[CENTER][h1][color=red][b]H E L L B L A Z E R[/b][/color][/h1][/center][hr][right][sup]London[/sup][/right]
As the man walked the streets of London he pulled the trenchcoat closer to his skinny body against the cold. It was early for there to be a chill in the air, but here it was nonetheless. 

London had changed so much from the days of his youth, and not in the ways the bloody Tories whinged about nonstop. He didn't care if some bloke from Poland wanted to open a shop, or if some poor souls from the Middle East came as refugees. He liked a good sausage and falafel now and again. What John missed about the old London was the grit and the grime. He missed the city before it became New York of Europe. Hell, at this point New York had more grit to it. Now all London had were posh flats, posh people, and posh pubs. You really had to search out a dingy pub for a flat, cheap beer. It sickened him.

John leaned against a traffic light pole and lit up another cigarette before taking a long drag as he waited for his ride. Next to him, a woman waiting to cross the street gave him a dirty look. He couldn't even have a smoke in the city anymore in peace. He hated it here. At least in America they'd yell at him and he could get in a good screaming match. Here they were too damn polite to say anything, but not polite enough to let him know with a look.

Before long, a familiar cab pulls up, and John hops in the back. As it begins to move away, he presses his middle finger against his temple and gives the woman a nice salute as they pull away.

"Christ, John, would you put that out?" Chas Chandler grumbled from the driver's seat of the cab.

"Bollocks, Chas, not you too," John sighed and rubbed his temples.

"I'm going to have plenty of other fares tonight. And they're not going to tip if the cab smells like a bloody ash tray," Chas shot back at him. Chandler was John's best, and most likely only, friend. They had grown up together on the streets of London, crashing punk clubs when they were underage and getting in other kinds of general debauchery. 

"Fine," John relented and toss the smoldering stick of carcinogens out the window. He watched longingly as it bounced off a curb and fell down a sewer grate.

"Where to?" he looked back, his round face and dull, brown eyes already looking tired at the beginning of what was sure to be a long night for the cabbie. 

"The Bar," was John's only answer. He knew Chas would understand. It was the place that he had taken John the most all these years. The Bar was a place that people, and things, like John could hang out and relax in. It was a place where the people who knew how to peel back the veil of the world could congregate and talk about their work without prying eyes or judgement. Plus they had cheap beer and still let you smoke inside. What wasn't there to like?

"Just a social call? Or is this a work related visit?" Chas asked as the lights of nighttime London passed over the cab in waves.

"Don't right now, if I'm being honest," John shrugged. "Got a message that someone wanted to meet me there tonight."

"Sounds like a trap to me," Chas shook his head.

"Nah, not there. That would just be asking for trouble," Constantine waved off his friend's worry. "'sides I'd have the advantage there. Some of the people can stand to be around me there."

"Lucky you. I would hate to be up against a man and those who can barely stand the sight of him," Chas chuckled as the cab pulled off a street and into a darkened alley. Off a short, iron rod above a black door hung a little metal eye. The sign for The Bar. Some say that the wanker who wrote those wizard books visited here and got the idea for one of her own locations. John didn't know if that was true, but the bartender swears it is, and claims she stiffed him when he wanted a small taste of all that money she made. So he cursed her recently. What little John knew of the news led him to believe that part was true.

John stepped out of the cab, "Thanks, mate. Don't wait up."

"Whenever you say that, I always end up with a call at four in the bloody morning," Chas sighed.

"I'm nothing if not consistent," the warlock smiled devilishly as his friend drove off. He made his way towards the door, and when he stepped through he took a deep breath. The damp, musty air of the bar hit him like a hug, the slight whiff of sage beckoning him in further. 

John headed towards the bar, passing small antechambers off the main passage ways. From inside he heard whispers, and saw the odd pair of eyes, some with some very unnatural colorings. None called out to him, or gave him trouble, but he could feel their stares as he passed.

Reaching the bar, the bartender nodded and slid a beer his way. John took a nice, deep gulp, satisfied by the, if he was being generous, cool, carbonated piss. 

Before he could take another one, a voice next to him drew his attention, "John Constantine?"

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, worried it was going to be an ex. Instead he founds someone new. A woman with chocolate skin and a tuft of frizzy hair pulled back into a bun. On her arms, bare in the vest she wore, were swirling tattoos of occult symbols. He though it was a bit much, but he did admit she fit in well here. And yet...she didn't. There was something about her energy. A stiffness to it that he couldn't place.

"Hello, love," he smiled and turned to her. "You the one that sent me the message? Because I have to admit I would not mind having a few more drinks with you."

"Yea, you're Constantine all right," she fished a bifold out of her pocket and flipped it open, the SHIELD logo flashing across his face. There it was. "Agent Pandora Peters, SHIELD."

"Christ, I don't know what someone told you, but I didn't do it," he sighed and took another sip of beer.

"I'm not here for something you did. I'm here for your help," she responded, taking a sip of her own drink, some kind of whiskey according to John's nose. "You came...well I won't say highly recommended."

"Don't you people take care of the super heroics? Not sure what you need with someone like me. Wouldn't Strange or Fate make more sense?" He was already annoyed. What the blazes did SHIELD want with him?

"They...my bosses, that is, don't believe me," Peters sighed. But it wasn't a sad sigh. It was a desperate one. "So I got your name from a friend. But I am not wrong and I am not crazy. I need someone to help me, and if it has to be you, it has to be you."

"Okay, love, enough flattery," he rolled his eyes. "What are you goin on about anyway?"

"I had a vision," she shook her head. "A few weeks ago. I have them, now and again, being psychic and all. Low level. Nothing really special, but it's there. This one was different though. It was just...darkness. Black as black can be. But the screams. The screams never stopped. Screams of pure, unadulterated terror. That's all there was...at least the only thing I could see or hear. But there was something else. A presence. Something that felt like...hunger. Hunger and malice."

John took all this in, listening, drinking, and smoking. Psychics had visions. Some of them meant something. But if what she had seen was true, it meant that something bad was on its way. It was also odd that this was the first he heard of it. Not that he was really plugged in with the psychic community, but still, something like this would cause waves.

"Let's say I believe you," John finished his beer and waved for another one. "Did whoever recommend me tell you about my fee?"

"I work for the government, money isn't an issue," she shook her head.

"Good," he nodded. "Now where do we need to go to start looking for...whatever is going on."

"New Jersey."

"Oh bloody hell."