Roman

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

With Absolute Hellblazer Issue #10 we conclude the story I set out to tell of this version of John Constantine and his journey toward the Laughing Magician title he's known for.

I want to thank @Half Pint for accepting my sheet early on and letting me just play in my weird, depresso little corner writing my weird, depresso little story, and also @Lord Wraith for coming up with the Absolute Hellblazer graphic featured on the header of my posts. Also thank you to the many of you who read along with me and provided no end of kind and encouraging words (you know who you are), most of which I remain unconvinced I deserve.

Some of you already know, but I've had this Constantine story knocking about for at least six years now, so being able to finally get it all down and out, especially to a guaranteed audience - even if there are still elements I'm not entirely happy with (will anyone ever be 100% happy with their own work?) - has been massively enjoyable, extremely cathartic, and revived a passion for writing and story-telling that had previously fizzled out. The experiment was certainly a success, and I've had plenty of ideas spilling out of my very strange-feeling head about what I might go on to do next, whether here, elsewhere, or off the Guild entirely.

My sheet's post catalogue is now updated with the full arc and even post titles! To those who've read along, or are just picking it up, I welcome criticism, complaints, or compliments. It's listed in the character tab, but for those extra-lazy (like me!) I will also link it here for convenience. You might even notice a sneakily-updated faceclaim for John while you're there!

To everyone else, thank you for having me; I think at this stage, I will gracefully bow out of the game, having completed what I set out to do, and plink away at other ideas and concepts or even something original. I wish you all the very best.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

_{Location: Hell}

#1.10

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

"You know, John, I have lived for over forty-nine thousand years. Nearly fifty centuries stretch out behind me. I've walked Earth since the first great cradle of civilisation and seen nearly everything there is to see upon that rock. But over the course of those millenia, I think I have learnt one lesson above all others: humans are so surprising."

Nergal crept forwards out of the dark, appearing with no more aplomb than a vulture landing softly beside a starving man. He bore a wicked smile, and leant over John's dead body to neatly pluck the bloodstained cross and rosary from what remained of his ragged throat.
"So dramatic of you, John, but I can't deny its efficacy." He mused, running a black tongue across the surface of the wooden icon, lapping up John's blood. Nergal sighed, sated and satisfied. "That Constantine vintage does have such a uniqueness to it."
All the while, John watched on with a faint spectral awareness; he perceived Nergal simultaneously looming over him like a fat child over a freshly-opened packet of crisps, and also from behind the demon, regarding his unfurled wings and flicking tail and the way he stooped and twitched his fingers in anticipation. Nergal hadn't let a single second go to waste - John's corpse was still warm, rivulets of blood still trickling from his throat down his chest and face, staining his features with streaks of crimson until John could barely recognize himself. Oddly, John found himself compelled to speak, drawing breath into ethereal lungs and producing sound from lips that did not move.
"Quick on the draw, Nergal."
Nergal smiled wider, continuing to address the cadaver even as the words echoed around him from all directions and none.
"Oh, hello Johnny. Good to see you're still with us for the foreseeable. Hell is tricky in that way. Yes, I never miss my opportunity; though you've done far better than I expected. Family is oh-so-complicated, isn't it? I think you'd know more that more than most by now."

𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊 𝕀𝕊 𝔹𝕌𝕋 𝔸 𝕄𝕀ℕ𝕆ℝ 𝕊𝔼𝕋𝔹𝔸ℂ𝕂-

"Do pack it in. You've no horse left in the race now; the prodigal son has been slain by the other prodigal son. A nice straight-forward gambit played out well, and now you've got nothing. You're just a pack of ghosts."

𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕃𝔸𝕌𝔾ℍ𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝕄𝔸𝔾𝕀ℂ𝕀𝔸ℕ 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℝ𝕀𝕊𝔼 𝕐𝔼𝕋-

"Hell is tired of you, dears. We've our own machinations to be getting on with. Now, do fuck off. I've business to attend to."
Nergal clapped his hands in two short sharp raps, and there was a strange slurping, sucking sound; and then a pop in John's dead ears as the atmosphere shifted, and he was left with the feeling of a sudden absence.

"So what now?" John asked, feeling lighter and lighter by the minute. The blood flowing from his body's neck had finally ceased, and now what little heat remained in his cadaver was leeching out into the ground. Nergal rubbed his hands together greedily.
"Oh, quite simple, John. I collect, and that's the end of the whole mess. I'm impressed with how far you came, I have to admit; I'm almost tempted to grant you reprieve. Ah, alas - a deal is a deal."
"Certainly is," John replied, non-chalant, "and I don't want anyone saying I don't make good on my debts. So - here you go. One Constantine soul."

Nergal licked his lips, bending low and repeating once more the brushing motion across John's body like he'd done so with Gary's on the bridge, so many lifetimes ago - and came away with a misshapen, speckled, dimly-lit orb of...something. Nergal inspected it, and his features lost the slimy smile he'd been sporting, his expression twisting into one of contemptuous rage.
"What do you think you're doing?!" He demanded, and somewhere off in the distance, John picked up the grin Nergal had discarded.
"I promised a Constantine soul, musha. Not mine. Jacob's is as perfectly good as the next one - take it or leave it. Maybe if you'd had the good sense to be a little more precise..." John replied, revelling in parroting Nergal's facetiousness back at him in this small moment of triumph.

Nergal raged. Apoplexy took him over, and he thrashed about, flailing his limbs and clawing the ground and tearing the trees of the grove up by their roots. He slammed a fist against the stone block Cheryl had laid upon mere moments ago, and the entire thing split in half, sundered by the force of the blow. The demon slumped over the cleaved rock, furious and beaten. He heaved breaths in and out, and eventually raised his head to look at John's body over the lip of the slap with a terrible wicked gleam in his eye; slowly, carefully, he drew himself up, marching on the corpse with malevolence in his gait.
"Think you're clever, do you? Think because you're a Constantine and you got one over on your disgusting undead fetus of a brother you can play hopscotch with Hell? You are a speck, John Constantine, and you are playing with powers far, far above your station."
"We made a deal. We both made good on the terms set out."
"Undoubtedly. A bargain struck and a debt paid. But you're dead, Johnny-boy, and you've got a litany of missteps on your soul that He does not look kindly on. Suicide. Murder. Another suicide. So debt paid or not, you'll find that you're due down here, and if you're going to insist on being so insolent about it, I think I'll just ferry everything along and take what's mine in the process. After all - what can you do to stop me?"
"Not much," John admitted, watching Nergal raise himself to full height, splaying his wings in a show of force, brandishing a vicious claw to strike John's spirit down for good, once and for all, and claim it as his own, absconding with it into the dark corners of Hell to inflict atrocity after atrocity upon it as due recompensive for perceived slights...except none of that happened. Instead, there was the briefest of flashes through Nergal's upright figure, and he made an odd, strangled, throttled coughing nose; and then his body peeled apart from tip to taint, bile and blood splashing out of the newly-bifurcated halves. Mammon rose out of the mud, ooze already scouring itself from his distinct scarlet hide, those golden spikes already shining through. In his hand he hefted a magnificent greatsword, gilded and jewel-encrusted and as wide and tall as John was himself.
"He might have something to say, though."

