Chapter Text
BatComputer Database.
Dossiers. Metahumans. Classification: Magic.
Name: John Constantine.
Age: 36.
Birthplace: Liverpool, United Kingdom.
Audio recording. Input user: Batman.
Before our run-in with Felix Faust, I thought Constantine nothing more than what’s written on his business card: Exorcist. Demonologist. Master of the Dark Arts. Since spending more than ten minutes with him, I have concluded that he is the most irritating, callous, careless, brash, and cunning con man I have ever come into contact with. His prowess with magic is almost an afterthought.
Zatanna, Doctor Fate, Shazam, they are bound, either by the terms of the artifacts and their powers, or by their own moral code. Constantine claims to have made a name for himself in the magical realms by conning the devil to cure his peculiar, magical cancer, without any price he would discuss. There is no option in his mind too far-fetched or heinous if there’s a chance of success.
Only time will tell if there is anything he would not do to keep the balance of magic.
The portal dumps John Constantine unceremoniously on the manicured lawn of Wayne Manor at dawn. It spits sparks that burn the back of his neck before it whooshes shut, leaving him smoking and smelling of ozone. He flips onto his back, blinking into the drizzle. Dreading what he might find, he checks his pockets. There, like a quiet reward for his effort, nestles the ring of red metal, the alien symbol engraved on the top.
John spits as much of the blood in his mouth onto the grass, still tasting pennies. Lot to go through for a sodding Red Lantern ring. He pushes himself onto his knees and waves his arms. Come on, Batsy. Update your security. The rain washes blood into his eyes, making him groan.
When the lights come on, the creak of the front door opening, he smiles wearily. When a shotgun cocks, it fades.
“Declare yourself or I shall fire, sir,” An English accent, elderly voice, and clearly alert.
John frowns and tilts his head back. “John Constantine. Tell Batsy I’m here t’see him.”
“Alfred–” Ah, there he is. Heavy footfalls from the front porch, then to the grass. Strong arms come around John, hoist him to his feet. Batsy barks to his buddy, “Alfred, prepare the infirmary and the high security containment vaults.”
As John slips out of consciousness, the last thing he knows is the sound of younger men, their words blurred but with the same sternness, like a brood of little Batsies.
Great, John thinks. There’s more of them.