[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Peckham[/b] “Hullo Chas.” Chas Chandler stared at John Constantine for a moment before his fist struck John square in the nose. The punch dropped John to the ground in a heap. Chas stood over him, holding his fist in his hand and glaring down at his old friend. John looked up and wiped blood off his nose. “I deserve that.” “Quite fucking right," said Chas. He sighed and shook his head. "C’mon in, I'll get you something for your nose.” A few minutes later both men were seated on Chas’ couch with beer in their hands. Chas drank from his bottle while John kept his pressed against his nose. The television showed a soccer game in progress. John looked around the apartment. It was decorated in a style that could only be called New Age corniness. Crystals, incense, and even a "Live, Laugh, Love" poster that John had to force himself to not laugh at. Chas' wife always chased whatever the latest trend was. The last time John was around, she had been big into Zumba. “We had a wake,” said Chas, not bothering to look away from the match. “About a month after we all thought you died.” “Standing room only, I bet...” “Maybe a dozen people. Most came just to make sure you were dead. It’s the happiest I’d seen Renee in years.” “How is the missus?” John asked as he pulled the beer away from his face and took a long sip off it. “Chuffed,” said Chas. “With no John Constantine to keep me out and about, I'm home more often. It's a fucking nightmare. But she loves it. Ever since Geraldine gave birth, she’s been the happy grandmother.” “Papa Chas?” John asked with a laugh. “Never thought I’d see the day. Cheers, mate.” “Does it bother you, John?” Chas asked as he looked away from the television. “Knowing that the amount of people who went to your funeral wouldn’t even fill a tube carriage.” “A funeral is a pointless gesture,” John said with a shrug. "When you're dead, you got bigger fish to fry than caring about who is crying over your dead body. But... yeah, a small funeral was always going to be for me. It's what I deserve." “Yeah,” Chas nodded. “It’s what you deserve. You know why you deserve it? It’s because you do shit like fake your own bloody death and not even tell your oldest fucking mate that you did it.” Chas was now on his feet. His face was beet red and his eyes were on the verge of tears. He gestured with the beer bottle right in John’s face. “I went to fucking therapy, John! For three years. Bloody survivor’s guilt is what they said. I was the last one who saw you before you… well, I can’t even say that you died anymore, can I? I lived with the thought that I could have done something to save you ever since that day. Even after the therapy, I think about you dying more than I should. Especially now that I know the person I was so worried about letting die, didn't fucking die! And what's worse, that bastard doesn't think enough of me to even let me know!” “Look on the bright side, mate.” John flashed a grin. “I just cured your survivor’s guilt.” John ducked just in time to miss the bottle. It sailed over the couch and crashed into the wall of the flat, hitting the Live, Laugh, Love sign squarely. Chas stared intently at John, breathing heavily with his red face. Then he made a curious sound. It started low in the throat before it came out his mouth. It was laughter. Chas Chandler was laughing. John joined in, a chuckle that turned into an uncontrollable fit. Two men in their forties, laid out on the floor and laughing like schoolgirls. “Fucking hell,” Chas said after a few minutes of laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes. “I needed that.” John rubbed his sore sides before he lit up a fresh cigarette. "I gotta say, broken glass and beer stains are a vast improvement on that sign." That sent the two of them into another fit of laughter. “Now,” said Chas with a sigh. “What the fuck do you want?” “I need your help, Chas.” “Of course you do. You don’t do social calls, do you?” “I’m in the middle of something,” John said with a shrug. “Let me get it squared away and then we’ll go for a pint.” “Sure we will.” The tone of Chas’ voice let John know he didn’t believe his words. “But for now I'm the help, is that it?" "Think of it more like a qualified expert. Someone well-versed in the ways of London." "What did you have in mind?” “We can talk in the car,” said John. “Probably best to get out of here before your wife gets home. I’d hate to spoil her mood.” -- [b]Westminster[/b] Jack Hawksmoor stood on the platform of the tube station. This station had been closed for a long time, but Jack could feel the history under his feet. Untold numbers of commuters left footprints as they went about their business. He could see the spirits of them as they passed through, a simple moment in time for them etched into the memory of this place. Men in starched collars and bowler hats mingled with the working class of the sixties, men in respectable dress but with long hair and women in short skirts. He could see men, women, and children huddling in the dark of the station as Nazi bombs blitzed London. At the corner of the platform, a punk rocker with a multi-colored mohawk contemplated jumping in front of a train that would never arrive. He reached back into the past, traveling through London’s history to find its beating heart. He knew that he was not the only travelers on these roads. That was why he chose this station in particular. The concentration of the city’s history and landmarks made it fertile ground for a certain type of mage. A mage who drew power from the city itself. “The tubes are the arteries of the city upon which I move.” Jack snapped back to the present when he heard the voice. Across the platform, on the far wall of the station, was a human face. The tiles and bricks seemed to shift to form the heavyset face of a human man. They shifted as he spoke, the words echoing with the sound of brick smashing against brick. “Lord Hawksmoor, I presume.” “You presume correctly,” Jack said with a nod. “And you would be the one they call Map. They say that you do an excellent job keeping my city protected.” “I would normally feel honored that the god of the cities knew my name,” said Map. “But since you were with John Constantine earlier this afternoon, I know he was the one who told you about me.” “John said you’d know he was back as soon as he arrived.” “Not much escapes my notice." The brick face of Map scowled. "I sense death on you, Lord Hawksmoor. You are not well.” “That is why I’ve come to you. If anyone knows about the rot in the Underland, then it’s you.” “I know it well, but it is off limits to me as much as it is off limits to yourself.” “That is why I brought John Constantine back to London. I need his help to cure me.” “Constantine has a history of disappointing those that rely upon him,” said Map. “Are you sure you want him as your champion in the Underland?” “He is an unorthodox choice, to be sure. But with the two of us as anchors, he has a good chance of success. If you are truly the guardian of London, then you will aid me in the undertaking.” Map’s brick face went still. It rippled, the face disappearing as the original brick took its place. A few moments later, a chubby black man in orange safety gear and hard hat appeared on the platform. He gave Jack a wide smile. “John Constantine can jump off a bloody cliff for all I care,” said Map. “But for the god of the cities, how could I refuse?”