Blackest Night: Retribution
Between the smoking regulations which felt downright Draconian and the magician's discomfort and lingering distaste for the flash and glory of the tights-and-capes set. Maybe it was just the knowledge of how much pressure was being put on the kids and wondering at the sometimes-authoritarian feeling he got just walking around the brownstone.
Conversely, a place like Gotham City, where the Synchronicity Highway had returned him, was a place he understood. A whole city built like a nightmare straight out of Thatcher's empty bloody head; drugs, gangs, perverts and psychopaths running the streets while mysterious figures jumped out of the dark to disappear the offenders.
It probably wasn't the most charitable opinion. After all, The Bat had taken in an orphan. But he probably dodged taxes all over the place to be able to afford all those wonderful toys, so Constantine figured it was all a bloody wash. What he couldn't figure was why he was in Gotham at all. But while his seventh senses had gone all to shite over the past year and change, the ability to follow the road at all was a good one.
(WILL)
(FEAR)
And to just let himself fall into the buzzing, clicking Otherness of Gotham was a pleasant enough sensation. Not like London, not like falling into the arms of a lover. Not like anything even remotely human.
But knowing that the eyes that watched him were utterly dispassionate at least gave him a moment's peace.
But something was... something smelled. Like death and broken promises.
And power.
And dead flesh.
Like charred meat, ozone and burnt plastic.
Like a screaming death.
And it was coming.
No...
Constantine stumbled of the bench, falling forward onto his hands and knees as a black energy tore it apart. And, scrambling to his feet, Constantine saw them.
Good news, Zee, he thought, staring at the figures with their permanent skeleton grins, atoms, burnt flesh and clouds of impossibly hungry insects swarming around them. Found my ghosts.
Something that may, once, have been a stillborn child hovered to the front of the pack, a spectral umbilical cord 'round its neck where John had put it back in '53.
He knew his brother on sight. And knew better than to see how what his brother--to say nothing of all the others--wanted at this late date. Constantine took off without a word.
(FEAR)
And they were following.
Conversely, a place like Gotham City, where the Synchronicity Highway had returned him, was a place he understood. A whole city built like a nightmare straight out of Thatcher's empty bloody head; drugs, gangs, perverts and psychopaths running the streets while mysterious figures jumped out of the dark to disappear the offenders.
It probably wasn't the most charitable opinion. After all, The Bat had taken in an orphan. But he probably dodged taxes all over the place to be able to afford all those wonderful toys, so Constantine figured it was all a bloody wash. What he couldn't figure was why he was in Gotham at all. But while his seventh senses had gone all to shite over the past year and change, the ability to follow the road at all was a good one.
(WILL)
(FEAR)
And to just let himself fall into the buzzing, clicking Otherness of Gotham was a pleasant enough sensation. Not like London, not like falling into the arms of a lover. Not like anything even remotely human.
But knowing that the eyes that watched him were utterly dispassionate at least gave him a moment's peace.
But something was... something smelled. Like death and broken promises.
And power.
And dead flesh.
Like charred meat, ozone and burnt plastic.
Like a screaming death.
And it was coming.
No...
Constantine stumbled of the bench, falling forward onto his hands and knees as a black energy tore it apart. And, scrambling to his feet, Constantine saw them.
Good news, Zee, he thought, staring at the figures with their permanent skeleton grins, atoms, burnt flesh and clouds of impossibly hungry insects swarming around them. Found my ghosts.
Something that may, once, have been a stillborn child hovered to the front of the pack, a spectral umbilical cord 'round its neck where John had put it back in '53.
He knew his brother on sight. And knew better than to see how what his brother--to say nothing of all the others--wanted at this late date. Constantine took off without a word.
(FEAR)
And they were following.