[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [h3]Los Angeles[/h3] [i]This is a city that shouldn't exist. It was built in a desert, facing an ocean of useless saltwater. A city of transplants and transients either running away or running to something. A city of health-crazed nutters blanketed by smog. A city of broken dreams and all that other cliche shite you've heard over the years. City of Angels said ironically and blah blah blah. All of that aside, the fact remains that Los Angeles was a city willed into creation by land developers and real estate men, men who stole water from hard-working farmers and plowed over orange groves. Men who lured thieving filmmakers out west because they wouldn't enforce patent laws. A city built by swindlers for swindlers, thieves, and gullible marks. It's the city where the Black Dahlia was cut in half, where Charles Mason's followers ran roughshod, where riots in the 60's and 90's tore the city apart -- it's where blokes called the Night Stalker, the Grim Sleeper, and the Hillside Stranglers all hunted and killed -- it's where a washed-up football player and his best mate captivated the world with a low-speed police chase. Los Angeles isn't a city of angels. It's a city of ghosts. [/i] --- [b]Echo Park 1:05 AM[/b] John Constantine watched the quarter dance back and forth across his knuckles. It was a tic of his. He did it whenever he was nervous or bored or waiting, like he was now. He sat on the park bench, a smoldering cigarette in his free hand. The quarter trick was one of the first things he learned when he started out practicing sleight of hand. Just as quickly as he started it, he could stop the shuffling and hide the coin in his knuckle, making it seem like it disappeared. "It's not too safe to be out here this late." The man plopped on the bench beside John. Middle-aged in dark trousers and a matching button-up, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. You wouldn't think he was a cop if you saw his forearms. They were covered in tattoos. But once you caught a glimpse of the eyes, hard eyes with no give that didn't miss anything, there was no doubt that Charlie Rembrandt was a cop. "But you never had a problem handling yourself. Right, Constantine?" "Right, Rembrandt," John said, making the coin disappear into his palm. "How goes the job? Still shooting unarmed people?" "No, John," said the detective. "Not anymore. By the way, I'd like to thank you for taking the time to meet. I know you're busy bilking little old ladies out of their social security checks, so your cooperation is appreciated." John chuckled and took a drag off his cigarette. They'd met a few years ago, not long after John arrived in LA. What looked to be a bear attack in the Hollywood Hills turned out to be... something else entirely and John had gotten involved, crossing paths with Rembrandt and the LAPD's investigation. he didn't prescribe to that [i]ACAB[/i] bollocks, but he knew that a cop like Charlie, one who could do the job and gave a fuck, was rare. After that mess they'd worked out an arraignment. Anything weird that crossed Rembrandt's path, he would come to John and pick his brain. In return, Rembrandt would help John out if he got nicked on anything minor. He was a grass, but of the supernatural variety. "Let me bum a cigarette." John passed Rembrandt the pack and his lighter. The detective made a face after he took the first puff. "Jesus Christ, what brand is this?" "Benson & Hedges. England's finest." Charlie stubbed the cigarette out on the side of the bench before flicking it into the grass. "Then no wonder you left. Taste like pure asshole." "How do you know what asshole taste likes, Rembrandt?" "So, about my issue." "What you got for me?" John asked with an arched eyebrow. "To be honest? I don't know yet." --- [b]LAPD Wilshire Division Two Days Earlier[/b] "Detectives Rembrandt and Young, RHD." The desk sergeant looked at Charlie and Bonnie's badges through the plexiglass before he nodded and hit the buzzer. The two detectives went through the unlocked metal door and through the halls of Whilshire Division. This time of night, they were among the few cops walking the police station's halls. The nightwatch commander was waiting for them in the main squad bullpen. "Rembrandt? I thought you were Hollywood Homicide." "Got bumped up six months ago," Charlie said, nodding towards Bonnie. "This is my partner, Bonnie Young." Olivas gave Bonnie a polite nod, but nothing more. Charlie figured that Bonnie would probably chalk it up to racism, her being a black woman and all. But Rembrandt knew Olivas well enough that he knew the lieutenant considered anyone below him in rank not worthy of the effort. As the lead detective from Robbery-Homicide, Olivas [i]had[/i] to talk to Charlie about... whatever the hell it was that sent them out here in the middle of the night. "So what's going on?" Olivias tugged at his collar. "I can't describe it, Charlie. You've... you've just got to see it. Come on." The lieutenant led them towards the holding and interrogation cells. They went into the observation room, a small space between both interrogation rooms. From there you could watch questionings taking place through the two-way glass on the other side. A computer on a desk was where camera footage of any interrogations was stored. Olivas shut the door after they were inside, locking it and double-checking before he spoke. "This is confidential, but Major Crimes has been running a taskforce out of Wilshire the past six months. Operation Power Outage is targeted at the Armenian Mob." "Wow," Bonnie said with a whistle. "I worked Organized Crime Control before, and those Armenians are no joke." Olivas nodded again, making eye contact with her before addressing Rembrandt. "They are tough customers, but last night there was a light at the end of the tunnel. We arrested Steve Malakian, one of the organization's biggest killers, on sixteen counts of murder. We were ready to flip him and have him inform on the whole mob... and something happened." "What exactly?" asked Rembrandt. He saw Bonnie taking notes out the corner of his eye, an annoyed look on her face. "You've... just got to watch it." --- Rembrandt pressed play and passed John his phone. The video footage was shot from the far corner of one of the police interrogation rooms. It showed a small space with four brick walls and bald man, Malakian, handcuffed to a metal table. Two men in suits were in the process of leaving the room, detectives John assumed. Time passed, a few minutes by John's reckoning. He was about to complain when he saw it. The far wall of the room began to ripple, slowly at first before it picked up speed. On the screen, Malakian began to shake his head when he saw it. From the rippling wall, a figure stepped out. The angle couldn't show his face, but John saw it was a human man dressed in a tartan suit. Malakian started to struggle with the cuffs and scream as the man walked towards him. The tartan man made a few quick motions with his hand, cutting off the man's screams. Malian clawed at his throat and thrashed. Another hand signal from the tartan man and Malakian stopped struggling as his neck snapped at an awkward ninety degree angle. Malakian's body slumped to the chair as the tartan man retreated back through the portal he had created. The minute he was gone, the two detectives burst back into the room and started their futile attempts to revive Malakian. "Christ," John said after the video ended. "You see what I mean? How does that happen? How does a man snap his own neck like that?" "Wait," said John. "You couldn't see him?" "See who?" asked Rembrandt. "The twit in the tartan suit." "What are you talking about, Constantine? There's nobody else in that video but Malakian." "Fuck," John said with a sigh. "You can't see him, but I could... fuckfuckfuck." "What is it you saw," said Charlie. "What is it?" "Bad fucking news, Charlie." John took a big drag off his cigarette before expelling smoke. "Whoever killed the Kardashian Kid in that video is from my world. And not just some two-bit hustler like me. He's a real fucking mage, Rembrandt. The kind you can't simply arrest." Charlie turned away from John and looked out across the empty park, a scowl on his face. "Fuck that. I'm catching a murderer."