Mammon picked one half of Nergal from where it had collapsed in the muck and regarded it with open disdain, an expression matched by the bisection of Nergal's face as the singular eye whipped around to spy its slayer.
"Most ill-mannered miscreant," Mammon rebuked, carefully running the edge of his blade between the skin and flesh of the portion he held. "Even in the bowels of Hell, a bargain struck must be duly honoured. 'Tis the only thing left that remains holy. Befoul my kingdom no longer, wretch."
The blade finished its smooth motion, cleaving Nergal's hide from his body, and Mammon dropped the flayed muscle back in the dirt as he began to fashion his leathery skin between delicate claws. Once finished, Mammon held a longcoat out before him; the mud had stained Nergal's once soft-red skin an earthy, clay-like tan, and when Mammon concluded inspecting his work he nodded satisfactorily.

John watched him cautiously from his diaphanous, far-off hiding place, feeling the call of some deeper misery pulling him away, try as he might to resist; and then Mammon snapped his fingers again, and there was a powerful wrenching sensation, something seizing upon the absolute base foundations of John's very being - and then he woke up, dragging air desperately into his lungs in great ragged breaths through the tear in his throat that gurgled and spasmed as it knitted itself back together. John sat up, shaky and disconcerted, wary of Mammon. Mammon simply tossed him the coat.
"Thou hast impressed and amused me two-fold, John Constantine. Once with thy promised vanquishing of thine detestable kin, and once more with thine trickery of Nergal. Rare is the human who gambols with devils and exits favourably. Thou hast truly blazed through Hell like so few before thee."
John sat in the mud, pulling the coat on over his cold, sodden arms. It sat comfortable and warm against his skin, exuding a faint sense of bolstering. From the inside pocket, an eyeless lid batted fruitlessly back at him.
"So what's the deal? Back to life and a new coat to say, 'thanks for kicking those arseholes out my front yard'?"
It was, but Mammon would never admit it.
"Believe what thou wilt. I need give no reason." He replied, in a tone that told John not to question him further. John was more than happy to oblige, not wanting to look a gift demon in the mouth. "Thou art still stained in your soul, John Constantine, and bound hither when next your fate arrives; of that, Nergal didst spake truth. But until then - there hast ne'er been a Laughing Magician so entertaining. Thine predecessors were all so frightfully dull. If thou art to be truly the last of thy line - Hell would benefit from what trouble thou canst yet conjure."
"Then I'll thank you once again, Lord Mammon." John answered, aware he'd pushed his luck as far as it would go. "You have been most gracious."
"Indeed. My magnanimity hast reached its boundaries. Get thee gone, wastrel; I wouldst say thine business here is concluded, and mine with it. Shouldst we meet once more, be assured - I shalt not indulge thee thusly again."

And with that, Mammon clapped; John blinked; and when his eyes fluttered open, he was back on the bridge, having returned from Hell with a coat, a scar, and a sister once more.

---

_{^{TWO WEEKS LATER}}
John, Cheryl, and Chas all sat around Chas' kitchen table in his flat in London, steam drifting up from each of their mugs, fresh tea cooling off in the ambient air. On the countertop next to the kettle sat a small ceramic urn filled with ashes. John felt a squeeze around his fingers as his gaze lingered on it, his sister reaching across to him. He dropped his eyes from it and looked at her instead, taking in every pore of her soft, warm features. In the two weeks since she'd woken back up on the bridge in Chas' arms, she'd been struggling to re-adjust, as well as re-align with all that had happened in her two years away; yet, slowly but surely, she was coming back to reality, able to leave the flat and be among people again, even if John made it a point to never let her out of his sight. She couldn't blame him for it. His story had been bizarre and difficult to swallow at first, but Chas corroborated as much of it as he could, and the rest of the tale John told with such solemn conviction that Cheryl didn't have it in her heart to disbelieve him. The scars across his neck and the coat that never left his back both seemed to endorse his apparent odyssey, and from what little he'd revealed about those two peculiarities, Cheryl was reluctant to probe further. Fragments of awful feelings and memories flitted through her mind when she did, and down that path lay Ravenscar. She was just happy to be home again; happy to know he'd never given up on her. Happy to see him again.

The wistful smile that had crept across her face as she'd looked over John faded as he pulled his hand back, cradling his mug with both palms and clearing his throat. His eyes fell to stare at his wrists as he began difficult, painful words.
"When it was teenage practitioners asking for sigiled autographs, or dumb yanks in suits begging for a quick transmutation, or even some half-breed with a few choice swear words, it was almost funny. A bit of notoriety. Splashing the surface of a new pool and seeing what came up to check out the ripples. But today...today an honest-to-God devil, no half-anything about it, came to me with a message from Nergal. And when you're wearing the skin of the demon that's sent someone to deliver a threat - it's no longer funny. It's something we need to take seriously. It's something I should have been taking seriously."

It had been almost enjoyable on first return; John's escapade and the things he'd come back with - trophies, titles, knowledge of hidden things - had illuminated a secret world previously darkened to him, a new layer and depth revealed that made everything seem so alive in a way he'd not thought possible before. Mammon naming him as some historically-significant figure certainly hadn't hurt, either; who would turn their nose up if they'd landed in some strange and fantastical new land, much like their old world but not quite, and at the same time some mighty king had declared them powerful and famous? John was but a man, and could not help himself revelling in it, even if just a little bit. But then, that devil had approached him with horrible intent, bearing a vengeful portent from Nergal and it had been like sinking into an ice bath. The mantle of the Laughing Magician was not merely one of fame; it bore with it a target pointed squarely at his head, and today he had been reminded that he'd already made at least one powerful enemy, and more than likely had inherited several more.

