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Chapter Text

John Constantine had been having a good week.  

The jobs that had come the occult detective's way had all been as straightforward and easily solved as they'd seemed at first glance. The places where the House of Mystery had settled all had bars nearby and thrice his preferred poison had been on offer for extra cheap. He'd gotten a decent amount of sleep each night, and while he wouldn't go so far as to say his dreams had been pleasant, they certainly hadn't been nightmares, either.

He didn't trust it.

Oh, the mage would milk this run of luck for all it was worth for however long it lasted, take the money and run, fleece the sucker and scarper, but John Constantine, no matter how darned stupid he acted at times, was no fool. He was the Gods-darned Laughing Magician--his blood and bone and breath and magic and Shattered, Battered, Splintered soul graced with Luck Manipulation powerful enough to leave him standing, triumphant and laughing in a face-off against demons and gods and things older and odder still, and John Constantine knew his Luck and it didn't act like this, not on its own, not for free.

That left a few options. Either some ignorant fool had tried to curse him and his magic had flashed an uno reverse card at the sucker, or something real nasty was headed his way, and when it arrived, being Lucky wasn't going to help him come out on top...or him being in a good mood or something would help a heck of a lot more.

Constantine shuddered, remembering the last time that had been the case. Two weeks of this sort of good Luck hadn't been enough to keep the compounded misery curse he'd gotten slapped with from nearly offing him. What it had managed, just barely, had been to tip the scales over to 'nearly' instead of 'not,' so same dung, different duty, really. Or something of the sort.

Whatever.

The mage knocked back the rest of his glass, already signalling for the barkeep to bring him another bottle as he did so. He wasn't drunk enough for this. Darn alcohol tolerance.  

Constantine let his head loll back as he waited for sweet salvation to arrive. He perked up at the music of a glass being set down on the table. That was fast. Seemed his Luck was still in force. With his eyes at a generous half-mast, Constantine scooped up the fresh glass.

"Cheers, mate," he offered to the barely registered figure across the table, waving the glass at the barkeep in a brief toast. Constantine quickly downed his new glass--and even more quickly spat it out. That wasn't alcohol!

"Charming," the figure accross the table drawled, and oh, that was certainly not the barkeep.

What he just said about his Luck? He took it back. The figure in front of him looked to be a kid, human, about 18. Too young, John thought, to be in a bar, in this country, but what did he know?

Enough not to judge by looks, that's for certain. It was a lesson that had taken him far too long to learn, but learn it he had, eventually. These days, the mage judged by Looks instead.

So the mage wiped his mouth on his sleeve, blinked his eyes a few times, and looked at the supposedly human child accross the table again.  Then he Opened his eyes again and Looked at the kid.

And promptly swore.

The thing in front of him...well, it probably was human, still. It had definitely started that way, at the very least. Constantine leaned across the table as he scrutinized the other with his Gaze. The kid wiggled a bit in his seat, clearly Felt the weight and knew what it meant, but seemed didn't try to hide or evade. He was used to this, and he'd clearly expected it from the mage. The quirk of his eyebrow suggested the kid was surprised, almost scolding him even, for taking so long to get to it.

Cheeky bugger.

A human one,  though, Constantine decided.  Definitely human, albeit one with a few Changes. Mostly gentle, cautious Alterations, awkwardly applied Graces painted on from the outside with an inexperienced hand that would slow and halt the wear and tear that would otherwise come from the flow of Time.

Constantine couldn't, didn't, stop his magic, his fingers, from reaching out to trace the Alterations. The boy, to his credit, though he shivered under the mage's Study, didn't protest.

The Effect was the product of multiple applications of related, synergistic, gradual Alterations, all Welcomed by the boy at the time and Welcome still, all originating from Sources outside the boy and inexperienced in such. The Sources themselves were the same as the Cla--no, not thinking about that yet, get all the information first, learn from your mistakes, Constantine, don't miss anything.

Getting back on track, the quality of the Alterations. It was immaculate. Despite the clear inexperience, and all the more impressive for it, the Sources's Work Intertwined and Weaved and Worked together without clashing, exhaustive thought in the placement of every strand. These Sources had had only the Connection of Claim to work with, and one of them, one that Constantine pointedly was not thinking about, not yet, had probably never even tried to be gentle, before this, to not Break and Shatter and Rend--but they'd done it. Functional immortality, the slow and stop of aging, made to fit into the world around in manner not dissimilar from the human-dwelling yokai or fae that pulled such. It was far more complex than it had to be, in many more pieces, but it was working and, in the mage's inexpert opinion, working well. Constantine even thought the Complete Alteration might have been Forged such that it wouldn't pose any Interference Risks. That was a feat far harder than getting the intended Effect working in the first place. Constantine was duly impressed. The boy wasn't even Paying for any of it, not that the Laughing Magician could tell. Not beyond what anyone paid for long life, in any form, living among those who didn't have it, anyway. The one Source, with Its History, Its Reputation, Constantine never would have imagined it capable--

No. Not thinking about that, not yet. Still more to be done.

Changes, to the boy's Senses and Mind. Not Alterations, but Growth, of the sort that few non-mages ever showed, humans, at least. Other species, well, not all of them would've needed it, lucky blighters. Or maybe not. Sometimes, ignorance truly was bliss. And humans were one of the most ignorant species of all Constantine had ever heard of, the most limited in what they could Perceive, in what they could even begin to Understand, afore their brains began turning to mush, blood went running from eyes and ears, and the lucky in the lot spent the rest of their lives in the loony bin, while the Sight and Sense of what humanity had never evolved to, had never been meant to, Sense and See, let alone Understand, drove the rest into the grave. But that was only once it got through the ignorance. Humans got through so much by simply not noticing it was even there. Human mages could stand the actual Perceiving a sight better than their nonmagical counterparts.  Their magic and power acted as an Interface and Buffer, a Go-Between for their squishy human bits until, and a Help after, those Grew able to handle a bit themselves. Still, even then, not all human mages made it far. Most would drown quick and fast and never come up for air, not sane, anyway, if they tried to paddle out past the kiddie pools of the near-Realities, couldn't hope to keep up in the Depths. John could, could swim in the Depths, could keep his head above water in the Fars and stand face-to-face with Interstitials, not just the Echoes but the Big ones, the Beyonders, like the one whose Claim laid fat and thick and Welcome and Loved in the breath and blood and soul of the boy in front of him, the one with a Reputation for--.  

No. Not there yet. Almost, but not yet. The Changes, the Growth, put it in words. Nail it down. It matters, John, you know it does. Finish the job.

The boy had spent time, a lot of it, with those who operated, or could, beyond the normal limits of human Sight and Sense. Not just--it wasn't necessarily that Source, who had done it. It could be done with just humans, as long as one or two in the group were mages. Be around enough magic, especially if it was used on you, and the soul starts to Learn. Slower, than for those born with magic as part of them, an Interface to More built into their soul from the start, but the Senses to Perceive and the Capability for the Mind to Witness without Breaking, Shattering into insanity or death would grow, eventually, even without any sort of intentional...boost.  

A boost that the boy didn't seem to have. Considering the awkward inexperience of the Immortality Alteration, Constantine guessed none of the Sources had felt confident enough in their abilities to risk it, too afraid of Breaking the boy in the attempt. A wise decision, and not one Constantine would have expected from--was it time, yet?

Yes. It was time. He'd looked at everything else. Now he could finally let himself think about the Claims on the boy's soul.

The First, the Oldest, was Gotham's. A Cursed City in the States, not far from where Constantine was now. The outer edge of the Curse's Influence was only a few scattered cities away.

Figures. The House and his Luck, buttering him up just to set him up. What else was new?

So Gotham had Claimed the kid, first with the customary Mark a Cursed City would lay on the soul of any born within its Borders, then again later. Deeper this time, Marking the boy as Favored, as Loved, as Protected--as Protector, and wasn't that a shock? The Robin of Gotham--because he had to be, that or the Bat, and this child was no Dark Knight--so far from home.

The Second Claim...no, leave that for last. The Third Claim, then. That one was a right mess. Unstable, jumping between Power and Magic and species and spitting off so many different Reality Signatures Constantine could only feel sorry for the poor blighter who'd left it. It seemed...relatively Stable, as these things went. No risk of it suddenly changing from Claim to something else, or the Power and Magic it had Invested in the boy's Alterations failing or abandoning their tasks. Reliable, even, despite it all. At least in regards to the boy. As for whatever had left this claim, whatever species it was or had been...it was difficult to say.  At the moment, it was alive, or at least extant. The Claim it'd left would Look different, otherwise. Judging from the Reality Signatures its Claim kept throwing off, t was also, in this Reality, mostly, at least. Confused, maybe, a bit Split, seeing as it would sometimes throw off several different Signatures at a time, but Constantine was as certain as he could be, from what he could See in and on the boy, that the Third Claimant's main self was in a Reality, not the Interstitial.

So. Three options, then.

Could be the Third Claimant was an Interstitial, one of the small ones, most likely an Echo, Locked and Bound. If it had wriggled part-free, especially if it hurt itself in the effort, or the Bonds were Decaying in the right--or wrong--sort of way, that could fit what he was Seeing, if the Echo's Others had enough Variety in the little one's Domain. That amount of Variety would be far from normal in the Domain of an Echo with this Native Reality as part of it. For most individuals, the Realities that were within a typical Echo's Reach, let alone Domain, wouldn't even come close to covering all the species and Powers and Magics Constantine had seen it flicker through in just the first half hour, but it was possible.

Then...the second possibility. John...John had seen a lot of Sacrifices, a lot of Rituals, a lot of Cults. He'd Seen this sort of Pattern, before. When multiple Powers were Called in the same Ritual, Offered the Same victim. When the Victim had Magic or Power of their own, or were just Receptive or Compatible enough with that of the Summoned. When the Victim, or their would-be Rescuer, got a hit in, sent just a scrap of the Summoned Power flying in just the wrong direction in the middle of set-up meant to transfer--

He was sorry, he was sorry, he was so, so bloody, blasted sorry. He'd meant to help, he promised, he promised, he swore he was trying to help. Not this, never this, sorry sorry sorry--

But they didn't last, not like this. The longest John had ever seen was 10 minutes within a Reality, and she'd been a Master, had produced most of the more modern research on these things, and had laid the groundwork of the spells that had done that much before the...well, Before. Maybe he'd try to get ahold of Shiva next Solstice, ask her if she'd figured out a word for it, yet. Because she was still around, Shiva. In a manner of speaking.

10 minutes, she'd lasted here, in this Reality, 10 minutes Constantine had spent setting up a Summons, drawing up a Contract, Carving off another Sliver of his Soul as one of the few Masters who could match him and surpass him and had ever given so much as a bloody sneeze about him Unraveled and Untethered and Disintegrated in his Sight, all at once both too fast and too slow.

There'd barely been anything left of her, by the time he'd gotten a Path Opened to the In-Between. He'd Watched as she'd slipped through and away, feeling the fresh Mutilation of his Soul and knowing he'd probably be long dead and gone before she'd healed enough to let him know if it had been worth it, if she'd survived, if he'd saved her.

Then, just a few years later, it had been the Winter Solstice. And Constantine should have been out and about, taking advantage of the Thinned Veil to crack a hard case. But instead he'd been sitting in the kitchen he'd just found in his new House, the one he'd won off some bloke the week before. She hadn't looked to be all that fond of her old owner, but she hadn't yet quite made up her mind if she thought all that much of him, either. He'd just cracked a bottle of piss whisky, had raised it to pour when, across the room, a door had opened. And Shiva had stepped through.

