Byrd Man — Roleplayer Guild

The Underland

John and the man responsible for him being here stood on a hill overlooking the Underland’s version of the city. In real life, a hill like this didn’t exist and the city below had never really existed at any point in Lond's history. The version of London in front of him was a mixture of Victorian Era, Cockney aesthetic, and WW2 Blitz. The old, Gothic buildings mingled with bombed out streets and Union Jack flags drapped on lamp posts and building sides. The real city had never looked like this. But the truth didn’t matter in a place like this.

“You are Jack Hawksmoor’s champion, then?”

“It’s a strong word, don’t know if I’d use it.”

“You come down here to fight his battles, yes? Champion is appropriate. Do you know who I am, John Constantine?”

“I have a fair idea.” John snapped his fingers. A lit cigarette appeared in his hand. “You’re Brutus of Troy, or at least a version of him based on myths. The legendary found of London. Supposedly the first king of Britain.

"They say I didn't really exist."

"But they also say that you did, and that's good enough for the Underland. So, why are you killing Hawksmoor?”

“It’s not active malevolence on my part,” said Brutus. “Just my mere existence has been slowly poisoning his connection to the cities. When a man has cancer, do you blame the tumor?”

“Some sure as fuck do,” said John. “You’ve been down here for thousands of years, yeah? Why are you doing a number on Jack just now?”

“It’s the future people,” said Brutus. “They came to me with an offer. They did something to me. Now, I can be god of the cities if I just wait here a little longer. I slowly kill Jack Hawksmoor and then take his place. I’ve been here for over two millennia, John Constantine. I need to leave, I need to be free.”

John furrowed his brow. Future people? The fuck was he on about? That was when John noticed the faraway, glassy look in Brutus’ eyes. Was it madness? That’s what it looked like to John. But how could he be sure? What was sanity in a place as insane as this one?

"Will you stand in my way, John Constantine?"

“I’m afraid I have to, Squire. I owe Jack a solid and I can’t let you kill him. It's not how mates do each other.”

"Hmmm," a look of amusement flashed in Brutus' eyes. "Your history here in London would beg to differ. So many friends and loved ones you left to die. Why do you think this city openly celebrated when they thought you had died?"

John tossed the stub of his cigarette on the ground before stomping it out with his boot.

“Enough of this shite. If your mere existence is what is killing Jack, then I need to rectify it.”

“Careful.” Brutus raised his hands. “In this place, I am a god.”

The ground around John began to quake and crumble. He jumped into the air just as the ground collapsed beneath him. He flew in the air above Brutus, his hands glowing red with red magical energy. John suppressed a smile. Maybe this is what it felt like to be one of those bloody cape-wearing superheroes.

“Well, I may not be a god,” John said as he shot bolts of magic from his hands at Brutus. “But I can sure as fuck put up a good fight.”

---

The Tate Club

Clarice felt panic blooming in her chest at the sight of John Constantine’s body. The body, which had been prone on the floor for nearly an hour, was now twitching violently. Albert had broke away from the ritual to place a wooden spoon in Constantine’s mouth. Clarice had no idea what the hell was going on down there, but it wasn’t looking good.

“Jack!” Map cried out.

Hawksmoor joined Constantine on the floor. The god fell to his knees and began a hacking cough that sprayed blood across the ballroom floor. Clarice felt the urge to go to him, but she couldn’t. That would be yet another person drawn away from the ritual. With Hawksmoor out, now only Map was feeding the magic of the city down to Constantine.

“Fuck,” Clarice cried. “Albert! Get on the phone and call John’s cabbie friend. We’re going to need his help after all.”
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