"So what's your point, Johnny?" Chas asked, taking measured sips from his mug while he watched John over the rim with a careful gaze. John met his stare, equally steady.
"I'm dangerous. I've got a target on my back, and I don't think anyone - anything - coming after me is going to care about collateral damage. I'm a bomb. I've got a blast radius. And you two are both in it."
The three of them shifted uncomfortably as John paused and looked pointedly at the urn on the counter. Even before his jaunt, John's curse had claimed one of their number already. The silence was clear; he wasn't about to risk what was left.
"I should have a say in this," Cheryl announced. "You spent two years ruining yourself coming after me, and now you, what, want me and Chas to hit the road? Or fuck off yourself and leave us behind? We're meant to help you, John. Protect you. That's what friends do."
John smiled. God, he loved her.
"You spent seventeen years protecting me, Cheryl. Ever since the first night Dad brought me home. I think it's my turn now. I spent all that time searching for you and I found you. I can't accept, after all that, that I might be responsible for you getting hurt. Even accidentally."
Chas huffed, and both Constantines looked at him.
"What's even your plan? You can't just tell us to fuck off. This is my flat. And if you think you're gonna start living rough again I will drag you back here. Unconscious if I have to."
John chuckled, but he knew Chas was serious.
"I've scraped every account I've ever had. Pooled all my cash. Pumped the last out of my UC payments. Even got into some of Dad's money, which I really hope he's going ballistic about somewhere. And I bought myself a ticket."

John put a hand in the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small white envelope. He opened it up and fished out the contents, laying it in the center of the table: a one-way plane ticket from Heathrow to New York City. It was leaving tomorrow.
"Oh, you bastard." Cheryl said, exasperated. Chas raised an eyebrow.
"How were you planning on getting to Heathrow with no money left?" He asked. John cleared his throat, seeming to shrink in his seat.
"Well, uh, I um, I thought you might be able to give me a lift...?" He answered sheepishly. Chas huffed again, and then stuck his hand in his own jacket pocket; in one quick motion, like playing a game of cards, he slapped his own ticket down on top of John's.
"You ain't as slick as you think, fancy title or no."
"Oh, you bastard!" Cheryl yelled. "And what the bloody fuck am I supposed to do?"
Chas stood up, walking to the front door of the flat and unhooking his keys from a little rack that hung on the wall. He tossed them to Cheryl, who fumbled as she caught them and then looked dumbfoundedly back up at Chas.
"As the only one of us who got a job after everything went to fuck two years ago, I had savings. Last week I paid a year upfront and stuck your name on the lease. John's got a right to protect you, but that doesn't mean the little spunk-stain can't have anyone to look out for him."

Cheryl stood wordlessly and moved to hug Chas, who welcomed her in with outstretched arms. After a moment, John stood up too, and the three of them embraced quietly, no more words needed.

---

♫

The next day, John and Chas hefted hastily-packed rucksacks over their shoulders as they scanned the departures board for their gate number. Cheryl sat quietly nearby, picking nervously at the skin around her fingernails while she bounced a leg.
"There it is," Chas said, breaking the tension. "B47. We're up."

This was it. John exhaled a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. Beyond the glass walls of the terminal building, the sun was beginning to set, and John couldn't stop the feeling that the light was fading from a life he'd only half-lived for twenty years, and would now never have the chance to do properly. Beside him, Cheryl stood up, and though John had tried to steel himself, the wetness in her eyes as he turned cracked through him until, in all of a single deleterious second, they were sobbing in each other's embrace.

"H-harder than I th-thought it'd be." John choked out, and Cheryl just squeezed him in response. He squeezed back, and in that moment, focused for an instant; between them, something ethereal and invisible snapped, a hidden tether severed and cast away. Synchronicity - the silent power of the Laughing Magician. Without having to worry about causality, Cheryl would be safe. She could be happy.
"No one's finding you now unless you want them to. You'll be safe. For good." He said, pressing his forehead against hers. She nodded and wiped her cheeks.
"I'll miss you two." She said. John felt a hand on his shoulder.
"We'd better not miss it." Chas said, and John nodded.

On the steps up to the cabin, John looked back, just for a second, to the window at the terminal gate. Cheryl waved, and for a tiny calamitous moment, John was seized with the overwhelming urge to dive from the stairs, hit the tarmac, drop his bag and sprint from here back into the building, see her one last time, give her one last hug, share with her one last goodbye; and then someone walked in front of her, and once they passed, she was gone.
"C'mon, Houdini." Chas said, stood above him up the steps at the cabin door, holding a hand out. "Let's go."
"Alright, mate." John, answered, taking the hand offered in his own. "Let's go."

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

If Micki were to step down as Batman I'd rather I take on the role and make it a team sheet since my Robin's directly connected to the story and character already written.

@King Kindred

Considering your last Gotham Academy post was over three weeks again this feels less like a solution and more like just replacing the person not posting as Batman with a different person also not posting as Batman.

Also I'm a no for a game discord, I can't farm laugh reacts in chat.

In general though I don't have a horse in any race, really. I've been completely non-interactive the whole game, and I have one more post to finish until Absolute Hellblazer is complete and I'm left trying to figure out what I want to do, if I want to do anything anyway.

Roman's Scrapbin

Season 2 haunted house murder mystery time loop shenanigans use Astra make John get himself stuck in the loop going after her to save her after accidentally condemning her to it

Roman's Scrapbin

Canon for reference
Nuala was sent as a gift by Auberon and Titania to Dream of the Endless on a diplomatic mission to entreat Dream’s help in closing Hell. Nuala believed once her mission was over she’d return home, but truthfully no one believed the mission would succeed and when her brother Cluracan visited her he informed her that Titania would not accept rejection of the gift, whether or not Dream lent his assistance, and so Nuala would never be able to return home.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Oh geez, we're really in the Avengers: Endgame^TM (out now on streaming services near you!) now Mr. Krabs.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

_{Location: Hell}

#1.09

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

Beyond the boundaries of Mammon's court the mud grew thick and hard and crusted over until the bog disappeared and in its place lay a dry and barren salt flat, sterile and dead, not even the insects and plants of Earth's deserts present to breathe tiny life into its colourless, desolate plains. Dust kicked up around John's boots with each step and the muck caked to his clothes and skin and hair was finally beginning to dry out, cracking and flaking and bringing with it a new itchy, chapped sensation, a fresh discomfort. Hell never let up. Ahead of him, the wolf-fiend padded along, its misshapen form heaving left and right, naked flesh slapping against the dirt as it lead him on a merry hunt, occasionally stooping over awkwardly to sniff and snort in the dirt with its lupine snout before pivoting direction. All the while it paused regularly to look back at John, regarding him with beady black eyes, almost salivating. John was very sure that only Mammon's word was preventing him from being wholly devoured.