"Poor sort of greeting for an old friend, Connie," she'd snarked, old limbs turning young and spry as she'd eeled forward to catch the bottle that slipped from his numb fingers. The rap and rub of her knuckles against his skull had been like a snapshot taken out of any of a hundred thousand memories, from a hundred thousand times before. "I'm worth at least a Johnny Walker Blue."

John had opened his mouth, tried to speak, but all that had come out had been a strangled sob. Shiva--she'd looked so young-- had frowned at him and rapped his head.

"Oi, none of that, now, Johnny-be-good," she'd scolded. Fingers, old and weathered, had chucked him under the chin, had pulled his head up to meet a wrinkled face that was almost his--almost Shiva's, but not quite.

"Look at me, Johnny-bee," the ageless elf before him had demanded, and her tone had been all Shiva-Shiva-Shiva.

"I'm looking," Constantine had protested, feeling for all the world like he was a kid drawing circles in the grass with his hands, watching as Shiva carved perfection 20 times over with his tools that she'd snatched away all while she lectured him about how he shouldn't need them to do the job. A Contracting Mage who needed tools to do his Scribings had no business doing Contracts, she'd said, over and over, looking the exact same as she did so then as the Shiva in front of him had at that moment, and oh, how he'd hated her for it, then. But she'd been right. 10 minutes would have been nowhere near enough for the John Constantine of before those lessons, not both successful and alive, not without paying a much higher Price.

Shiva's lips had twisted, dissatisfied. The hand not under his chin had flashed out to rap him on the head again in a way so distinctly Shiva that the Laughing Magician had had to blink fresh tears from his eyes. "Fool," the old woman had scolded, as stern as ever. "How many times must I teach you this lesson? Do you think yourself dreaming? Have you drunk so much already that a hallucination would be expected? Use your Eyes, not just your eyes! Look at me, John Constantine. Look."

So John had. He'd opened his eyes and he'd Opened his Eyes again. He'd Looked. And in front of him he'd Seen...Shiva. Still Shiva. A mess of Shiva, her Magic and Form and Self and Soul flickering much as it had in that decade of minutes, but still his Shiva, he-Knew-his-Magic-Knew-this was His Shiva.

Strong arms, too young, too hard with muscle, to have belonged to the Shiva he knew, but he-Knew-his-Magic-Knew-it-was-her-it-was-her-it-was-his-Shiva who'd caught him as he lunged, who'd kept both of him standing with a balance and an ease that couldn't have originated from the Shiva he'd known but that belonged now to this Shiva, who was still his Shiva, all the same.

Lady Shiva had sunk with him, so very gently, to the floor, and held the Laughing Magician as he'd cried.

When the tears finally stopped, there'd been questions. Not that Shiva had had very helpful answers for him.

Where had she been, he'd asked her.

"Oh, Here and There, In-Between and Elsewhere," she'd breezed out in answer. Mostly In-Between and Elsewhere, apparently. Here was hard, There was 'ill-advised,' while Elsewhere could come to her in any of them or be more a thing of its own, although that could apparently turn into 'There's' which weren't all that good for her. "Here's ok, though, because Here is Home," she'd concluded with a smile, clearly trying to be reassuring but failing miserably.

"Then stay Here," John had begged. The young woman in front of him had chucked him under the chin and clucked at him as she Radiated a sense of /-amusement-fondness-such-a-pecious-silly-precocious-child-/.

"Here's Home, but I'm not Made for it, Connie, not anymore. Visits, sure, especially when the Veil is thin. Especially in Your new House of Mysteries, an Anchor Adrift, a bit a thing of the In-Between herself, I can visit. But stay?" Shiva had shaken her head. "Nay, nay, I cannot stay, try too long and I'll fly away...you remember, Connie, just like then?"

"But I saved you," John had choked, desperate. She was here, she was here, so he had, he had to have--

"You did," she'd soothed, her wrinkled fingers curving through his hair. "You did save me. I Exist, still, Connie. The Me you Knew, who lived and fought and learned and taught along with you, She still Exists in more than memory. But I am also More than Her now, Connie. To try to be only one of Myself again would only Destroy that Me, and perhaps others of Myself along with Her."

From the way she'd talked about selves, Constantine had wondered if Shiva had become an Echo.

She'd only laughed when he'd asked. "What I am, what am I, what what, indeed? Who knows, not I, I should not be. Rare is the being such as me, for that I have you to thank, my good Johnny-Bee!" She'd trilled, ears once again pointed, seemingly unbothered by the lack of knowledge in a way completely alien to the Shiva he knew. But, then, she wasn't only his Shiva, was she? Not anymore.

"No, My Connie, my Joy, I'm no Echo. I have met some, however, quite a few now, but one in particular! Quite a dashing figure, my Sweet Refrain, and him I have to thank that I can see you again. Ah, but Solstice End nears, and Elsewhere Calls, and Here I can't remain, for In-Between it all, I must go and dance again. Should you will, when the Time is Good, you Know how to Call me, if meet with me again you would," Shiva had sung, as she danced a graceful ballet around the room, magic and form growing less human with every step.

As his magic carefully, reverently, preserved the Knowledge of how to meet with his old mentor once again, Constantine had stood. Wiping his eyes, the Laughing Magician had croaked, "If go you must, then may fare thee well. When next we meet, may you of glad tidings tell. And," his voiced had cracked, breaking the sing-song cadence, "A proper welcome, as well, I'll have for you. Forget piss poor whisky or Johnny Walker, even Label Blue. You deserve better. To celebrate, even if it's late. I'll save up, won't even crack it til you get here. Macallan Sherry Oak, single malt, the good stuff, I'll have it. Just for you. Ok, a bit for me, I'm also gonna be drinking. But to celebrate you."

Shiva had smiled at him. There had been delicate wings on her back and she'd been dressed in dancer's clothes.  

The Shiva who'd danced out the door and into the In-Between that Solstice night hadn't looked like his Shiva. She hadn't acted like her. Her magic had felt so so different from that of the Master Mage he knew. But she was still there, his Shiva.

And now, as it had then, renewed resolve surged through him that no matter how much his mentor had grown to love and be of the In-Between, she would always, always have Here as a Home to return to.

Even if it was the third possibility, and the Third Claimant was nothing he'd ever seen or heard of before, Constantine would find a way, if need be, to triumph over the unknown that had wrapped this boy in a Family-Claim.

Constantine hoped he wouldn't have to, though. He'd already have quite enough to deal with, because the Second Claim...the Second Claim was made by that Being.

World-Render, Reality-Destroyer, the Terror of the Beyond, an Eldritch Being from the Interstitial Beyond that Decimated and Destroyed Universes and Realities and small Worlds with equal, cruel, deliberate, attention to detail. It tore into other Eldritch, even other Beyonders, with the same glee, earning hatred and fear from even its own Kind. It was Known for being subtle and stark, devious and decisive, whatever amused it more, it did, with incredible Power and Skill, all in the pursuit of cruelty, destruction, decimation, and pain.

It wasn't kind. It wasn't nice. It didn't love. Reputations could be overblown, could overshadow other aspects of their subject, and perhaps that was what had happened here, but the sheer breadth across which that Reputation remained constant, even among other Beyonders, the closest to what such Entities had of Beings of the Same Kind, suggested otherwise, suggested that if this Being had ever shown True Kindness or Care for another, it had been so long ago as to be all but lost to even the mists of their memory.

So how was it that the Being's Claim, thick and pervasive and welcome, as welcome as Gotham's, over this boy was forged as much from love as it was from the Terror's Shadows?

A Child-Claim, one not-in-competition with Gotham's own, one Constantine had seen the likes of before, from other Beings, but that had to be a Trick, a Baffle, a Deception to his Sight from this one.

But it wasn't. No matter how John Examined it, Studied it, tried to Pick It Away, Peel it Apart, to Reveal the Truth, the Sight remained unchanged. The Laughing Magician was Thorough, so very Thorough, and the boy made no attempt to resist. Even as minutes of Examination turned into hours, the only real movement the boy made was to pull out a book, apparently content to entertain himself until the mage was sarisfied. Until the Laughing Magician couldn't deny that what he Saw was real.

The Terror was Close, so very Close to his Native Reality. It might have already Chosen a Host. It might already be Here. This boy wasn't its Host, but he might know who it was. Sometimes, if the Host was Freed or Destroyed, the Terror left. Sometimes. Depending on how it wanted to Play, if it needed a Host to do it, if its fun being ruined didn't make it mad enough to lash out in retaliation, if if if...but it was a chance.

This boy could be the best chance their Native Reality had, of survival.

Survival, from the Being that loved him. That he welcomed. That he loved, in turn.

"We can," Constantine tried, his voice rough and so very, very dry. The boy looked up from his book, realized the mage was done, was ready to talk now, and moved to put it away, though not before shoving over a glass of water that Constantine hadn't noticed arrive. The mage drained it. He didn't spit it out. When the boy offered another, he drained that one, too. Cursed Gotham's Child, The Terror's Child, watched him, patient.

Constantine tried again. This time, it wasn't dryness that made his voice crack. "Kid, we can still stop it," he begged, pleaded, desperate, but there was no hope in his eyes. He already knew that the boy loved the monster.

The kid's mouth twitched. Amused. Of all things, the kid was amused at the end of their world, of their entire Reality. "Stop what?" He asked, playful, as if he had no idea, as if he didn't know.

"Kid, you--Do you know, what that-that thing, that Being has done? What it will--it's not you, I Know it isn't. Maybe, maybe it doesn't have one yet, but if, when, it does, Marked like that, Claimed like that, you'll probably know, who-who it--"

The kid rolled his eyes as he cut off John's stammering. "I'm not here to help you kill my dad, Constantine--"

John barely resisted the urge to lunge across the table and shake the kid--it wouldn't help--as he cut the Child off, in turn. "You don't understand. Our planet, our world, our entire Reality--we can still save it! Your dad, too, whatever's left of him, and if we can't he'd thank us--the things the Terror does to its victims, as bad or worse than any demon--"

"Both of my Dads are fine, Constantine. If Lady Gotham isn't worried, I don't see any reason you should be," the kid huffed, obviously starting to get frustrated with the mage.

Constantine blue screened. The Reality-Destroyer had taken a Host in this Reality...and a Cursed City, something created specifically to Protect that Reality...was 'fine' with that?!

Someone needed to take a look at Gotham. Which meant he was going to have to take a look at Gotham, cause it was always up to him, wasn't it?

The kid snorted, amused. Great.

"Said that out loud, did I?" Constantine grumbled.

"Yuuup," the kid drawled. He reached out a hand to pat the mage's condescendingly.

"You wanna go to Gotham? Then let's bargain, you and I. I'll play escort, keep Mom from smiting you and my little brother from using you as a chew toy, can even swing you a conversation with some...influential figures, let's call 'em--"

"I see one right here. Tweet tweet," Constantine deadpanned absently, most of his mind focused on running back over the kid's words to identify what was wrong about them, because there had definitely been something...

"Two, if you count the daylight, but yeah, whatever. So you know I can deliver my end. As for your end of the bargain--"

There. That was what was wrong. Bargain, the kid had said, not deal. More to the point, bargain, not Deal. All lowercase, ordinary, mundane, none of the extra Weight or Binding the kid had to know about, had to know he should be using for things like this. So why wasn't he? And more importantly...

"And what do you want from me, in return?" Constantine questioned, wary.

