[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPtw8Pl_fn0]1989 Mood Music[/url] [b]London 1989[/b] John Constantine stepped off the train and immediately felt like he was in a different world. Shit, compared to Liverpool he was. He walked the Brixton Road and knew immediately that while he may have been born in Liverpool, London was his [i[home[/i]. The skinny sixteen year old with his punk mohawk stood out in Liverpool like a sore thumb. But here in London, even bloody Maggie Thatcher’s London, he was just one of the many unwashed masses. Standing on the corner of Brixton Road, John reached into his tight pants pocket and pulled out a lone cigarette. He lit it up and smoked while he watched the people coming and going. He could feel something buzzing through the air. It was magic. Not in the literal sense, not like the stuff he had been reading about and was starting to believe was not completely bollocks. It was a different type of magic. The magic of possibility. Here in London, he could be anyone and do anything. This was where real possibility happened. Liverpool may have been where the bloody Beatles came from, but they had to leave to become the Beatles. Just like he had to leave to become John Constantine, the real John Constantine. And he knew London was where he would undergo that change. Was it predestination? Riding the Synchronicity Wave? No, not really. Years later he would look back and realize it was just the self-assured ego of a sixteen year old who thought they were unbeatable. “London,” John said as he tossed the cigarette butt to the ground. “Here I come, baby. I’m coming to get ya.” --- [b]The Underland Now[/b] John crashed through a building so hard and so fast that the foundation buckled. His body, or whatever this vessel was that he was in control of, cried out in pain as an entire two story Victorian building collapsed upon him. A few minutes later, he emerged from the rubble disheveled and bruised and bloody. “You are strong, John Constantine.” Brutus, the spirit of the city itself, floated in the air above him. Brutus was the one that had sent him through the wall and brought the whole bloody building down. His toga was partially torn by the shoulder and his copper crown was heavily askew on his head. “But I am the city itself. You can no more beat me than you can the Thames. Thousands of years of people and events and suffering and sacrifice to this city have given me power. And who are you to fight against that?” Brutus’ right hand crackled with orange energy. John tried to work up a protection spell to counter it. But he found he was dry. He cursed aloud. What the hell was going on up top? He had a pretty good idea. Jack Hawksmoor was in no position to keep up the connection to him for too long. WIth him gone, Map was carrying the load. Map was plenty powerful, but he couldn’t help John like Jack could. Same with the old biddies of the Tate Club. They could help, but Jack was the central cog that made his plan run. As Brutus prepared to toss down a bolt of magical energy, John silently hoped that his Hail Mary up top would work. --- [b]Peckham[/b] “This might cost you your job, mate.” “Well,” Chas Chandler said with a sigh. “There’s always Uber, innit?” Chas and Dev were in the dispatch shack for Cavalier Cab, the largest cab company in London. It was also the company Chas had worked at for almost thirty years. He had always been a company man and was one of the most trusted and respected drivers in the whole fleet. And he was about to piss it all away. “This must be some mate of yours,” said Dev. “He’s not my mate,” said Chas. “Not anymore.” “Right,” Dev said with a short laugh. “Whatever you say, Chas.” Sighing, Chas hit the button beside the dispatch microphone. He was now broadcasting to the hundreds of cabs on duty and patrolling the city tonight. Hundreds of pairs of ears and their passengers, all a captive audience for him. “Alright, blokes, this is Chas Chandler. You all know me, yeah? Well, it’s story time. I’m gonna tell you a whopper of a tale about a man who first came to our fair city back when he was only sixteen, looking to make a name for himself on the streets of London.” --- [b]The Underland[/b] The bolt deflected off John’s arm. Brutus’ eyes went wide as John floated from the rubble, an aura of green energy bleeding from his body. He smiled at Brutus and winked. “Who am I? Someone who knows this city fucking better than you, yeah? People worship London, but there are special cases. The people who know the city and its stories like the back of their hand, the ones that move in and out of our lives every day and we don’t think to look twice at them. The homeless and the cabbies are like apostles to the city. Their knowledge of the stories is deeper, their belief more powerful. Right now, untold amount of cabbies are hearing the tales of John Constantine. Doesn’t matter if they’re believing them or not, it’s just a rumor that's spread around.” John spread his hands and made a few quick hand signs. Brutus was blown away by an unseen force of energy. It was his turn to crash into a rickety building and have it all crumble on top of him. “I made a mistake by leaving,” John said as he floated over the rubble. “I see that now. London’s in my blood. If you’re the spirit of the city, Brutus, then I am at the very least her high priest. Your version of the city, this here? It’s old and out of date, squire. London isn’t Whitechapel murders or bombing Jerries. London is a kebab at three in the morning when you’re shitfaced, it’s cheering on AFC Wimbledon even though you know there’s not a chance they’re going to win. It’s the Windrushers who came to this city looking for a better life. Your version of this city is old, Brutus.” From the rubble, a blast of energy swept up. John easily batted it away. John closed his eyes and made the city shift. Brutus watched on in horror as the world he had created changed to modern day London, the old bombed out buildings replaced by new and shining ones. John grinned as he looked down at the bleeding spirit of the city. “That’s better. You see, you’re just an old ghost who some even older writers made up to try to attach some kind of Greco-Roman prestige to a city that never needed that shite. Me? I’m flesh and blood. I’ve walked these streets, I’ve done the things they whisper about in pubs. I’m a living legend. More than that, I’m London, squire. More so than you’ll ever be.”