The ruined cathedral that housed Mammon's court, crumbling yet still ostentatious and intimidating, had now shrunk from view behind them completely, and with its disappearance John now felt truly untethered from even tenuously 'recognizable' landscape. In absence of landmarks and features and flora the very ground began to crack and split open, fractures in the dry mud growing and deepening into fissures that rent the earth asunder, opening to further depths below them until all that remained were the chasms and ravines plunging into an inescapable darkness. The wolf-fiend was treading around the edge of one rupture, its nose twitching and sniffing feverishly at the surface of its depths. John caught up and peered carefully over the lip, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness and discern even some minute detail; alas, the blackness was impenetrable. He could see nothing. The wolf-fiend stilled and pointed down - the meaning was clear.
"You're joking, right? I'm not bloody Bear Grylls, mate."
The wolf-fiend stayed pointing, but it added a snarl to the mix by way of motivation. Its bared fangs dripped with appetite.
"Alright. Heard." John said, morose, and they began their descent.

---

The deeper they descended the more John felt a terrible sense of dread pooling in his stomach and clogging up his windpipe until it felt like it was going to spill from his mouth. A keening fear, sharp and potent, accompanied by the undeniable feeling of deja vu; these dark cliff faces were familiar beneath his ragged palms, and as they approached the ground at the very bottom of the ravine the feeling only compounded itself exponentially. When John's boots finally touched slick black earth his knees almost buckled beneath him as terror gripped every facet of his mind. He strained, listening, expecting a sound but finding none. There was no thudding left down here; no further butchery needed. As they walked, John knew what to look for before they could even see, before the darkness parted and a singular soft glow broke through the gloom like a lighthouse atop a rocky shore, and indeed once illuminated there it was, John's dreams revealed as premonitions, his fright now justified: a grove. A circle of burnt and blackened trees. A mound of soil, writhing with insects and the carcasses of small, torn-up animals. The block. Oh, God, the block.

ℍ𝔼𝕃𝕃𝕆 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ. 𝕎𝔼 ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼 𝔹𝔼𝔼ℕ 𝕎𝔸𝕀𝕋𝕀ℕ𝔾.

An invisible force seized John's entire body and pulled him inexorably forward. He struggled, leaning away and trying desperately to turn back but he was dragged all the same, his heels gouging lines in the dirt as the trees and the mound and the block grew closer, closer, ever closer; there was a canine whimper to his side and John turned his head to see the wolf-fiend being dragged along beside him, thrashing and barking and snarling to no avail. As they approached the block, John and the wolf began to rise into the air, now free-floating and removed from all purchase, unable to reach or grasp anything that might offer resistance to the compelling force that directed them forward. This close, John could see a figure lying on its back upon the slab, a dirtied white shroud draped over their form. Their chest rose and fell softly in a slow rhythm, but otherwise they displayed no movement except for a subtle and disturbing writhing and distention across the surface of their belly. John's heart simultaneously broke and soared. This was her. He'd finally actually found Cheryl.

𝕎ℍ𝔸𝕋 𝕀𝕊 𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊 𝔹𝕃𝕆𝕆𝔻-ℍ𝕆𝕌ℕ𝔻? 𝕄𝔸ℕ'𝕊 𝔹𝔼𝕊𝕋 𝔽ℝ𝕀𝔼ℕ𝔻, 𝕆ℝ 𝔸 𝕄𝕆ℂ𝕂𝔼ℝ𝕐 ℙ𝔼ℝℍ𝔸ℙ𝕊?

John hung restrained in the air as the wolf-fiend slowly drifted closer still to the grove, inspected by a hundred invisible eyes. Its growls and barks petered out and changed to discomforting, frightened whining, and then to pained yelps and finally a repulsive, disturbing wet gurgle as spit and blood dripped from its jaws as its body cracked and folded in on itself, ankles forced backwards until the soles of its feet hit its calves, then the knees snapping the wrong way and tucking shins into thighs, legs splaying and splitting sideways as they parcelled up against its torso; all the while its arms mirrored the horrific manipulations and finally, when it was all done and every joint and bone twisted and snapped and sundered, skin torn under the pressure of impossible movements and severed arteries gushing forth - the wolf alive and screaming through every second - its head turned and turned and turned, a cork turning on the screw, more flesh rupturing, more blood spilled, until the entire thing came loose with a wet tear and a pop. The body went limp and collapsed beneath the head still aloft, crumpling to the ground below, askew and discarded like a ragdoll, completely unrecognizable as its once-humanoid form in the wreckage it had become. The head spluttered its last and ceased, spine dangling beneath like some red-stained ivory necktie. It too dropped, rolling and tumbling away into the darkness. John vomited down himself.

𝕆ℕ𝔼 𝕆𝔽 𝕄𝔸𝕄𝕄𝕆ℕ'𝕊 𝕋𝕆𝕐𝕊. 𝔸 ℙ𝔸𝕋ℍ𝔼𝕋𝕀ℂ ℙ𝔼𝕋 𝔽𝕆ℝ 𝔸 ℙ𝔸𝕋ℍ𝔼𝕋𝕀ℂ ℂℝ𝔼𝔸𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼.

Whatever was commanding his body, John now felt the full pressure of its attention fall upon him. He felt flush, suddenly sweating in fear. Damp warmth spread across the groin of his trousers.

ℂ𝕆𝕄𝔼, 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ. 𝕄𝔼𝔼𝕋 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝔹ℝ𝕆𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕆ℕ𝔼 𝕎ℍ𝕆 𝕊ℍ𝕆𝕌𝕃𝔻-ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼-𝔹𝔼𝔼ℕ.

John began to float down, drawn towards the block and the shrouded figure. He tried to resist, desperate to struggle and thrash and flail as he was pulled near, but his legs remained stiff, his arms pinned to his sides. Only his eyes spun wildly in their sockets, searching this way and that for whatever hands now dominated it.
"Don't! Don't fold me up like the wolf Jesus Christ please-"

ℍ𝕌𝕊ℍ, 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ. 𝕎𝔼 𝕊ℍ𝔸ℕ'𝕋. 𝕎𝔼 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝕍𝔼𝕊𝕊𝔼𝕃 𝕀ℕ𝕋𝔸ℂ𝕋.