Gotham's Robin grinned. "Oh, nothing much. A Promise that you'll talk to Gotham before you try and go after my Dads, either and/or both of 'em, and that includes separating or suppressing or 'freeing' and the like, unless there's active, imminent threat to you or the Reality or someone not the rightful prey of Gotham's Knights."

Not ideal, but not unexpected or, had it not been the Terror they were talking about, unreasonable. And if an especially tempting opening should happen to present itself before the Cursed City deigned to speak with the Laughing Magician, well. A bargain wasn't exactly Binding, now was it?

"Seems reasonable enough so far," Constantine allowed. He didn't ask if there was more. He knew there would be.

"It would be great if, while you're in the area, you could take a look at my little brother, maybe give us your professional opinion on his...everything. That would be a seperate matter, to be clear, from what I came to you for, and the payment for that, specifically, would be in Alfred's cooking and money, thrice your usual fee, just for looking. Further payment to be negotiated for what you find and/or know."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "I ain't cheap, kid. You sure you got the cash to cover that?"

The kid blinked at him, then laughed. "Shows how often I come outta Gotham, doesn't it? The Waynes may be known of everywhere, but it's not the same kind of knowing as it is at home, is it? You only got Robin. I actually have to introduce myself, out here, for the daylight. The name's Jason, Jason Todd-Wayne. I think I can manage to scrounge up the cash for your fees, John Constantine, especially if it'll help my little brother. I think I might even manage to find the funds to pay you for my own thing, besides, the thing I sought you out for in the first place, if I really, really look."

Cheeky bugger, Constantine thought faintly. He supposed the kid just might, at that. Which brought him to the question..."So what do you want, kid? With Gotham, the Terror, and whatever the heck your brother is to draw on, what need did you have for the little old Laughing Magician?"

The kid grinned. He looked innocent, all of a sudden, too innocent. Constantine didn't trust it. "Well, there's a bit of detail to it, but in short, I want to hire you to teach me about Soul Sacrifice!"

Constantine really, really hoped he'd misheard. Cause it sounded like the kid wanted to teach him to sacrifice people's souls.

"I want to Gift them to Mom, as a Present," the boy clarified, after a few seconds of silence. "Since I'll be killing them anyway, and Timmy can be a bit of a power drain at times and I wanna help her. But she and Dad have always been on the wrong side of things to teach me how to do it safely, and if I try to Deal Dads'll go ballistic, and you're the best Contract Mage out there, everybody says so..."

...Yeah. This was the Terror's kid alright.

Constantine sighed. He needed a drink. Normally a bar would be the place for that, but it'd been hours since the barkeep'd brought over anything but water.

"Let's just...see what we can do about the other two things, first, okay, kid?"

The kid's eyes narrowed. "And then we can talk about talking about Soul Sacrifice?"

"...Yeah, kid. Then we can talk about talking about Soul Sacrifice."

The kid sat back in his seat, smiling, satisfied and smug.

What had Constantine gotten himself into this time?

Chapter Text

The Laughing Magician could feel it, the second they stepped into Gotham. The weight of the Cursed City's eyes.  He'd considered casting a spell to hide himself from the Cursed City's notice, but hadn't bothered.  It would have been useless with the boy ahead of him, the boy who'd run the last few yards into the City, so eager was he to be back in the embrace of its Curse.

The kid threw his head back, drew deep breaths of the smog-filled City air.  Constantine lit a cigarette, and watched the watchers.  There was the City, of course, but she wasn't the only one observing the pair.

The eyes of passerby and alley lurkers raked them over before flitting away.  Their gazes lingered not on the grown, grizzled man, but on the exuberant child, their princeling.  Constantine noticed more than a few give the smallest of nods, their lips twitching in the tiniest of smirks, their eyes glinting with the faintest hints of approval that their princeling was back where he belonged.

A Ghost buzzed in cameras and wires, its gaze settling on everything and nothing, until the boy entered its vision.  Then Constantine felt it focus, the mage's--or, more to the point, the boy's--surroundings suddenly of the utmost importance.  Unlike the other Gothamites, the Ghost's regard neither dimmed nor wavered, following the pair along cameras and wires as the kid led the mage confidently through the Cursed City's streets. 

The kid stopped under a street light to take out his phone.  Constantine watched the boy grin at the screen and throw a lazy salute towards a camera--saw two toughs he hadn't even realized were following them suddenly slink off in search of easier prey at the sight--and let the sparks of magic, charged and ready to dazzle and disguise them from the watching Ghost's sight, disperse harmlessly, instead.

Constantine shoved his hands into his pockets, casual, calm, and strolled through the Cursed City's streets alongside the boy.  "You know we're being watched," the mage commented, an idle remark.

The kid snorted, rolling his eyes at the man.  "I'm a Wayne, in Gotham, without even a pair of sunglasses or a hat to make the most pitiful of attempts at a disguise as I amble along the street without a care in the world.  Of course I, and by extension, you, are being watched--I'm practically begging for it, out like this."

Constantine hummed curiously and raised an eyebrow in a silent question.  The kid didn't give him an answer, not quite, not in so many words.  Instead, he showed him.

The boy's footsteps meandered more, taking him to the mouths of alleys and bus stops where people fought for space with blankets.  Their journey through Gotham slowed, time enough for the kid to pause, to shove gift cards, money, pamphlets into cracks in walls and, more and more, into the waiting hands of feral children who crept their way from the dark, narrow shadows to the dim light of the alley mouths, just to meet their princeling, snatch his gifts from his hands, and scurry off, back to the shadows.

Constantine didn't protest the detours, taking them as the answer they were.  He had the feeling their lack, before he'd asked, had been more unusual than their presence, though with how much they'd slowed, Constantine rather thought their degree of abundance might not be business as usual, either.  The boy was making a point.

Fair enough, but the kid hadn't addressed part of his, though whether the partial reply was intentional or not, the mage wasn't sure.

Constantine leaned against a wall as they stood at the mouth of yet another alley, the kid already distributing bits of bounty into eagerly grasping hands.

"We're being Watched, you know," Constantine said, again, but slightly different this time.  To another mage or most nonhumans, there would have been no mistaking the exclusion of the feral children and passersby, too human for the weight of the words.  Constantine wasn't sure if the kid would catch it--wasn't sure to what extent he'd be able to understand it, from the word alone, not just context, even if he did--but figured the repetition might get his point across, even if the rest went over the boy's head entirely.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't the princeling who answered, but the dirty girlchild snatching a Batburger gift card from his hand.  "Of course, he's being Watched, Trenchie.  He's one of ours, ain't he? One of Her's.  Done rather well for himself, but Alley all the same, aintcha, Letters?"

The princeling grinned, showing teeth.  "And you'd better be keeping up with yours, Scoundrel, even without me there to nag at you.  Remember, you can't live on Love alone--"

"But an Alley Rat will always have it," the girl finished, solemnly, before flicking her attention back to the mage.  "Ya don't lose Our Lady's Special Favor jus' cause you claw your way out of the stones of the Alley.  She Loves us, she wants us to succeed.  She aint gonna try to pass a punch off as a kiss, no matter what else you can make of it."

"Somethin' you wanna tell me, Scoundrel?" Gotham's princeling growled, a look on the young bird's face that promised violence.  "Jus' cause the old man took a liking to me after I stole his tires, it don't mean--"

The girl waved him off. "Oh, go on back to yer tower, Letters, I can handle myself," she dismissed him, not unkindly.

The boy's frown deepened, awful knowledge lurking in his eyes as he spoke the grave truth, "Until you can't."

"Until I can't," the girl nodded, that same awful awareness in her own gaze.  "But I won't sacrifice my life for my pride, Letters, not when it's the rat to my mouse.  If'n Our Lady's Love and Favor ain't enough to keep my breath in my bones, if'n the Bright Bird and the Striking Shadow can't keep the blood in my veins, if'n all my breath and blood and bone and spite and soul ain't gonna be enough to take me to the next dawn, well, I know where ta find you, don't I, Letters?  And I will, if it ever comes to that, Alley's Promise.  But so long as I can--"

The boy sighed, resignation and respect and even approval fighting for dominance in his gaze.  "You'll make your own way, claw by claw and sneak by sneak, and Arkham to those who try to keep us down," he finished.

"As any Alley Rat should," they chanted together.

That seemed to be the end of the conversation.  With a last nod, Scoundrel, and the rest of the watching feral children, vanished into the dark.

Jason looked after them for a moment, something almost like longing flickering over his face, before he turned away, and continued on.

___

The kid led the way to a tower.

It was a massive structure, a skyscraper of solid stone and sweeping metal, mixing clean modern glass and lines seemlessly, somehow, with the gothic architecture that was so prevalent in Gotham.  Gargoyles snarled from every floor, clung to every corner.  One of the stone guardians even held up the logo of the place, the shining, lit up stylized W clutched in its claws, being simultaneously shown off and sheltered in the swoop and flair of its wings in a way that seemed at once protective, possessive, and prideful.

The Ghost, who had followed them all this time, raced ahead, though it didn't entirely leave them behind.  Constantine could feel the Ghost's power and presence flickering throughout the tower, jumping through the electronic edifice of the building and between the eyes of the gargoyles, like the whole building was a playground made just for it.

"Come on," the kid pouted, impatient, as he grabbed the magician by the arm and started forward.  Constantine let himself be pulled. "Dad's waiting."

__

The Host of the World-Render, of the Reality-Destroyer, of the Terror of the Beyond was not what Constantine had expected.

Constantine might not pay all that much attention to the rags, but he did have a vague idea of what 'America's Hottest Billionaire' Bruce Wayne looked like and, he had to say, the man was every bit as stunning in person as on a magazine cover, just going by looks alone.  John had thought it'd be fake, a manufactured facade or a once true face that had been rendered a hollow mask, but no.  The eyes of the Terror's Host were filled with a depth of love and warmth that could have only sprung from the man's very soul as he welcomed his son home, and though his eyes when he turned to the mage and directed him to a chair were not nearly so open and easily read, there was still something clearly human looking out from them.

Constantine would know.  With the number of demons he'd dealt with and exorcisms he'd performed over the years, the Laughing Magician had blasted well made a point of learning to tell when there was still something, anything human left in there.  A lesson learned too late for too many, as all his lessons seemed to be, but one he knew he could rely on for all the others after.

Even against the Ancient Terror itself, he'd make that bet. 

Its reputation didn't show much of a preference for a method of destruction.  It could be as brazen and obvious as a little kid knocking over a tower of blocks just to watch all that hard work come crashing down, or as subtle and seemingly disconnected to the final devastation as the breath of air that pushed the pinwheel that moved the ball that tipped the scale that went on to trigger a whole complicated, improbable mess of a machine that finally, finally tipped over a single domino that sent a whole carefully laid out work of art tumbling down.  The Terror was certainly capable of subtlety, of subterfuge, maybe even beyond what Constantine could detect.

But what looked out of Bruce Wayne's eyes wasn't trying to be subtle, not the man...and not the monster, either.

A Being such as the Terror was too large, and this Reality too small, to manifest inside the Reality's Bounds in one place and piece, not without putting a fair bit of constant effort into not breaking said Reality.  A Host would need to come first, to avoid that constant effort, but after securing one a Being such as the Terror could create one or even several Manifestations within the Reality, allowing more of itself to be present within the Reality's Borders without increasing the strain on its fabric.  Such a thing wasn't without its disadvantages, so Constantine doubted the Terror had made too many Manifestations.  But the Laughing Magician could tell, just from what he saw in the eyes of its Host, that it had made at least one.  

