[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]St. Helier Hospital[/b] Kristen Prescott looked up from her copy of [i]The Sun[/i] when she heard the moans. At any other place in the hospital, the sounds of pain would be business as usual. But Kristen was the night nurse at St. Helier’s coma ward. These blokes were vegetables, none of them had made a sound in years. She was just here in case of an emergency. Of course there had never been an emergency. All twelve of these men and women had no chance of ever recovering. She stood and gingerly walked towards the beds. She was surprised to find the source of the moaning was Gerald Lambeth. Lambeth was the longest serving member of the ward. He’d already been a fixture in the ward when Kristen had started fifteen years ago. He'd been just a teenager when Kristen started working here. Now, he was in his early 30's and had spent more time in a coma than he ever had alive and a awake. Of all the hopeless cases, he was the most hopeless. Or so it seemed. She leaned forward to look at the man in the bed. There wasn’t much to look at. He’d been in a coma most of his life, his body and limbs shriveled by atrophy. His once thick head of hair was now balding and a thick beard was on his chin. A girl came in once every week to shave the coma men, and she was past due it seemed. Kristen got close and listened. Lambeth moaned again. It sounded like… “Help!” he shouted in a husky voice. His eyes snapped open and he coughed blood. Kristen hadn’t stuck around to see the blood or his eyes open. As soon as he shouted for help, she had bolted to the nearest nursing station. Let her boss and the doctors sort this one out. She didn’t get paid enough for this freaky shit. "John Constantine," he shouted as Kristen kept running. "John Constantine!" ---- [b]The Tate Club[/b] “John Constantine,” Clarice Sackville said to the rest of the mages of the Tate Club. “Remember that name and keep at it, darlings.” A cough from Jack Hawksmoor drew her attention for a moment. It was deep and lasting and Hawksmoor wiped phlegm and blood from the back of his hand before looking sheepishly at Clarice. Map shot Jack a questioning look, but didn't press the issue. If Hawksmoor thought he was fooling anyone, he was sorely mistaken. “The body is weak, but the spirit is willing," said Jack. "Isn’t that what counts?” “Remember,” Clarice announced to the rest of the group. She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to gag as she spoke the next few words: “Concentrate upon John Constantine and spread the legend:... he is the strongest mage in the history of London.” --- [b]The Underland[/b] The grey van carrying the football hooligans crumbled under the force of John’s shield spell. The little boy they had been chasing hunkered down somewhere behind John as the two hooligans spilled out the van. One of them had a massive gash on his forehead from slamming into the steering wheel. He blinked and stared at John, not bothering to wipe away the blood pouring down his face. “Oi,” he slurred at John. “Who you support?” “Liverpool,” John said as he knocked the man to the ground with the heel of his boot. The one with the knife started towards John and the boy. He was in better shape than his friend, though still banged up. It didn’t matter to John. He could be in perfect shape, able to bend steel bars with his bare hands. Physical strength didn't matter one bit in the Underland. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” the hooligan asked. “John Constantine, innit?” John said with a mocking grin. The look of terror on the hooligan’s face said it all. “See, even a little fucking tulpa parasite like you knows who I am. I’m the most powerful mage who ever walked the streets of London, mate. Doesn’t matter if it’s a load of shite, enough people believe it. And in this place…” A green ball of fire appeared in his right hand. It flickered and rose in power until a miniature roaring fire was held in the palm of his hand. “Belief is power… innit.” With the flick of his fingers, the fireball shot from his palm and engulfed the hooligan in the emerald fire. Within a few seconds, the deranged West Ham fan was a pile of bones and ash. John turned away from it and looked over at the boy. He was now cowering beside a postbox and watching John wearily. “You alright then?” John asked. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Where am I? Where’s my mum and dad? Why is no one here? Those two cunts chased me ‘round and ‘round for hours and nobody heard me yelling!” “Steady on,” said John. “You’re in a place that’s kind of like… being asleep, yeah? It’s a dream of the city. When London sleeps, this is what she dreams. How long have you been down here, son?” “Like I said, hours.” John eyed his clothes. The trainers were out of fashion by at least a decade. He knew some kids got off on dressing retro, he personally felt pride and hope that the 80’s were coming back into fashion, but this boy was too young to be dressing ironically. “A few hours?” John nodded and lit up a fresh cigarette. “Alright, how about we send you home?” He snapped his fingers and the boy was gone. Whatever waited for him on the outside world, John was sure it would be a rude awakening indeed. He pressed on through the streets of the Underland. Even though London was asphalt, the roads here were cobblestone. This was someone’s idea of London and not the real thing. Like a funhouse mirror, the image of London was distorted and twisted. The shroud of a man in a tophat and duster stalked John from the shadows. He could feel the man’s eyes upon him. After a few blocks, John turned to face him. The man grinned manically and flashed a long razorblade with an ivory handle. He looked nothing like the real thing, but he looked like what people imagined Jack the Ripper would look like. “Piss off,” John said, conjuring a blast of mystic energy. It exploded at the man’s feet as he scampered off. “The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing! I’ll kill again!" “Fucking Jack the Ripper,” John muttered under his breath. “Of course you’d be down here.” He started back on his journey. Something was calling to him, begging him to come forward with each step he took. It was coming from where the River Thames would be if he were in London proper. At a bridge he could see the Underland’s version of the Thames. Like the sky, it was a pea green color. John could see chunks of body parts floating through the waters towards parts unknown. “The Thames,” a voice said from behind John. “It’s always been a dumping ground. Where London gets rid of its dirty little secrets.” John spun on his heels. He was face to face with a man dressed in a toga. His thick beard was salt and pepper, and the crown on his head was a tarnished copper that was slowly turning green. He stared down his Roman nose at John, his eyes sparkling in curiosity. He looked oddly familiar to John. He’d seen him somewhere before. He just couldn’t place where. “Little secrets like me,” he said with a placid smile. "Hello, John Constantine. Not London born but a child of the city all the same." "Who the bleeding hell are you?" "The cause of all your trouble, I'm afraid." His soft smile became a large grin. "You see, I'm the one killing Jack Hawksmoor."