The writhing beneath Cheryl's stomach grew wilder and more twisting, as if whatever snaked through her belly now became more and more impatient. John caught a glimpse of some gaunt, all-too-familiar face imprinted through the skin and against the shroud, and shut his eyes, screwing them closed tight until they hurt, willing the image to disappear from his mind; when he reopened them, the shifting roiling madness in his sister's flesh was moving, pathing upwards from her belly past her lungs - horrible popping sounds bursting from her sternum as it crawled up her ribs - pushing bones and blood vessels aside to finally come to a rest at her throat, wrapped around her esophagus. Cheryl's whole body spasmed, and then one hand seized the edge of the block in a white-knuckle grip before she rose, unsteady, the shroud covering her still but falling across her features as she sat up, some grim parody of a sheet-ghost, instead creating the effect of a macabre death mask over her obscured face. She drew a pained, rattling breath, and then spoke in a nightmarish blend John would never forget.
"Hello, brother." Said Jacob through their sister's mouth. "I have been waiting a long time to meet you properly."
Even through the shroud, John was close enough to smell Jacob's breath, stinking of death and rot.

ℕ𝕀ℕ𝔼𝕋𝔼𝔼ℕ 𝕐𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕊. 𝕐𝔼𝕋, 𝕄𝔸ℕ𝕐 𝕄𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝕊ℙ𝔼ℕ𝕋 𝕀ℕ ℙ𝕃𝔸ℕℕ𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝔹𝔼𝔽𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝔹𝕀ℝ𝕋ℍ.

"And my death at your hands. Did you enjoy it? Did it make you happy? Do you even remember?"
John floundered, unable to answer.
"I remember. Choking in the warm dark wet. Spat out of our dying mother. A corpse birthing a corpse. You're cursed, John. You've always been cursed. Even since conception."

ℍ𝔼 ℍ𝔸𝕊 𝔸ℝℝ𝕀𝕍𝔼𝔻 𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕃𝕀𝔼ℝ 𝕋ℍ𝔸ℕ ℙ𝕃𝔸ℕℕ𝔼𝔻. ℕ𝔼ℝ𝔾𝔸𝕃 𝕎𝔸𝕊 𝔸 𝔻𝕀𝕊𝔸ℙℙ𝕆𝕀ℕ𝕋𝕄𝔼ℕ𝕋 𝔹𝕌𝕋 𝕎𝔼 ℝ𝔼𝕄𝔸𝕀ℕ 𝕌ℕ𝕀𝕄ℙ𝔼𝔻𝔼𝔻 𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕊𝔸𝕄𝔼. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕃𝔸𝕌𝔾ℍ𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝕄𝔸𝔾𝕀ℂ𝕀𝔸ℕ 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℝ𝕀𝕊𝔼 𝔸𝔾𝔸𝕀ℕ.

"Yes. Your intrusion in an inconvenience at worst, just for the effort spent in holding you. Sooner than we'd planned for, and Gary certainly was useless in the end, but I suppose you've solved that little hiccup for us. No more subtlety; no more shadow manipulations. Now we have all the pieces, and all that's left to do is fit them together."
Jacob laughed in a low, throaty chuckle, relishing every moment.
"Isn't it exciting, John? Death isn't so bad. You'll have plenty of time to get used to it. Just like I did."

Pain erupted across John's body. Christ, it was like nothing he'd ever felt; no beating from Thomas or scalding shower at Ravenscar or self-destructive blade across his thigh could compare. Hidden needles pierced his organs, bypassing the skin directly to sink deep into the soft flesh within his body; a thousand stings and slivers, like swallowing shards of glass - spines pushing through bone into the very marrow itself, tearing at him in his most hidden and intimate places. He grit his teeth until they began to crack, the agony simple and pure and too much to even yell out or writhe; no, to express his suffering would be a way to cope, a way to alleviate it, and this was something Jacob would not allow. Sweat poured from his skin and he began to feel like he would go into convulsions, but still the black-and-white strobe behind his eyes offered no relief - any seizure his body threw in response he was made to feel in full consciousness. There would be no passing out, no simple lapsing into blackness, nor would the pain kill him through shock, even as his heart pushed past the cusp of bursting. Jacob just hurt him in a singular, clarified way. Pain. Pain. Pain.

ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝔽𝕌ℕ. 𝔻𝕆 ℕ𝕆𝕋 𝕂𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℍ𝕀𝕄. ℕ𝕆𝕎 𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕎𝔼 𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋 𝔻𝕆 𝕀𝕊 𝕎𝔸𝕀𝕋.

Cheryl- Jacob- the dead twin wearing the skin of the sister - whatever the body was now, it whipped its head around, the shroud fluttering and rippling with the movement. It addressed the unseen voices, its own words brimming with impatience and outrage.
"Wait? I have spent nineteen years waiting! What is there left to do? Everything has aligned. He's here, now! We have everything we need! We only have to flush him out and let me be put in. This is it! This is what it's all been for!"

ℕ𝕆. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℕ𝕆𝕋 ℝ𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋. 𝕐𝕆𝕌 ℝ𝔼ℚ𝕌𝕀ℝ𝔼 𝕄𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝔾ℝ𝕆𝕎𝕋ℍ 𝕐𝔼𝕋; 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝕊𝕀𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ'𝕊 𝕊ℙ𝕀ℝ𝕀𝕋 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℕ𝕌ℝ𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝕌ℕ𝕋𝕀𝕃 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝔸ℝ𝔼 ℝ𝔼𝔸𝔻𝕐.

"NO! We do this now! You give me this now!"

The pain eased off, even slightly, even for a second, enough for John to breathe and let his vision return and think. Jacob was in the fits of pique, thrashing Cheryl's body about, the skin twisting and raging as he ravaged through her flesh, seeming for all appearances to be in the throes of a tantrum. He ranted furiously, hurling curses and abuse; he was demented, out of his mind. He was at the cusp of everything, and being flatly denied in his fated moment.
"Near two decades I have spent as a wastrel! A wretch! An ethereal nothing, scheming and plotting and waiting, always waiting! Two years I have supped from my sister, nursed from her - what could be left?! What alignment remains?! Transform me! Deliver me! You'll deny my destiny no longer - now hand it to me!"

ℕ𝕆. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕊𝕀𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ'𝕊 𝕊ℙ𝕀ℝ𝕀𝕋 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℕ𝕌ℝ𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌, 𝕌ℕ𝕋𝕃 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℝ𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋.

A single, terrible, inevitable idea popped into John's head.
"What if my soul fed you?!" He blurted out, and Jacob ceased in his frenzy, attention returning to John. The pain ebbed, but did not stop. From beneath the shroud, Jacob breathed heavily, hungrily.
"What if you didn't empty me out? What if I let you in, and you took the vessel you wanted, but without needing to wait?"

𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℕ𝕆 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻. 𝕎𝔼 𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋 𝕆ℕ𝕃𝕐 𝕎𝔸𝕀-
"Quiet!" Barked Jacob, before replying to John. "Why would you do that, after all this effort and coming all this way to kill me, again?!"
The pain ratcheted back up, Jacob vindictive and angry and venting his frustration on John's body. Through gritted teeth, John tried to answer.
"Didn't...come here to kill you...only came to save. Cheryl. Eat my spirit...don't need hers. Can let her go!"

𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℕ𝕆 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻.
"I said shut up!"
Slowly, very slowly, Jacob lifted one of Cheryl's hands - bruised, scraped, knuckles split and nail caked in filth - and pulled the shroud off. John screwed his eyes shut once more, unwilling to let the first sight of his lost sister after two years searching be her piloted by this evil creature masquerading as his brother. He felt her- him- it creep close, rancid breath hot on his cheek.
"You would do this? For her?"
"Swear...to return her...unharmed. Back to bridge...where she can be found."
𝕎𝔼 ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼 𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼 𝕀ℕ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻.
"Why shouldn't I wait, and just get what I want anyway?" Jacob hissed. He was holding back, but John could feel him being reeled in.
"Nineteen years...in the pits of Hell. Ever...eaten? Drank? Had...a beer, a ciggie? Treated yourself...to a wank?"
Jacob licked his lips. He began to softly pant, appetites of all description igniting in his core.
"I'm all of that...and more, Jakey boy. Get some...rain on your skin. Take a dip in the...river. Have a stroll in the sunshine."
𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℂ𝕆𝕄𝔼 𝕎𝕀𝕋ℍ ℙ𝔸𝕋𝕀𝔼ℕℂ𝔼.
"I just return Cheryl, and you let me in? Right now?"

With herculean effort and his eyes still screwed shut, straining against chains he could not see but felt heavily, John pushed a hand out toward Jacob.
"You let Cheryl go free...I let you in. And you walk out of Hell...tonight."
Jacob dragged a rough tongue up John's face, laughing in a sinister murmur that gave John goosebumps.
Everyone has an angle.
𝕀𝕋 𝕀𝕊 𝔸 𝕋ℝ𝔸-
Jacob seized his brother's outstretched hand.
"Deal."

---

A light drizzle had settled across Liverpool, slicking the ground and muffling all sound, even if ever-so-slightly on both fronts. It wasn't a particularly cold night, but the rain didn't exactly warm Chas as he came to, sprawled out across the Runcorn Railway Bridge. He head hurt and he felt groggy, but other than that his lungs breathed and his heart beat and his body moved with minimal protest as he dragged his arms underneath him and pushed up, unsteady at first but quickly getting his bearings back as he got to his feet. Headache aside, he felt alright; he surveyed the bridge again, thinking there was something he was forgetting. Something important. His eyes fell to Gary's still body, and it all came crashing back to him.
"John?!" He called out. Vague recollections swam around his head - some odd, uncanny stranger poring over Gary, John scrambling on his knees towards them - but he was alone now, just him and the corpse. He sighed, that deep sadness settling back in as his gaze lingered on his old friend's dead body.

He turned to look down the bridge. He assumed no one had passed by already - one corpse and one unconscious man were tricky to ignore, even in these callous times (or so he hoped, at least) - but there remained the slim risk someone still might. The night had plenty of hours left to wile away before sunrise, and there was no telling what else it might yet have in store. Chas couldn't see anyone currently, and he hoped it would stay that way. He still didn't have a better idea than dropping Gary into the river, but now that the panic and the terrible moment had passed, he was no longer sure he could stomach such an ignoble end for one of his oldest friends, regardless of however wretchedly it had all ended. He pivoted on his feet to look the other way, just to make sure they were safe from both directions, at least for now, to make sure he had some time to think and plan and figure out where the fucking hell John had gone-

There was another figure lying prone on the bridge a little ways down, just outside of the pools of light provided by the barely-there bulbs. Chas rushed over, worried that it was John, that he'd found a similar fate to Gary, that after two years and a return to this bridge he'd finally gone and bloody done it while Chas was out cold...

He slowed as he approached and began to make out details and features. Chas couldn't help but drop to his knees at the figure's head, dragging their unconscious body into his lap and overflowing with joy to see the soft rise-and-fall of their chest and feel the shallow pumping of their steady pulse in the skin at their wrist. Chas couldn't believe his eyes, and soon he couldn't see out of them either as tears welled up and spilled over. The drops splashed down onto the figure's face, whose eyes flickered and slowly opened, peering up at Chas.

"Fr...Francis?" She croaked out, her voice hoarse and quiet.
"Hi, Cheryl." Chas replied, and then he just held her for a while as they wept.

---

I am curled into a fetal ball, spinning and kicking aimlessly in a void of soft-light nothingness. I cannot see - my senses are blinded, numbed - but all around me, pressing against my skin, I feel the presence of another.

Everything is dark and John feels too full. Claustrophobic in his own body; not enough space to stretch out. Something else filled the space, pushing and needling him. Nudges and prodding became shoves and elbows and then blows were raining down upon him, accompanied by quick-flash stabs from an invisible blade. Jacob was relentless in his assault, and John summoned every last ounce of strength he had to raise a bulwark against his brother. Jacob railed against him, bringing forth all the hatred and anger and envy the dead twin had harbored for the last nineteen years, two decades of wrath and ambition and the poisonous prophecy of the Laughing Magician whispered in his ear bolstering his fury. He wailed at John, feral raving about his destiny, promised power, the deal struck between brothers. John didn't want to lose himself, but Cheryl was safe, spirited out of Hell back to Earth, the deed done, the mission complete. He could feel his soul slipping away. The sense of his own body started to fade, growing distant from him like his limbs were stretching out. Jacob was slithering into the cracks, worming his way in around John's receding edges. He was pulling the body on like a glove, sliding his fingers into place, gliding across the surface of John's diminishing will like oil on water to seep into the spaces left behind. The battle between the brothers raged and John knew, slowly, surely, steadily second by second, that he was losing. His false deal and sly intentions didn't matter; Jacob was simply mightier than him, and he supped on John's soul from a gilded cup to replenish his own.

