[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Galway 2009[/b] Captain John Ranney didn’t like the look of the Englishman in the ratty jacket back when he had come aboard in London. Ranney wasn’t above taking the occasional stowaway on his transatlantic cargo trips, after all there was something a bit romantic in his mind about a man leaving it all behind in search for a new life, plus Ranney got a little extra cash in his pocket for his trouble so it was a win-win in his book. But the Englishman was bad news. There was something lurking behind that smile of his that Ranney didn’t care for. The few times Ranney ran into him after leaving London, the captain had avoided eye contact at all cost while the Englishman said his pleasantries in a too cheery voice. It was like the bastard knew Ranney’s discomfort and played on it. And then there was the shit that went down in Dublin. However the hell he’d pulled it off, Ranney didn’t know. Now Ranney found himself alone with the Englishman in the galley. They were seated at opposite ends of the rickety table that served as the crew’s dining area. While Ranney drank a cup of coffee, the Englishman smoked like he always did and worked a coin between the knuckles of his left finger. Ranney knew he shouldn't, but curiosity got the better of him. “How much did you pay ‘em?” Ranney asked seemingly out of the blue. “Come again, Squire?” “When we were in Dublin,” Ranney said with a sigh. “I’ve been skipper out here for nearly thirty damn year and I had to deal with all kinds of cargo and customs inspectors. Seen hardasses and humps, bent guys and straight arrows. Usually the Irish are on the up and up. How much did you have to pay ‘em?” “Oh, you mean the blokes from the other day? No money changed hands. No words were shared. They never saw me. It was if I was never here?” “What are you talking about?” “People see what they want to see, Captain,” the Englishman said with a large smile. “Or at least what I make them see.” “Well,” Ranney grunted. “I’ll be happy when we get to Philadelphia. The only thing I want to see is you off my boat. You and whatever you’re running from are bad news.” “Who says I’m running from something?” “I been a ship captain for a long time, son. Everyone here is either running from something, or running to something. You’re the running from type.” Ranney drained his coffee cup and stood up from the table. The Englishman stopped dancing the coin around his knuckles and stared at Ranney. “I know what you’re running from, captain. I bet it was hard to get another job after that naval court-martial. All those women, it’s a bloody miracle you never faced any serious jail time, captain.” Ranney could feel the blood draining from his face. “H-h-how--” “People tell me what they want to tell me,” the Englishman’s smile expanded to a large grin. “Or… at least what I make them tell me.” “Fuck you!” Ranney started to retreat. He hit the wall of the galley and almost dropped his coffee cup in surprise. The Englishman laughed as he turned and ran down the halls. --- [b]The Underland Now[/b] Brutus of Troy lay beside the Thames, beaten and bloody. He tried to channel the powers of London and use them for his defense. For nearly two thousand years, the city had answered his calls with vigor. He was her founder, her father, and the spirit of the very city. But now his pleas fell on deaf ears. “I can feel you,” John Constantine said as he casually walked towards him. “Flailing for help, trying to get that last little bit of strength from the city like a baby sucking on his mum’s tit.” Constantine stood above Brutus, smiling as he pulled out a fresh cigarette while Brutus coughed and sprayed droplets of black blood on to the ground. “What were you on about earlier?” he asked as he lit the cigarette with a spark of magical energy. “Something about future people.” “The gods of the future,” said Brutus. “Even the gods are not immune to birth and death, John Constantine.They have not yet been born yet, but they have already declared war on the gods of old and the gods who will be old by the time they come to power. This was the opening salvo of their great war.” “If a tired old myth was their best weapon, they may need to get a bigger gun.” Brutus snickered. He was beginning to feel cold. His connection to London was gone, but he had a little power left. What he had planned would kill him, but it would be well worth it. His death would grant the incantation that much more strength. “I’m dying,” said Brutus. “I don’t want to die.” “Been alive for almost two millennia, still you want more. You ever listened to Springsteen?” asked Constantine. “‘Everything dies baby that’s a fact.’” Brutus laughed before he thrusted his hands out in front of Constantine. [i]“Tu emotae Londinium!”[/i] Constantine tried to defend himself, but it was too late. The last thing Brutus heard before dying were the screams of John Constantine. --- [b]The Tate Club [/b] “Something’s going wrong,” Map yelled to the group assembled at the Tate Club. John Constantine’s body started to shake and seize violently. Clarice broke away from her incantation and started towards the body “Pull him out, Map,” she shouted. “For god’s sake, pull him out.” “I already did,” said Map. “I felt the thing down there die, so I pulled John Constantine’s spirit out. But… I don’t know what’s going on.” Clarice looked on his horror as Constantine’s clothes began to smoke and catch fire. She could feel something powerful inside of him, something that was beginning to burn him up from the inside. “Move!” Jack Hawksmoor leaped across the room. His white hair was back to its original pitch black, the tired and weary body replaced by the strapping body of a powerful god. Without missing a beat, he scooped Constantine’s body into his arms. “I’ll be back shortly, then I’ll explain.” The floor beneath Hawksmoor opened up. He and Constantine disappeared down the hole before it disappeared and the elegant ballroom flooring replaced it once more. “He better be back,” Clarice muttered. “Bastard owes me a favor.”