There was a definite difference, between an Entity whose bulk was outside or on the edges of its Host's Reality, and one who had a larger part of itself invested within that Reality, just somewhere other than its Host, and this was definitely the later case.

The majority of what looked out of Bruce Wayne's eyes was undoubtably, undeniably human.  It wasn't a humanity that had been, as Constantine had expected, chipped away or eroded under the Terror's yoke.  It showed no signs of a spirit that had begun to flag or fade--in fact, for all the man's guarded reserve when he'd looked at the mage, there'd been a strength there that far outstripped that of most humans.  The Terror was barely a butterfly's shadow of a presence against--no, alongside, ridiculous as the thought was, Constantine knew better than to lie to himself--the human Host's own.

Constantine allowed relief to creep cautiously through his bones.  Most of the Terror was elsewhere.  If he considered what he knew from other Extra-Reality Creatures he'd encountered, then scaled it to account for the Terror's strength, as best he could guess, and added a hefty helping of pessimism on top...the mage nodded to himself.  The Terror could definitely hear them, see them, all that, just as well as its Host could.  At least exactly as well, if it wanted, able to access all the input from its Host's own senses.  It may or may not also be able to extend its own senses from the Host, with how little of it was there, and the accuity of those senses wouldn't be as good as as its usual, even if it could.  If he were a betting man, and he very much was, Constantine would bet that the Terror had at least enough of itself present that it would, or at least thought it would, be able to detect if Constantine tried anything, magically speaking.  The Terror wasn't known for being stupid, and based on the boy's own words, if it thought anything Binding had been negotiated that might have kept Constantine from going after it, there'd be a lot more shouting, or worse, going on.  That meant it was well aware that Constantine was entirely able to try something, and, considering its kid sought him out for his reputation, the Terror wouldn't dismiss a possible attack from the Laughing Magician as a nonthreat.

As it was, the kid was currently telling his Dad...Dads, Constantine supposed...all about his little trip in exhaustive detail, as the man listened intently, asked questions, and--was he taking notes?!  No, nope, forget that, not important.  Bloody weird, even for a billionaire, but not important--the more time it took for the kid to tell his story, the longer Constantine had to examine the Terror's Host.  Point was, no shouting, no hitting, meant good odds that the Terror knew there had been no Deal and was watching out for any magic tricks Constantine might try to pull.

There was another point too, a reminder that Constantine had only so long until the attention was on him.  The Terror's Host wasn't going to be as absurdly patient as the kid had been, back at the bar.  He'd only get so far by looking.  He needed to Look.  At least this time, Constantine had some idea of what to expect.

John Constantine took in a breath, discreet, but deep.  He closed his eyes.  Then he opened his eyes, and he Opened his Eyes again.  He Looked.

Bruce Wayne was no mage, had never been a mage.  And yet, Power flowed in, around and from the man.

It Clung and Etched itself in Claims--the same three Sources as with the kid.  The Impossible Source, the one that made John think of Shiva, Looked largely the same in the father as it had in the son, the most significant difference being that the Family Claim was that of a child to their parent rather than one sibling to another.  There was the Terror's Claim, definitely present, definitely a Host-Claim, and yet...there was complexity there, far more to the Connection between the two than a mere Host-Claim, information that John would have to examine and understand as much as he possibly could in order to have a hope of navigating this nightmare.

But that wasn't his focus, not yet.  Start easy and work your way up, that was how you covered the most ground.  And the Cursed City of Gotham's Claim would not be ignored.

Child-Mine-Guardian-Mine-Protector-Mine, the City crowed, had Carved the Marks into Wayne's blood and breath and bones and soul, dark shadows shouting Her Favor, Her Ownership, Her Love for all with the senses to See.  The City's Claim-Marks spun and Wove, inseperable, into the weft of a Mantle, where they were joined and fleshed out by streams of Power--weak, on their own, most of them, but there was strength in numbers and oh, the numbers, one for all those the City-Spirit Lady Gotham could call hers, and more besides--and between the Weft and the legion of threads of Power and Belief that rushed to fill out the Weave, more Words were Woven into Bruce Wayne's Mantle.  Prince of Gotham, the Mantle crowned him, a crown bestowed by the individual cirizens as much as the Cursed City's Spirit. Our Hope, the Mantle whispered, a benediction revealed only as threads brushed against threads, as if to say it clearly might make it vanish, found to be after all untrue. Our Guiding Light, the Mantle dared, just as cautious, just as soft, as the one before. Our Billionaire-Daywalker-Celebrity-Rich-One-Noble-Our-Ours-Ours-Despite-it-all-Ours the Mantle crowed, the lines bold and confident, until the Weight of a fourth claim, not by the Spirit of Gotham City but by her people, together, every one, was woven into the Mantle with the force of it.  He Knows Us, the Mantle sung, a song at once sad and viciously satisfied for it was only right that, Like Us He Has Suffered, Our Billionaire, Our Prince. Our Prince, Our Hope, Our Guide, The Best Of Us, The We We Can Be, Our Example, Our Helping Hand, Our Guiding Star, Like Us He Suffers, Still He Fights, the words spiraled, melted, flowed together, until they came together, in the lines and curves that formed the Title of the Mantle, The White Knight.

It wasn't like the Mantle the kid bore.  It was nothing like the Mantle of Robin at all.  The kid's Mantle was intimately, inseparablely Connected to Jason Todd-Wayne and yet, at the same time, fit loose and transitory.  Constantine had seen the like before.  One day, not far off, the Mantle of Robin would peel away from the boy, after which it would float freely, tethered in the collective consciousness, the very essence of the City, until the day it would once again attach to someone, not Jason but someone new, and become just as integral and yet inevitably transitory a part of them.  The split from its Bearers might be painless or it might be painful, but it would always, certainly, be messy, with pieces of previous Bearers forever a part of the Mantle and the Mantle ever a part of previous Bearers, though not as it had been before.  Claim and Belonging would ever stretch between the Mantle of Robin and those who had Borne it, Been it, no matter how many wore the Mantle or how long or when.  It was a form of Legacy Mantle, made to be passed along, meant to be grown out of and meant to guide and aid the Bearer's growing, in addition to its other, more outward Aspects.  Robin was already a powerful Mantle and, should the usual course of such kinds of Mantles be followed, would grow stronger with every Host.

Bruce Wayne's Mantle--the White Knight Mantle--was very different

Unlike Robin, the White Knight Mantle was Anchored.  It was a Mantle for Bruce Wayne, and only Bruce Wayne, by its very definition.  When Bruce Wayne passed, the Mantle may linger in the Mythos and Memory of Gotham City, but it would never attach itself to someone else, nor could any magic or power force even the briefest of Associations, because the very formation of such would be a violation of the definition of the Mantle itself.

Constantine had seen this kind of Mantle before, and he was certain he'd classified it correctly.  There was no issue with how its present strength compared to that of the Robin Mantle--Legacy Mantles might have an advantage in gaining power, especially as their age increased, but Singular Mantles like this one could be as strong or stronger than even ancient Legacy Mantles.  There were many examples of such.  So that wasn't the issue here.

No, the issue was the second Connection, faint, only barely Perceivable even with Constantine's best efforts, but definitely there, to a Mantle that was by definition capable of only one.

That should not be possible.

Yes, Wayne was the Terror's Host.  But this was a Singular Mantle.  It should be possible for the Terror to Influence Wayne, and by doing so perhaps Influence Wayne's Mantle through its Bearer.  Not only was it conceptually, hypothetically conceivable, but there was also plenty of precedent of such things.

But for the Terror to form its own, independent Connection to a Singular Mantle for which it was not the Bearer, even one Borne by its Host?

No.  No chance, no conceivable possibility, no precedent, absolutely nothing of the sort existed.  It shouldn't be possible.  It wasn't possible.

And yet...Constantine Saw it, was Seeing it, with his own Eyes.

More, Behind-Under the Mantle of the White Knight, Bruce Wayne Bore--not even a second Mantle, so much as the Shadow of a second Mantle.  It Settled and Attached to the parts of the Terror that were Present in Wayne, stretched back towards the parts elsewhere.  Constantine didn't dare pick the Mantle of the Dark Knight apart as he had the White, not when the Terror was its Bearer, not when he'd need to cast his awareness away from the relative safety of what little of the Terror was Present in its Host and towards its greater accumulations elsewhere to do so.  There was a time to leave well enough alone and the sacrifice of relative safety was not worth the information, not this time.

Besides, Constantine didn't need to know the specifics of the Dark Knight Mantle to know that something strange was going on with it.  Constantine didn't know what kind of Mantle the Dark Knight was, didn't know if it was Singular or Legacy or if it could be Shared.  But this?  A Sharing like this, a Connection not only to the parts of the Terror in Wayne, but to Wayne himself, in a way that was almost hidden, in an ambiguous, amorphous manner that seemed at once Strong and Weak, Certain and Uncertain, His and Not His, in a way that Constantine had never Seen before, never even heard about--Wait.

Constantine's thoughts ground to a halt, the train crashing into a brick wall someone had erected in the middle of the track.

He could feel Gotham Watching him, /-anticipation-/ stilling the air.

Wait.  That wasn't...but surely it couldn't be.

The Terror inched a bit more of itself inside its Host's skin, /-curious-/...and not in a way that wanted to know what the mage thought he'd figured out, not so much as it was in a way that suggested not knowing.

Surely not.  It couldn't be, not something so rare, so precious, not with the Terror.  And how could it not know?!  It was the only thing John knew of that could explain the Singular Mantle having two Connections but...with the Terror?!  And if it was--

A giggle like the clattering of pearls on the stones of an alley echoed in John's ear, the shell turning warm from the bated breaths that whispered of conspiracy in dark alleys, in brightly lit houses, in police stations under their the watchers' very noses, carried on the hoots of owls and the wings of bats--/-Isnt-it-the-best-joke-ever?-/ Lady Gotham Resonated, a tight emission for the Laughing Magician and the Laughing Magician alone.  /-Shh-careful-now/Don't-spoil-the-fun-/ the emotion-concept danced along John's magic, as threat and an invitation all in one.

Well.

WELL.

Bruce Wayne was Gotham's, clearly.  And...he had a kid.  Kids, even.  And...the Terror...also had a kid.  Maybe even kids.  If it really was...that--and Gotham herself seemed to think it was--then the Terror probably had kids, plural.  Just like its Ho--Just like its...Bruce, John supposed.  Although even for that Host wouldn't be wrong, exactly...

Bruce Wayne was the White Knight.  The Mantle fit him, was just for him, and that Mantle was a good one, one that spoke of good deeds, of hope.  Was the Terror even capable of such things?

John wouldn't have thought so.  Everything he knew, everything he'd ever heard about it, said it couldn't be.

And yet...Gotham said that this was a case of that.  The evidence of John's own Sight said the same.  The Mantle must have felt, so much as Mantles could do anything of the sort, that the Terror was capable, or it wouldn't have that second Connection, even with that.

Well.

Ok, then.

Maybe...just maybe...they weren't all going to die, after all.  In the normal course of things, Constantine wouldn't bet a penny on the Terror changing, being or becoming something other than destruction.  But if that was happening...maybe, just maybe, there was a chance.

A chance was all that John Constantine, the Laughing Magician, had ever needed to start with, to work with.  Even the ghost of the ghost of one would do, for the mage whose Magic, whose Luck, could laugh at the efforts of Lady Luck herself.

Wayne was looking at him.  The kid, too.