Quietly, John accepted that these were his last moments. The plan had failed. He'd struck the bargain and Jacob had taken it and now, regardless of his designs, he was set to forcibly make good on the conditions of his own deal. Welcome to the consequences of your actions, John Constantine. They were bound to catch up with you one day. You lay down with devils, you get up with your soul leeched away into senseless oblivion.

He spent his final thoughts lingering on the few golden memories he had left.

He thought about Gary, sharing drinks in his bedroom and shuffling through CDs while arguing over bands and albums, getting messy in the put and throwing each other around at gigs.

He thought about Chas, sharing a quiet cigarette in brief retreat from burgeoning chaos, indulging in a vulnerable moment in the night while several beers deep, belly-laughing over unflattering impressions of their much-loathed parents until their faces were red and tears streamed down their cheeks and they clutched at their ribs trying to catch their breath.

He thought about Cheryl, about days spent under the summer sun running about the docks and watching the light play off the surface of the water, about a camera roll filled with imperfections that John would still hang proud in a gallery for all to see, about nights shivering in the bathroom, door locked, his sister gently washing and dabbing fresh welts across his back. About being taken into her arms as the proud bravado fell away and he sobbed into her shoulder.

Jacob was battered by this tide of overwhelming, alien feelings and memories, unable to parse or categorize, lost amidst waves of emotion he had no point of reference or comparison for. It all confused him, confounded his mind and muddled his purpose; for only the briefest of moments his steady advance against John's consciousness ground to a halt completely and John found himself suddenly back in full control of his faculties. He had precious seconds - there would not be another chance once Jacob recovered and resumed his assault. He concentrated, focusing all efforts on a singular limb. The rosary still hung from his neck, and he could faintly feel the weight of the cross still resting against his sternum. With stiff fingers and a hand battling the resistance of a hundred generations of ancestral Constantines, John wrapped his palm around the wooden icon and pulled outwards; distantly, he felt the chain snapping and beads spilling to the floor.

𝕁 𝔸 ℂ 𝕆 -

Jacob snapped out of his fugue, pushing the confusing, troubling feelings away, returning his attention to subsuming John with distractions dispelled; but it was all too late. It was already in motion. With one final burst of control, the hand that clutched the cross plunged it into John's throat, and then tore itself across.

John spluttered. Jacob screamed, furious, impotent. Blood rushed forth, staining John's chest and the ground beneath his collapsing body. The last sputters of John's life petered out, a single rattling breath expelled; and then John died.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>

Today was the cut off for my messages to players, so I plan to update the character roster later today when I get a minute. Being that my idea behind this game was almost total player freedom I'm not crazy about the idea of telling people who we'd prefer they play.

I don't actually expect we'll get many more people from the recruitment drive than who we have now, but I just wanted to give notice to anyone who's interested, but perhaps seen the high post count and felt like they couldn't apply the opportunity to apply.

I also believe it couldn't harm the roleplay, it's always nice to have some new ideas and stories floating around.

@Half Pint

Because I’m super lazy and sometimes poor at pattern recognition it’d be great to get a list of freed-up characters once the inactives/dropped have been purged from the roster. I’m coming up to finishing Hellblazer now so thinking more seriously about my post-Constantine future in this game.

Roman's Scrapbin

Absolute Wonder Woman take where Diana was kidnapped from Themyscira at a young age and taken to the underworld to be brainwashed and raised by [a character from Greek mythology who was slighted/cursed by the Gods and has a grudge against them, holy shit you have so much choice] for the express purpose of being used as a weapon to slay the pantheon and topple mount olympus. The Amazons in this canon are a race of Greek Demi-gods created jointly by the pantheon and meant to embody all the best qualities of each deity with none of their flaws or squabbles, set to one day take over Olympus and guide humanity as a far more stable and benevolent force than the gods themselves ever managed to be.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

_{Location: Hell}

#1.08

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

The cloying mud was reluctant to let John go but the tree-creatures wrenched him up and out of the muck with surprising ease, tossing him carelessly through the air; bits of bark and twig snapped and splintered around him as he fell heavily and splashed against an intricately-carved stone floor. Whatever previous stir there had been now stalled at his arrival, and all beings present first looked from the trees to John's prone and clagged form, and then finally, inexorably, to the figure sat at the head of the court.
"Wherefore dost thou see fit to disturb my court?"
The first of the tree-creatures prodded John sharply, who was busy coughing and spluttering foul-smelling ooze from out of nearly every orifice.
"Answer our lord, worm."
"I address thee."
Mammon lifted a claw and gestured at the clustered trees. They creaked and snapped, faltering.
"My- my lord," said the second, "this mortal wishes-"
"Begone." Mammon commanded, and flicked his outstretched finger. All three tree-creatures exploded into uncountable fragments; with unearthly howls, the fiery essence that writhed beneath their bark was exposed, whipping and twisting about itself until it erupted upwards, exorcised with a single pained scream as a gout of flame and then extinguished. Mammon looked faintly amused, and then he spoke to John.
"Human. Declare thine purpose."

John craned his neck up, getting his hands beneath him and pushing himself up off the ground to rest on his knees. The figure before him was grand and mighty, there could be no doubt; the demon towered several feet over him even in his seated, relaxed position, and his rotund and bulging form, skin a deep crimson, was adorned with all manner of golden jewellery and ornate piercings. Golden spikes erupted from his shoulders, elbows, the top of his head, curved horns jutting out and bursting through the skin, and his belly bore hideous stitching barely holding together a great crossed wound; there was the glint of further gold behind that torn flesh, if you caught the right angle, and when he moved, his belly jingled and rattled with the metallic sound of coins on coins. His court was filled with all manner of fiends and devils, their own forms ranging from the mundane to the incomprehensible, each cowing under his heavy gaze. Above all else, the throned demon radiated greed, avarice, and an unquestionable power, and there was no mistaking: this was Mammon. Prince of Greed; Plutus the Golden; the Treasurer of Hell, the Avaricious Wolf, the Master of the Gambling Houses. And he was not to be toyed with.
"I'm looking for my sister." John answered plainly. Mammon scoffed.
"I hold no concern for such trifles." He said, waving dismissively and then gesturing to two attendants. "Take him hence; put him to suffering."

