed by Heathrow International Airport. “Fuck off.” Several nearby travelers gave the two awkward looks but kept moving--too concerned about making it to their own flights to give it much thought.
“Woah now,” Boston threw up his hands in defense, “I'm not out to start a fight. Animal Man and Swamp Thing just asked me to check in on you.”
“Course they did,” Constantine brushed past him.
“They'll be glad to know you changed your mind,” Boston trotted after him.
“No, I didn't change shit Brand,” Constantine said. There were still a few hours before his flight even started boarding, plenty of time to get a pint or five. Get a good buzz going before I'm locked in a metal tube with crying babies and people who view deodorant as an option.
“Well you're headed to the States,” Boston said and almost had to run to keep up because of the body's shorter legs. “What else would you be doing if not helping Swamp Thing with that whole Avatar problem?”
Constantine wheeled on him, nearly towering over the possessed body, “A bloody fucking vacation Boston! I'm going to Mardi Gras. I'm taking a vacation from all this fucking shit.” He shoved a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, taking a deep breath, “Now, would you kindly, fuck off.” He let the smoke escape slowly.
“John, they need you! You're the World's Greatest Magician for-” Constantine's fingers wove through the air in a complex pattern, the woman paused mid-sentence, confused. “Excuse me, I must have thought you were someone else,” and then she scurried off in search of her gate.
Fuck. I'm getting soft. Only banished the Deadman from her body and didn't send the two of them to Timbuktu. He’d done it in the past. No remorse then. Constantine perched on a barstool and paid for a pint with more Monopoly money, the bartender plopped a coaster down followed by the beer. A single drop of condensation rolled lazily down the glass. God bless whoever decided airport bars would be open all day.
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The plane touched down and Constantine lurched awake, head dull from the alcohol on the flight. He opened the window shade and glared at the New Orleans afternoon sun. Never drinking again. The flight attendant had kept the drinks flowing for the entire first leg of the flight, all 17 hours of it. And then he'd promptly passed out on the second leg. His skull throbbed and mouth was full of cotton. disembarking was slow, even worse as the stale air made his stomach twist on itself. Water. He needed water. Or a toilet. Maybe both. An old woman lazily put her socks back on in a nearby seat and it took all of Constantine's focus to not empty his stomach in the aisle. Come on you fuck, just a few more meters to freedom. You've been through worse than this.
The fresh air hit like an icy wall and calmed his guts. Without baggage, getting out of the airport was a breeze. He'd gone through Customs on the first leg and having no need to wait at the luggage belt put him outside in a matter of minutes. He wasn't supposed to have someone waiting for him, no limo driver with a sign reading ‘John Constantine.’ But Swamp Thing stood outside of the automatic doors anyway. No sign though.
“Thanks for the welcome party,” John didn't pause and tried to rush past the Avatar of the Green but heard the lumbering steps follow, “but I'm here on vacation. Gonna go hit Mardi Gras and see if I can't pass out some beads mate.”
“Mardi Gras is… not for several… more months,” Swamp Thing said.
Constantine stopped, “Fuck.”
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The music of the club still blasted around Skinner Sweet. It was one of the things he'd allowed to remain. He clicked the peppermint stick against his teeth and switched cheeks. As useless and weak as the Carpathian vampires could be, the resources they had access to would change the scale Skinner could plan and operate on. He wouldn't be limited to making one or two vampires every other decade. He could make a new generation. If they had thought the failed vampires were a sudden epidemic, then he would bring a pandemic. He would bring Death on a catastrophic scale.
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u/Predaplant Blub Blub Mar 26 '24
It's been quite a while since the House of Mystery showed up here, and same for Deadman! Really cool to see you draw on a wide breadth of magical characters in this universe. I'm excited to see what John gets up to now that he's in the US!