Crumbs, he'd missed something.  How long had he been the subject of their attention?  They were definitely waiting for him to say something, but John hadn't a bloody clue what the question had been.

Eh, to heck with it.  He'd just ask one of his own.  There was, after all, such a thing as priorities.

"First things first, luv," John drawled, leaning back in his chair as if he hadn't a care in the world, valiantly ignoring the kid's rolling eyes that declared he was fooling nobody.  "Got anything to drink?"

Chapter Text

John Constantine stared morosely into his cup. The freshly poured soda fizzed cheerfully back at him, undeterred by the scowl the magician leveled at it. Maybe if he stared long enough the dark liquid would change to a more adult beverage.

He closed his eyes, imagining it, savoring the mental image. Then he gusted a sigh and let it go. Alas, all dreams must end. At least soda was better than water. Water was just boring.

John Constantine opened his eyes, ready now to look again at the disappointment that was his cup and bolster himself for the negotiations to come, as best he could, with its sharp, cheerful fizz--but his hands were empty. The cup was gone, his fingers curled around nothing but air.

Constantine blinked, swore, and looked around. He hadn't let his awareness lapse that much as he daydreamed of alcohol, had had his eyes closed for no more than two minutes, tops, so wh--Aha!

"Your own cup wasn't good enough for you, brat?" Constantine bit out, glaring at his wannabe employer as the child savored another long sip of John's drink. In answer, the kid downed the rest of John's cup, then plunked it on his father's desk with a satisfied sigh, right next to the child's own empty cup.

"You spent five minutes just sitting there glaring at it, then you closed your eyes and spent two more minutes trying to break the cup with your bare hands. I rescued the cup before you could break it, and then I saved you from my brother's wrath by drinking the soda," the Terror's child corrected the mage, unbothered.

John crossed his arms and glared at the boy, a silent demand for an explanation. It was his father, though, the Terror's Host, who answered. Constantine turned towards him as he spoke, though not fully, scrutinizing the boy's reaction to the father's words for any hints of treachery.

"He's not wrong," Wayne corroborated the boy's story easily, fondness and amusement providing the faintest hints of color to an otherwise solomn and serious statement. "My eldest decries flat soda as a travesty and abomination, and this particular soda is Dick's favorite."

"You're welcome," the kid yawned, the faintest hint of a bite under the lazy cloak.

Constantine rolled his eyes and huffed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever kid. You're not getting credit for it in the negotiations either way, so shove it."

"You still haven't had anything to drink yet, though, and you were quite insistent on that being a necessary prelude to our negotiations," Wayne protested, raising a brow as if he was confused. The man was a good actor, Constantine would give him that, but there was no way it wasn't feigned.

Constantine sneered at the man and deliberately turned his nose up at the water he so helpfully offered.

"Sod off. The soda was a stretch as it was, water's just an insult."

"It isn't tap water," Wayne said, as of he expected the words to be reassuring, his head tilted to the side, the very picture of confused innocence. The Terror's Host had no business looking like that, no matter what else was going on there. No business looking innocent, no business looking like he belong--

"We're being Watched, you know. Shouldn't you take care of that before we get down to business?" Constantine demanded, absolutely done with this nonsense.

The Terror's Host froze in an instant, a predatory chill both human and decidedly not wisping off tense skin and burning in their eyes. In the chair next to John, the kid--no, Robin, the power of the Mantle feathering the air, froze as well.

It was probably for the best that Wayne's--was it Wayne's?--next words cut off Constantine's remark about how now he could see the family resemblance before the mage could make it.

"How [many. What] kind."

It was a demand, not a question. But John Constantine didn't get where he was by letting vastly more powerful beings walk all over him. Manners were a thing, reputation mattered, and the mage had seen enough now for the immediacy of the threat the Terror posed--to the Reality as a whole, yes, but, more importantly, to Constantine himself--to fade. There was room here, to dance between obeisance and obliteration and he? He was John bloody Constantine, the Laughing Magician, the mortal human whose magic Was Luck just as much as Lady Luck, its Deity and Incarnation, Was Luck, and, as the Terror's own kid had acknowledged back in the bar, 'the best Contract Mage out there,' good enough to stand on the same level as the kid's inhuman parents with a different perspective, a human perspective, that the kid needed.

Everything up to this point, it had swept clear a patch of ground on a precipice that could, if one squinted really hard and tilted their head just right, picture as a stage. And once given a stage, what could the Laughing Magician do but perform?

Reputation mattered, after all, and for John to be able to say he'd tangoed with the Terror, been himself, and come out intact, with a profit, even? The boost that would give to his reputation would blow the roof off the House of Mystery.

He could save so many lives with that

John leaned back in his chair, languid in the face of the Terror's demands.

"Who do you think, Sunshine?" He snarked cheekily at the horror...and its Host. Hmm. That'd still had some separation there, hadn't it? Constantine was a right wanker, but he wasn't that much of a wanker. "Or Sunshines, rather, sorry 'bout that. I know I can be a nasty rat bastard and I won't apologize for that, but even I have standards. Now, when to use what pronouns for you--the Terror's 'it,' or the usual he's for Brucie, if I've gotten the vibes right, and do let me know if I've got them wrong--not to mention if it's singles verse plurals, well, it's not the easiest thing in the world to work out, but I won't be going and getting it wrong on purpose, yeah?"

Wayne--and it was, abruptly, Wayne again, for the most part, anyway--blinked at John. The kid snickered at his old man's bemusement.

John could've almost sworn he saw, just for a moment, Wayne's own lips twitch in response, into the tiniest of smiles. Could've almost sworn he saw it flicker bigger, brighter, before it flickered away, when the Ghost joined in on the kid's fun, magic roiling through the electronic aether around them--quite a ways around them, actually, how strong was that thing--sparks of fizzy joy tumbling out at the Joins and tickling the kid through the phone in his hands, arcing across to the Terror and the Prince from the keys and mouse on their desk.

Right. That.

Constantine didn't move from his seat, but somehow he seemed to be almost mincing as he lifted an eyebrow and, daintily, delicately, like some prissy princess in a drama holding a used tissue but decidedly without the disgust, flung the smallest of threads of his own magic towards the nearest of the Ghost's escaping sparks.

"Watcher number one," he drawled, lounging languid because everything was a show.

The kid didn't get it, couldn't Feel it, John could see it in his face. No surprise there, the kid was only human, after all, a member of a species evolved not to Sense, to See. Constantine would have been more surprised if he had sensed the filament of magic he'd sent the spark's--and the kid's--way. The mage was far more interested if Bruce would be able to pick it up--not the Terror, watching behind his eyes, but the human Host--but the Terror--no, the Gestalt-- didn't give him the chance to see Wayne's reaction.

"[My Daughter,]" that drawled dangerously, a low rumble of warning emanating from the physical form, "[may Watch whatever she likes.]"

Constantine swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He waved a hand in the air, an attempt at a casual dismissal of the matter. His audience was far too perceptive for that to work, and Constantine knew it, but that didn't stop the mage from trying anyway.

"Sure, mate, sure. Wasn't under the impression kids were regularly allowed into business meetings, but not my kid, not my city, and I got no objection to her presence. Just due diligence, is all," Constantine shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets to shore up his casual act even as he sat up a bit more in his seat. "You did come looking cause you wanted a contract mage, after all," he breezed on, allowing his tone to become just a bit pointed as he did. Cut back the encroaching grass a bit, stabilize that cliff edge, he still had a performance to complete, show must go on and all that. He was still useful, see? Job to do and all that. He was even doing it well, case in point--

"Didn't think you'd want me to teach your kid bad habits. Sure, the giggling ghostie was probably fine, but you'd know all about how much wiggle room a blighter can get from that sort of 'probably,' even when that's right. That the sort of teacher you're looking for, no reason to go bothering me, was there?"

And...there we go. Bit of a reminder, bit of flattery--no lies, nothing untrue in any of it, that was important--and...success. John Constantine, Laughing Magician, Master of Luck, master of getting lucky with the weird and wild and oh so out of his league--don't think about the magazine covers, don't think about what other things the dryness in his mouth and tingling in his spine could come from, kids in the room, the big bad scary aura of the fudging Terror of the Beyond was not attractive, nope, not even with Wayne added to the mix to make that...

Constantine bit down on a whimper.

Nope, nope, nope. Where'd he been going with that, why had he been thinking about that, right, charming. Words with multiple meanings, skills with multiple uses, victory, celebration, yup. Ok, great, he knew how his brain got there, time to walk it back up and out of the gutter, yeah? Quickly, cause that was speaking again, pay attention, John--

"[This is Gotham. Surely you know, surely you heard it on the streets as you made your way here, that there is no escape from Oracle's all seeing eyes,"] that said, and it was smirking at him. It sounded almost amused. Wait, Wayne was just as much a part of that as the Terror, so should it be 'he'? Oh look, brain, a distraction--

It was definitely that, so definitely the singular, except it could any second become more plural, so 'they' was still an option, and that might just want to stick with the plural the rest of the time, too, because nothing was ever simple, was it? Boiling Voids, of course he'd had to go and point out the Ghost--the Terror's kid, apparently--before they had a chance to clear up his confusion earlier. Great job, Constantine, really.

Right. Ok. Deep breath. Think it through, it's not that tough. If they didn't know they were that, using the singular when John could tell that the Components were in that state and the plural when the Components were some degree of Distinct could be a clue. Definitely something to avoid then. The Cursed City was performing a vital function and John wouldn't come out of a scrap like that unscathed--there was no need to go about upsetting his very Cursed Hostess unnecessarily.

Well, he'd told them it was a problem, yeah? So John figured he had politeness covered, even if he hadn't gotten an answer. He'd just go on as he would have with any pair of something-or-other and Host, for the most part--a sort of weigh the vibes and best guess policy--except he'd make sure to stick to plurals and 'they's even when the two were very clearly not two at all. If they had a different preferred pronoun for when they were in full that, well, John doubted the Terror of the Beyond would be too shy to speak up about it, and Wayne was certainly no wilting flower, either.

Yeah, this was fine. And speaking of fine...

"You good with the Lady City Watching, too?" John checked, his relaxed posture more genuine now that he'd gotten a little bit of internal conflict resolved. He had everything under control, cool, confident, suave, powerful. The Laughing Magician. No act here, no siree.

The Ghost tittered as the Prince favored Constantine with a regal nod, contrasting harshly with the Princeling's scoff.

"Weren't you listening, earlier--" the kid began.

Constantine waved him off. "In the alley with Scoundrel and the other street kids, yes, I remember. That's not good enough, kid, not for now, not for here, not for this. Taking it as such is the kind of lazy mistake one side or the other can use to get quite a lot from the other party, in influence or wiggle room if nothing else. It can be a double-edged sword, though, don't even point out the possibility exists unless you know what you're doing and are sure you'll be able to use it to your advantage. Anyone who doesn't check such things out beforehand is either ignorant, naive, stupid, or wants the option to use them to their advantage later. Or they're just plain lazy."

The boy, still angry, opened his mouth to lay into the mage. Before he could start, Wayne leaned over his desk and prodded his son with a pad of paper. The anger drained away, leaving behind a slightly injured pout. John heard the brat mutter something about how his dads were supposed to be on his side as the kid took the pad of paper. A pencil, gently tossed and easily snagged from the air, also made its way into the boy's possession.

"You should take notes," Wayne admonished, and John preened. "BatCape says it's good advice, even if it was offered for free."