The attendants moved quickly to seize John and he panicked, darting out of reach. The mud, unpleasant as it was, was also slick and slimy and made finding a grip on John as he weaved through grasping claws difficult. Stubby, clubbed digits and ragged nails pulled at John's jacket and legs, slipping away as black muck squeezed through the seams between their fingers until finally one fiend tackled John entirely, and once again he was on his back, stone digging into his shoulder blades, some new devil pinning him down. This one had the body of a man but lumpy and malformed, and its head was of the wolf, the skin at its neck rupturing and torn where tufts of fur threatened to burst through. It snapped viciously at John with powerful jaws, adding foamy drool to the myriad slimes that coated him. Two more devils flanked him, and they lifted him bodily into the air, intending to parade the catch about the court and make a show of him; John cried out in pain as claws sunk into his shoulder, and this in itself already elicited jeers from the audience. As they jostled him, the rosary fell loose and dangled forward; under Mammon's vaguely-bored gaze, something caught his eye.
"Halt!" He called, and the proceedings ceased. He snapped a claw and pointed to the base of the dias his throne rested upon. "Fetch him hither. Present unto me his necklace."
John was carried to be held before Mammon, and here he caught pungent wafts of metal and blood as the great demon leant forward, examining the rosary carefully between two claws. He snapped again.
"Release him." He ordered, and John was dropped to the ground. "Human - by what rights didst thou acquire this? Conquest? Bargain?"
"Nergal gave it to me."
"Charity! Nergal is a loathsome, ambitious cretin - yet cunning; but ne'er charitable. I find thine claim hard to credit."
John remained silent, his face set. Mammon studied his expression, and then sat back in his throne. He looked almost curious.
"Very well. Tell thy tale."

The court quieted, and John pulled himself back to his feet, drawing sharp breath as the pain of the fresh puncture in his shoulder was added to his suffering.
"I'm John Constantine," he began, and almost imperceptibly Mammon shifted, a new attention paid to John's words, "and I'm looking for my sister. She's here, somewhere, trapped in your kingdom. My ancesters - the Laughing Magicians," and at this there was a wave of murmurs through the court, quickly silenced by a pointed glare from Mammon, "have her. They've got a terrible plan for her, one I intend to stop. I struck a deal with Nergal to bring me to Cheryl, but he dumped me on the outskirts on a technicality. The rosary is proof of our bargain, and a way for him to find me later."
Mammon raised an eyebrow. "That doth ring truer to Nergal's nature." He surmised, leaning back in his throne, seemingly satisfied. "I am acquainted with thy family. What plot do they weave?"
"My dead cunt of a brother should have been the next incarnation. They want to use my sister to revive him. Once they do, the whole bloody lot of 'em are marching on Hell - you first. They'll take your throne, and your power, and then they'll sweep through the rest of Hell, one lord at a time. And after that, there'll be no one left to stop them. Not even Him."
Mammon shifted, John's words rankling him. Even the implication that something could usurp him was dangerous, seditious talk that would encourage an unwelcome line of thought within his court. For this insect to suggest such a thing so openly in front of him was remarkably brazen; either John was markedly bold, or markedly stupid. Mammon oscillated between enraged and impressed.
"I am unconquerable; a bastion against all foes!" He announced, his voice reverberating and the court shuddering as he crashed his fist against the stone arm of his throne; his audience quivered, the display quelling any idea of a coup. "I shouldst slay thee where thy stand for the mere utterance of such a notion."
"Kill me then. I'll see you around Hell when my brother does the same to you."

The court became very still. John's heart beat like thunder in his chest. He was in a very large amount of very varied kinds of pain; he was cold and wet and uncomfortable; he was grieving a friend he'd just killed and another he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to see again; he was sore, and achy, and above everything else, he was tired. So tired, tired all the way down to his toes, so tired that even the unconscious acts of pushing blood around his beaten body and sucking this rancid, fetid air into his lungs were an almost unbearable effort. And he had run out of patience. He had two plays left: one here and now for Mammon, and one when he finally tracked down Jacob. If between now and then, or even after he succeeded, he dropped dead - he couldn't care less. At least none of this shit would be his fucking problem anymore.

Mammon erupted in great booming laughter, the court echoing with that jangling metallic sound as his belly heaved up and down in fits of amusement. Cautiously, the rest of the court attendees joined in, the stone walls chattering with the snickering of a dozen devils and more.
"Thy undergarments belie the vastness of thine cullions, John Constantine!" The demon lord declared, and he reached a lechorous hand forward to grope and tickle John's mud-sodden groin with calloused, thick-clawed fingers. John jumped back, outraged and disquieted, and this made Mammon laugh harder.
"Pray, tell, on what ground then shouldst I spare thy life? Make thine counsel."
"You kill me and my ancestors will soon be knocking down your door bringing war with them. Even if you win, I'll be dead and Nergal will have my soul and, like you said, he's ambitious. He'll make a play and you'll have another fight on your hands."
"Say then I allow thine exit alive, fine; but thy family squabble 'tis not my concern."
"They don't care. They'll come down on you anyway. Maybe you win, but it'll hurt you and your kingdom regardless. Why fight at all? And if you lose - well, imagine how happy the rest of Hell's gonna be when they find out the war breathing down their necks could have been nipped in the arse before it ever started."
"Hmmm. Thou wouldst possess a third proposal, then?"
"Sure. You don't kill me, and you help me kick my rotten family down to the ninth circle for good. You'd have the vanquishing of the Laughing Magicians, once and for all, to your name. That kind of trophy could be very profitable for you."
"Hmmm."

Mammon took a long silence to weigh his options. The power of just one Laughing Magician was well-regarded; in truth, he could not predict the scope of the might held by the entire ancestral line. Throughout history, the Constantines had never played fair, even when constrained by the Earthly plane. Down here, mortal shells discarded...he would never admit it, never show it; but a fragment of fear slithered into his blackened heart. He shifted forward in his throne and finally lifted his hands, delivering a short sharp clap.
"I am loathe to depart my court; but I can send thee in my stead. Thou shalt be directed hence to thine rogue family, and be assured of their dispatch. Shouldst thou fail or falter, I shalt be forced to slay thee all without mercy."
Mammon gestured again to the wolf-head fiend.
"Serf - show him whither his ancestors make their den."
The wolf-devil bowed graciously, and bounded away, waiting paitently at the threshold of Mammon's court for John to follow.
"I grant thee the protection of my kingdom, Constantine," Mammon said, waving lazily across John's body as the air shimmered and some new pressure settled into his skin. "Know that I shalt remove my boon at mine own pleasure. Do not misrepresent me."
John shivered. He knelt, making his best attempt at showing sincere deference.
"Thank you, Lord Mammon."
"Do not fail, John Constantine. Thine agony can still surely sink to greater depths than thine mind can possess."

John nodded, heeding Mammon's warning well, and then turned and left, more than a little surprised he was still alive at all.