Wayne raised an eyebrow at the preening Contract Mage, knowing exactly what the man had been playing at by offering the info. John continued to preen, undeterred. It wasn't like he'd been trying to be obscure about it, anyway. And there was something deeply satisfying about the scratch of pencil across paper, as the kid recorded the little bit of wisdom John had imparted.

Huh. Maybe there was something to being on the teaching end of this learning thing, after all. Too bad everyone he got close to went and died on him.

John shook his head, sharply. His fingers twitched, itching to reach for a cigarette, but he didn't bother. If he wasn't allowed a sip of alcohol from his own cup, then a cigarette, and the secondhand smoke exposure, certainly wasn't going to fly. The mage distinctly felt the lack of each of the familiar, steadying comforts as he ran through a mental checklist.

Right. That was everything, then. Time to start the show.

It felt wrong, turning from the Terror--from its Host, from its Other--to focus on the kid, but, in another way, right. They would have done this, just the two of them, back at the bar, if Constantine hadn't needed to See, to assess the immediacy of the Terror's threat with his own eyes. Just because the Terror and its Host were here now, a part of this in a way the Watching Cursed City and the Ghost in the Machine weren't, didn't change who his client was.

"So, kid," Constantine began, leveling the Terror's Child, Gotham's Princeling, Robin, with an intent, serious gaze, abruptly all business. "What do you want?"

Jason Todd transformed as well, matching Constantine's sudden seriousness easily. A fragment of Constantine's mind noted how easily and seamlessly the boy, the young man, turned from somewhat playful to deadly serious, from a boy sitting in on and participating in his father's meeting to its leader, cool and confident and in command. How Wayne and the Terror, at the same time, as if on some unspoken signal, though there'd been no hint of such that Constantine could Sense, became part of the background, as if they were no more than an advisor or special expert only invited to speak when spoken to or when a higher ranking but less knowledgable speaker said something greivously wrong about their area of expertise.

"I want you to teach me about Soul Sacrifice--" Jason Todd began, confident, sure.

Constantine cut him off at the knees.

"No, you don't."

Jason bristled, indignant and offended. "Yes, I do. I put a lot of thought into this, did my research, I'm not unaware of the risks to myself. I got a job to do. I need this to do it right."

Constantine pointed at the puffed-up princeling. "See, that? Right there. You just said it, kid, you have a goal, something you want to use Soul Sacrifice for. That goal, that's what you want, not to learn about Soul Sacrifice. If you just wanted to learn about Soul Sacrifice, you'd have looked for a teacher who specializes in that, not for a Contract Mage like me. There's overlap, sure, but why bother settling for that when you can afford the best?"

The kid settled a bit, somewhat appeased, but the jut of his chin and the glint in his eyes was still stubborn. "I did my research. The Lady, Dad, Tim--even chatted to the cultists when I busted them, read the books once Dad and Tim made them safe."

Constantine was surprised to learn the kid had already gone after more sources than the Terror and the Cursed City, but it still wasn't good enough. Constantine told the kid why.

"Limited sources, all of them. Gotham and the Terrror for their inexperience with things from the perspective of the one setting up the sacrifice, a failing you've already said is why you sought me out in the first place. The cultists, for, if they were anything like most of the sort, having little beyond a rote memorization of what's in their own rituals and texts with maybe a smidge of practical experience on variations, shoestring budget and last minute quick-fixes for some muck-up or another that happened to late to abort and how it affected the result. Their books, too, were almost certainly hyperfocused on whatever the cult was obsessed with to the point of near completely lacking anything you could extrapolate any general understanding of the larger subject from. And Tim...admittedly I don't know enough about the source to pass judgement, but there's a reason you sought me out after talking to them, isn't there?"

The remaining anger drained from the young man's shoulders. Good, Constantine had gotten the little bugger thinking. He'd almost been ready to get up and go, wash his hands of the whole thing. John had learned the hard way not to teach kids how to do anything with a price tag if it didn't either come relatively safe or if they didn't seem the sort to go off half-cocked after the first few lessons no matter how much he'd said and they'd supposedly understood the dangers.

Even after the lesson finally made it through his skull, John'd still lost seen far too many suffer the consequences of him judging them wrong on the second. If the kid in front of him hadn't checked that box, Constantine would have walked, no matter what the Terror of the Beyond or this Cursed City had to say about it. He couldn't go through that again.

"What makes you different, then?" Jason challenged. The kid's eyes were narrowed, but it was interest more than defiance. The kid had already figured out the answer in those few seconds they'd sat silent, he just wanted John to say it. Maybe to hear the mage judge himself as he had the other sources, maybe to get the instructor to finish the lesson, maybe just to check his work, Constantine didn't know. But it wasn't combative, for all the challenge in it, not really. Good enough for him.

"I've got the research and background experience to understand, use, and teach, like Lady Gotham and your dad, but I'm coming at it from a different perspective--the one they lack and you need. I also have access, or know how and where to go to get access, to more information if I don't know or aren't sure of something. I have a far better idea of what human limitations and capabilities are, even with something extra in the mix, and have practical, firsthand experience in figuring out how to accomplish a goal or solve a problem of sorts close enough in kind to whatever yours is that the skill applies. Which means..." Constantine trailed off. Worst case, he'd pass it off as a dramatic pause, but the kid had been doing pretty well so far.

Jason didn't let him down. "It means that, although you have the knowledge necessary to teach me how to implement the solution my family and I came up with, you also have, or have access to, enough background and related, general information to identify other viable solutions that might get the same result, possibly even a better one. Which is why you want me to tell you what my end goal is, not just hear what I think the Contract Outlined by the Circle needs to say. Because no matter how much research or thought I put into it, I don't have the general, underlying knowledge, or lack the perspective to utilize it effectively, to sufficiently evaluate my planned solution in comparison to other viable solutions. My ability to come up with other viable solutions is too limited by that lack of knowledge for it to be otherwise, and don't I have enough of an idea of what knowledge I'm missing to fix that on my own. In other words," Jason relaxed suddenly, and grinned crookedly at Constantine. "I don't know what I don't know."

Wait a minute. John narrowed his eyes at the kid. "Were you testing me?!"

Jason just raised an eyebrow and gave him a look that said, 'Well, duh.'

"Cheeky brat," Constantine muttered, unable to entirely suppress his own grin. "Right, let's try this again, shall we? What do you want?"

Jason Todd-Wayne, Princeling of the Cursed City of Gotham, Child of the Terror of the Beyond, Robin, looked at the mage, silent, for several long seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy, but even, giving nothing away. "Tell me, Constantine. When I brought you here, when we walked through the streets, all the way from the outer edges to the posh, well-kept area where Wayne Industries has its HQ, what did you see?"

John's grin twitched, just a little bit wider. The kid was starting to get his measure now, was he? Well, he wasn't the only one, and John happened to have a slightly longer memory than the average goldfish.

"Think you're cute, do you, brat? Yeah, I remember our walk. Remember why it took so long, too, the bits that actually mattered to you. You don't want my opinion on the shiny, on the ends you actually mentioned. You want to know if I saw the desperation in those grubby faces, if I passed the time you spent distributing goodies counting the ribs I could see as easily as the bloody stones at our feet. You want to know," Constantine paused, an echo of that same awful awareness that he'd seen in young eyes at an alley mouth weighting the silence and, as he continued, slow and solemn, his words. "If I heard what it meant, the words between you and Scoundrel. If, when she spoke of punches and kisses, I caught on to the sorts of dangers, the predators, that she had to be wary of. That you considered a run-in with so likely you didn't just fear she'd encountered them--no, you assumed she had. That she'd encountered that sort of vile, all too human pile of sentient muck and handled it herself, as a matter of course, not even standing out enough to tell you about. If I caught that it wasn't just pride but care that kept her quiet, as she pushed you away, to the safety of these 'posh, well-kept' streets even as she tethered you there with reminders of shared history, shared tradition, and shared Claim. If I caught how much it was of what she has, what all those kids have, what you had, this Cursed City's Favor. If I knew that you knew, that she knew, just how little and likely life is, for every one of the ankle biters in those alleys."

Constantine stopped talking, for a bit. Wished desperately for a real drink, for something to help wash down the lump trying to form in his throat. Dang Cursed Cities, letting their emotions emanate out like that.

"Yeah," John continued, not ungently, after a few swallows. "Yeah, kid, I saw."

The princeling stretched his hand out and twitched his fingers in a little, impatient 'and?'

Constantine felt his eye twitch. This brat. How dare he be impatient when John was showing actual sympathy? Did he think he handed this stuff out like he did slivers of his soul?!

"It's not fair, kid, but there's only so much anyone can do about it. This is a Cursed City, in't? It may not be the sort of thing they Draw, but as Deaf and Blind as humans are, as much a defense as that gives us, it only goes so far, yeah? Where one goes, the other follows, that's just the way of it. There's a reason, that it's a Curse."

Jason Todd nodded, his eyes dark and humorless as he acknowledged the mage's words. "I know," the young man admitted, his voice soft. "I know what she's like, this City who loves me. I know what lives here. I know what it's like to be hunted down by monsters with human shapes and souls, what it's like to hope for monsters you can't believe could be human to manifest from the shadows and save you, to know it's the only hope you have of being saved. I know what it's like to have nothing, absolutely nothing, so that even a dead rat becomes a feast beyond dreaming, a bounty you can't afford to waste an atom of. I know what it's like, to carve that rat's teeth into dice, the bones into needles, to try desperately to spin dirty, diseased fur into some kind of string, to have to choose between eating the toughest bits of sinew or using them for the same, much more effectively. I've worn clothes together from threadbare scraps discovered in dumpsters, using those sinews as string, pulled through the fabric by needles crafted from the rat's bones. An Alley Rat wastes nothing. We can't--they can't-- afford to."

Jason looked down, and admitted, "Well, I can afford to, now. But I'm still Alley, even so. Still Scoundrel's rat, and she's still my mouse. I'm still graced with the Lady's Special Favor, that only us Alley Rats have--that's so often all we have. And I still know the types of horrors, the ones that can be all too human, that hunt and hide in the Alley's dark."

The Princeling--Robin--raised his eyes again, and it was and wasn't the young man's blue, piercing but human, was and wasn't white socket-lenses looking out from a black band mask, sharp and Seeing and, indescribably but distinctly, avian. "I still want to protect them, those around me, those with even less than my nothing. But now...now I can."

The boy blinked, and the eyes locked with Constantine's own were blue again, still. "But I don't want to lose myself while doing it."

Jsson Todd twisted away, turned to his father. "B can't do it. Not enough, not for the Alley, not for what we need. And B won't, since B can't, because even if he can't, B's still good, still best just the way he is, and nothing and no one is worth breaking that," the young man reassured his father, compassionate and understanding and fierce.

The kid turn again, to the cups, now long emptied of the soda that had attempted to masquerade as a proper drink. "Dick could," the boy admitted, softly. "He's like me, not B, that way. He has the potential for it, to come back from that, to still be himself, to dig in his heels and say 'this far and no farther' and make it stick. He could."

The princeling turned yet again, back to Constantine, now. "He could," the boy repeated. "But I don't want him to. Even if he got through it, rose above it--and it is an 'if,' because 'could' isn't the same as 'will'--it would still drag him down, still stain his feathers. And Dick was always meant to fly. And Tim..." Jason shuddered and shook his head." No. Just, no."

The eyes of Gotham's second Princeling were steady, resolute, as they bored into Constantine's own. "So let it be me. I'm no stranger, to the blood and the muck. I could do it, like the B's, like Batman, like NightWing, like Robin. I could. A lot of the time, I will. But it won't be, it wouldn't be, enough. Not on its own. Some people won't ever change. Some victims won't ever feel safe, won't ever be safe, while their tormentors yet breathe. But I'm Alley, Alley to the bone. And Alley doesn't kill without making use of everything."

The young man's fingers traced along the seam of his sleeve. Constantine couldn't help but imagine the stitching as sinew. He wondered if, in his mind's eye, the boy saw the cloth as soul.

The young man breathed, in and out, not quite a sigh.

"But I also know what I could become. What the drive to protect, to help, my City and those victims, what the instinct to hoard honed by 12 years in the Alley, could, will, lead me to, if I'm not careful. I also don't want to be like the others I've encountered that use Soul Sacrifice. The mice would be afraid of a cultist. As well they should be, but I don't want them to be afraid of me. So I have to be different. That's why, when I Sacrifice, there can't be protection. Not for me. Or if there is, there can only be enough to prevent mistakes, only enough to make sure my soul only gets taken if it's by Lady Gotham's choice. Because it has to be her choice, to take the souls. Not just mine, but theirs. Either way they die--I can make that choice, that they die. But their soul...I could choose wrong. I could kill someone who was trying to be better. I could kill someone who wasn't going to be a threat in the future. I could kill someone who went as far as they did because of Toxin, or magic, or blackmail. Some people don't deserve to live. Some people need killing. But I know that I'm not perfect. I know that, by starting on this path, I could easily become someone that others would put in that category. I don't care about them, for the most part. They don't know me. They only see what I do, and not even all of that. They don't know the why. But she does. This City. My City. My Mom. Beautiful, Terrible, Cursed, and so full of love, for all of us, for every one of Hers, even the ones who deserve no more and less than a bullet through their skulls. She knows all of me, and she'll know all of my victims, too. So let her choose, if they deserve worse than death, or if they'd find some meaning, some measure of redemption, in their miserable souls going towards helping the City who loved them, the City whose people they harmed."

The young man crooked his lips into a wry grin and shrugged. "If I go to far, if I can't be reasoned with, if I become that which I hunt...it would be a good fate, for my soul. Fitting. An honor, even. To be torn apart for the sake of my City, my family," Gotham's Princeling admitted.

Gotham's Prince, and his Eldritch companion, grunted. Constantine had no clue what it meant. He'd have dismissed it as just a random sound, meaningless, if the kid didn't immediately whirl on his fathers, hands flailing. "Not that that's a goal, or anything! I'll be around forever, just like Alfred, don't you worry B's. It's just a 'just in case.' A silver lining. If things go wrong. If everyone does their best, but 'can' never becomes 'will,' anyway, and you--she--if it has to be done. Then at least you'll know. That I was okay with it. That I signed up for it. That I would've found worthwhile--which is not to say that, in other circumstances, ones that didn't make that a necessary choice, living wouldn't be more worthwhile. Just that--if it comes to that, that' wouldn't be something to feel guilty for. 'Cause it's what I would want. Then. Not in other circumstances."

Wayne grunted again. It sounded exactly the same as the first grunt. The kid apparently heard a difference, because he stopped flailing his arms and crossed them over his chest instead.

"I don't have a death wish, B's," the boy scoffed.

A third, absolutely blooming identical grunt. Which, yet again, was followed by another wildly different reaction from the kid. This time, the kid nodded, relieved and, apparently, appeased. Then he turned back to John, and started talking, all happy as a pig in muck and ready to get back to negotiations.

John swatted at the air until the kid took the dang hint and shut up. "What," the mage broke off flatly, trying not to scream, "The heck. Was that."

The kid quirked an eyebrow. Wayne affixed a look of polite confusion to his face.

"Umm...talking with my dads?" The brat hazarded, slowly, in the voice of someone who knew their answer was, if not wrong, not quite right either.

Constantine didn't believe it--either of them!--for an instant. "In what language?!" He hissed, trying valiantly not to scream. "There were just grunts! Three, absolutely, bloody, identical grunts! That was it! There weren't even any non-human bits of communication thrown in, no Emanations, no Radiations, no magic, nothing! I was paying very close attention the third time, and I'm sure of it! Therefore, I repeat, what. The. Heck! Was that!?"

They looked at him, the kid, the Host, and the Terror. John was certain he could feel Gotham and the Ghost, too, judging him. Then, they looked at each other. Then they looked back at him. Long seconds passed in silence. Then, finally, very solemnly, seriously, Wayne nodded his head, opened his mouth...

...Then closed it.

And grunted.

Again.

A fourth time.

Identically to the other three.

"Exactly! What he said!" The brat announced, throwing his hands up in the air as if something both obvious and profound had been clearly stated.

It had not.

It most definitely had not.

John's eye twitched. He took in a deep breath and held it. He, very deliberately, did not scream. If there was a sound like an angry tea kettle as the air rushed back out past his lips, well, that was just fancy whistling.

John pointedly turned away from Wayne and to the kid. He fixed the brat with the most deadpan expression he could muster, and hoped he didn't look as much as he felt that the rest of his soul had just escaped from his body.

"Ok, kid, come on. You were just getting to the good part, yeah? Not that the other stuff wasn't relevant and all, but..." The mage waved a hand limply through the air. "Go on. What is it that you want?"

The brat rolled his eyes. He didn't need to actually say it for Constantine to hear the words, 'I literally just told you this,' loud and clear. John glared back at the kid. He refused to apologize for being distracted by the discovery of a new language. Especially such a nonsense of a language, comprised of exactly one word!

"I've said it all already, I think," the kid grumbled, relenting. "It can't be done by way of a Deal but...yeah, that's all of it. Do you want a summary or something? Well, with the provision that this is a bit of summary and hyperbole, and that what came before wins any conflicts, or whatever..." The boy shrugged. "Mom's a Cursed City, right? She goes after certain sorts of things, like Dad is, then uses their power to help her people and reality as a whole. Dick sometimes argues that she may as well be a blessing to the rest of the world, but she's classed as a Curse because of what that means for herself and, since she's a City, for her people. So if a Curse is what Mom is...then what I want, John Constantine, is for you to make a Curse out of me."

The kid kept talking, asking if that was clear or if he needed to start over from the beginning, but John wasn't listening, not really, not enough to do more than catch if he tried to throw in a last second curveball.

A Curse, hm? The kid hadn't meant it like that, not seriously, he knew.

And yet...

John Constantine's eyes caught on the Mantle of Robin.

Well. That would be one way to go about it. It would allow for a lot more...flexibility with the Sacrificial Circles, too, which could be important, depending on how the kid wanted to use them...

Of course, there were other options...

"Hey!" The kid's shout broke into his thoughts. John blinked back. The kid looked impatient. Wayne looked amused. "Can you do it or not?" Jason Todd demanded.

Listening for someone trying to pull a trick, Constantine was reminded, was not the same thing as keeping an ear out for anything meaningful.

Constantine held up a finger, telling the kid to wait. He had been doing so as they went along, of course, but it was always best to make a last analysis of the proceedings before one sealed the deal. Even when they weren't Deals, but other, lesser negotiations. John Constantine hadn't earned his reputation as a Contract Mage for nothing. True there was a bit left, but that was just the matter of his fee, which should be fairly standard.

The kid tried to talk, once or twice, while Constantine scrutinized the negotiations thus far with a fine-toothed mental comb, but his father, seeming to have some idea of what Constantine was doing, waved him quiet. Constantine bet that, behind those human eyes, the Eldritch Terror of the Beyond was doing much the same as the Laughing Magician himself.

It was probably a good ten minutes later that Constantine nodded and put his hand down.

The boy perked up, even as Constantine lounged back.

"Yeah," the Constract Mage said. "I've got some ideas on how we could manage that. Now, about my fee..."

Chapter Text

In the heart of Crime Alley, atop a crumbling warehouse, a hulking figure perched amongst the gargoyles.

Its talons dug into the crumbling roof alongside the stone sentries'. Through the pouring rain, none on the ground below who glimpsed its form, whether they were hustling by on the cobbled streets or looking up through the hole in the ceiling from the warehouse's floor, would spot the sheen of iridescant feathers or the glint of light off sharp beak that would hint that the figure might be anything other than another guardian of still stone. Anything they did catch would be dismissed as nothing more than light glancing off of rain, and nothing more.

That would change, in time.  

In time, they would learn to take note of those glancing glints just the same as they watched the shifts of shadow.

Rather than continue to shove small forms, their hands bound and feet hobbled by heavy rope, into a corner, rather than continue to snarl and jeer at the mice they'd claimed captive, the thugs--lower than even goons, with no affiliations higher in Gotham's criminal hierarchy, and yet they dared strike his mice--would arm themselves and turn their attention outward. They would become watchful and wary, send one of their number to investigate, reach for a hostage... In time, yes, they would do all that and more.

But not now.

Now, they continued as they had before the figure's arrival, knowing, fearing, no better.

Now the figure watched a familiar, scruffy, absolute scoundrel of a mouse stumble purposefully in front of a blow meant for a yet smaller rodent. Remembered talk of punches passed off as kisses, knew this was no more than the natural progression of such things, here in the Alley.

But there was nothing natural about a Curse.

"Make a Curse of me..."

The caw, harsh but quiet, enough that it almost, but not quite, could have gone unheard, echoed off the warehouse walls.

Below, heads snapped to the shadows, in fear and, in the mice, hope. A fist, raised to deliver another punishing blow to his new target, angry that it had dared get between it and the first, halted in midair. In the predator's claws, the mouse's desperate, futile struggle for freedom gained renewed vigor.

"Upon this City..."

Talons scraped.

Feathers slid.

Lightning struck, outlining a figure at the edge of the hole in the warehouse's ceiling, where no gargoyles had lived.

Slowly, a glossy leg reached out. A bird's sharp, gleaming talons curling around the lip of the opening. A cascade of pebbles fell as the new predator's claws dug into crumbling stone.

The mice and prey below shuddered. Hope died. This was not the Bat, the Dark Knight with his Code of Honor. It was not the Shadow's Child, either of them, not the Wing of Night or the Spark of Hope.

"For I've seen the Good..."

The caw was slightly louder now, even as a fresh rain of pebbles and the shift of silhouette hinted at the clench of talons and the tension of muscles that came before a predator lunged at its prey.

Whose good, those below wondered.

"A Curse can do..."

Who was the prey?

"Gotham's Beautiful..."

Suddenly, the figure was among them, his landing heavy with weight yet oddly light, for one of such mass. He crouched on the ground below the center of the hole, feathers swirling around him, scoring the floor, all ash and smoke and sharp, sharp feathers.

"But She sure ain't Pretty..."

A whirl of iridescent ebony, new lines scored into the ground, and a claw, a taloned hand, fastened itself around the throat of the man standing over the mouse.

"As you Cursed Her..."

The new--Rogue? Savior? Boss? Predator--cawed as he dragged the thug back to the ritual circle rhat had been scored into the ground with no more than two feathered strokes. The mouse came with them, still caught in the terrified thug's death grip.

"Curse me too..."

Blood sprayed through the air, droplets landing on man and bird and mouse alike, as sharp beak met weak flesh. The thug's hand spasmed and, finally, let go. The mouse, bruised and battered but suffering no fresh harm, tried to scurry away as the circle, drawn in ash and scored in stone, glowed beneath their feet.

"Make a Curse of me..."

The onlookers, thugs and mice alike, gasped as the bird reached, dragged, the fleeing mouse, hobbled as she was, back in a swirl of darkly gleaming feathers.

One of the thugs even took a step forward, as if to help, apparently drawing the line not at slavery but at Sacrifice, but then the circle shone and the man inside screamed. The scrap-standarded thug backpedaled, tripped, fell onto his backside, as he watched, as they all watched, in silent horror. As light--a muddied, rotten, blackened thing, but light nonetheless, was torn from the dying man, ripped from him by bloody tendrils and black claws that rose from the circle's scratched stone and soot as if they were chasms clawed to another world entirely.

"Upon this City..."

The bird, unharmed and untouched, cawed softly. The other mice cried out as their bravest, trapped under the cultist's feathers, reached out a hand to a bloody tendril.

" Forgiving's a thing..."

The bloody, barbed vine curled around the mouse, holding her in place as the bird stepped away. Hands tore into feathers, the bird's talons ripping at his own wings.

With such a spectacle to compete, only a few of the mice caught the word the oddly calm bravest mouthed.

'Lady...?'

"That Blessings do..."

Stripped feathers shot into the air, buried themselves in feet and knees and throats.

"Make a Curse of me..."

The bird stepped out of the circle.

"Upon this City..."

The bird reached the nearest thug, or rather, the nearest one still living. The man was pinned to the warehouse floor by way of a dark, iridescant feather through his foot.

The bird grabbed the feather, pulled it out, then threw it anew, towards the bravest mouse.

Empty, white eyes, the same abyss that looked out from the face of NightWing or the Bat, never turned to aim or follow, fixed instead on the thug as the bird wrapped a taloned hand around his neck.

The mice, all but one, screamed. The bravest, though, merely flinched within the grasp of the bloody tendril, fading now but still strong, strong enough to hold the mouse. Though, the sharpest eyed watchers noticed, she didn't seem to actually be trying to leave. Not even when the bloody feather threaded Cursed vine and rodent flesh to slice instead through knotted rope, freeing the mouse of her hobbles.

"Know me as..."

The bird stalked back to the circle, dragging the thug with him, leaving a trail of blood behind them. The man fought, kicked, begged, screamed the whole way, to no avail. Bloody vines and sharpened shadows surged with fresh substance as the bird's beak pierced the thug's heart.

Through it all, the other thugs stood still, frozen.

"I come for you."

The creature's caw rang in the air long after its bloodied beak clicked closed. Its empty, abyssal gaze seemed to bore into the watching thugs and mice.

Finally, finally, terror shifted its grip, and the audience's paralysis broke.

Some tried to fight, most tried to flee, leaving the mice behind to the cultist creature's mercy. All the better to buy time, to save their own skins.

It didn't work.

Nothing did.

Blows were shrugged off, whether they came from weapons or fists.

Bullets sparked uselessly off of feathers.

Freshly plucked plumage speared any, all, who tried to run. The thugs, anyway. The mice, hobbled as they were, couldn't make it far, though some tried. They received a brief, empty glance, and were then ignored, their efforts dismissed as futile.

One by one, the bird caught them, killed them, all.

Some, the lucky ones, died with a single blow, a throat slit or an artery cut.  

The rest lived, survived the first strike, only to be dragged into the circle. There they, too, met their end, not by feather, but by beak.

The mice watched all but three of the thugs leak light along with their lifeblood. The other three died as well, but no barbs arose to tear their souls away. The cult-creature didn't seem bothered by this. It simply bowed to the tendrils that lingered from its past offerings and continued its bloody work.

Until finally, only the mice were left.

The mice, the fading tendrils, and the bird.

The bravest mouse stepped out of the embrace of the bloody tendril, already grown too faint to hold her. The other mice hissed at her, in warning and fear.

But, unlike before, the bird made no move to stop the brave mouse from leaving the circle. It simply watched, its white gaze empty and its head tilted in curious interest, as the brave mouse moved towards the others.

It watched, motionless save for the drip of fresh blood from its beak, from the center of the circle, even as the brave mouse carefully used a bloody feather to slice the rope from her hands, freeing them.

It made no move to stop her, to stop any of them, from freeing the rest of the mice, though it did start to shift when some of them moved to leave. It calmed once the would-be wayward mice returned to the group.

It wasn't long before all the mice were free.

Of their ropes, at least. The creature didn't seem keen on letting them go, though it hadn't moved to harm them, either. Not yet.

Time dragged by in wary silence. The mice watched the cult-beast. The cult-beast watched them back.

Until the bravest mouse dared break the stillness.  

She moved, first to the front of the group, then away, shaking off the hands that tried to pull her back to relative safety. Some of the other mice moved as if to follow, but the bravest mouse's voice stopped them.

"Lady's Own," she acknowledged, challenged, the bird.

No. Surely not--it killed, it Sacrificed--never trust a cultist!

Another mouse stepped forward, a mere single step to the bravest's three.

"Scoundrel!" He hissed. "Get away from there! The cults never follow the Lady's true will, you know that--"

"You taught me that!" A small mouse interrupted, the one the brave had taken a blow for earlier. "Come back, Rat! He's not the Lady's--"

"Alley never loses Lady's Favor," Scoundrel reminded the other mice absently, her eyes locked on the bird.

"Alle--that's not Alley, you stupid squirrel!"

Scoundrel took another step forward. The bird leaned towards her, but didn't move from the circle's center.

"Is," she asserted. "None of you were as close. 's why you didn't feel it. But I know the Feel of Our Lady's Watching. Know how it Feels to shelter under Robin's Mantle, or the Bat's, or Night's. Met 'em all, I have, a time or few. Know 'em. Even if they're changing, I know 'em from false."

She stood on the edge of the circle now. She'd walked as she'd talked, step by careful step.

From the center, the bird watched her. In clear invitation, it opened its wings.

Scoundrel didn't go to it. Instead she turned back to the other mice for the first time since she'd started walking and jerked her head. "Eh, come on, Trubs. You met 'em all, too, yeah? She ain't Here here, not anymore, but any Alley Rat Knows the Lady, yeah? Focus on Her, and sus him out, will you?"

"Scoundrel..." A third mouse, already on the edge of the group, spoke up, clearly doubtful. "It's Cult, Scoundrel. It Sacrificed and Summoned."

"It Called--" Scoundrel began, only for the bird itself to cut her off with a sharp clack of its beak.

"Not quite Sacrifice, not quite Cult, my mouse," the bird cawed. Every mouse, even Scoundrel, bristled at that. Who was this thing to call claim?! Of course, it noticed.

"My City, my Alley, my Mice to protect," the bird asserted. "As you Cursed Her, as they Cursed our Mother, Curse me, too, so Cursed is this new Mantle."

Trubs, who'd been inching slowly across the warehouse floor, finally crept up beside Scoundrel. He studied the bird thing with narrowed eyes, stuck out his tongue and sniffed the air. Finally, in a great explosion of air that shook his whole body, he sneezed.  Then, eyes wide, he looked at Scoundrel.

She sniffed in superiority and quirked an eyebrow in a silent, 'see?'

"Robin," Trubs breathed, hardly able to believe that this was their Bright Bird's fledged form. But Scoundrel was right--it was clear, once he'd gotten close enough, would be to any Alley who'd managed to make it long enough. There was no mistaking the Lady.

The bird--Robin--clacked his beak again and shook its head. "Not Robin," he corrected. "Not anymore. Baby Bird, baby brother, will fly soon. Not yet, though. Strange sibling, strange but loved. For him, for Mother, I offer strength. Offer, not Trade, not Deal, Give. Not my Call, never my Call, but Hers. My soul, too, on Offer with theirs. Every time. Our City is Cursed, we Know this, even when we don't know it. This Mantle, Curse me too, a Curse for you, my Mice."

There was something almost pleading in those empty eyes, in those wings still outstretched for a hug.

Scoundrel took another step forward.  She was inside the circle now. "You're not done fledging," she murmured, growing surer with every word. "A new Mantle...but it's not complete. Robin hasn't let go of you, yet, has it?"

It wasn't a question, not really, but the bird answered it anyway. "Not even as much as it ever does. It won't, not fully, not until I grow the final few feathers. I thought, I hoped, this would be enough, but..."

Scoundrel stepped closer. Trubs shadowed her, a step behind. The other mice, too, had moved, at some point. No longer clumped together for defense, they instead formed a messy ring around the ritual circle, the closest of them still a solid few steps from its edge.

"I know what you need," Scoundrel told their bird, stopping only two steps from outstretched ebony, dyed in fresh blood and capable of cutting stone.

The bird chirped inquisitively and tilted his head to the side.

"How does a mouse get a rat?" Trubs contributed from Scoundrel's shadow.

Twin abysses widened. The bird slammed a taloned hand against his own face and threw his head back as he croaked out a series of raucus caws.

Laughter.

"Of course!" He chortled. "What would be more fitting for Gotham's newest Mantle, a Mantle that is Alley first of all. It won't be exactly the same, of course. You wouldn't be accepting me as your Rat, but as your Curse. Even so..." The bird trailed off as he thought.

A few minutes later, he nodded, decisively. Ready.

His feathers flared and settled around him as he drew himself up to his full height. White, abyssal eyes gazed down a lethally sharp beak, until they fell at last upon gathered mice in front of him, Scoundrel and Trubs most of all.

"I see you, you of the Alley," the bird crowed.

"Who sees?" Scoundrel challenged.

The bird clacked his beak and replied. "One who is bigger. One whose claws are sharper. One who would have you as his."

"Who here would you have?" It was Trubs who challenged the bird this time.

"I would have the Alley. Every crumbling cobble, every condemned building that gives precious shelter, the blood, the mud, the muck that tries to drown my Mother's Special Favored. I would have the Alley, living, those who make their way, claw by claw and sneak by sneak, who have only their breath and blood and bone and spite and soul to take them to the next dawn, and still fight for their sunrise. I would have all of it. Who are you, before me, question my claim?"

From the messy circle of mice, the boy who had tried to call Scoundrel back spoke up. "We are who you seek to claim. We are the mice of the Alley. It is in our breath, our bones, our blood."

"We are the victims, the survivors, the Lady's Special Favored," another mouse continued. "We have nothing, but we fight. We fight for life, we fight for better--"

"We fight to leave," the little mouse that Scoundrel had saved interrupted. "We fight for a future we can't find here. Most of us don't make it. But those that do, those who leave the Alley--"

"They are Alley, still." It was Scoundrel now. "Alley is a thing of bones, of blood, of breath, of soul, as much as it is of stone."

"Alley is forever," another mouse from the messy circle took up the speech. "Alley is in and of all of us. We are the mice that live in the Alley."

"And therefore," Trubs took over, "We are the Alley itself."

"We Speak For The Alley. We Speak For Ourselves. Why Should We Allow You To Claim Us?" The mice--Crime Alley--demanded as one.

The bird flared his wings and cawed.

"Because I am Alley! In my blood are its cobbles, in my bones are its muck, its lessons forever engraved in my soul! For as I claim you as mine, so I will be yours!"

"And What Would We Gain From Claiming You Ours That You Do Not Already Give As Alley?" Crime Alley, the mice, demanded.

"A Curse. One that feeds on the Alley,, and feeds it in turn. To that Curse, to me, to my Mantle, you would feed the blood stains that will never fade from your stones, the dying despair of those who meet the monsters that stalk even our safest shadows, the aching hunger that makes a rat a feast beyond dreaming, the misery caused by drinking the muck playing at water that we have no way to boil, the spite that festers and grows in the gardens of our hearts when nothing else can survive, upon all that and more would I feed."

"We Hear What You Would Take. Our History, Our Lost, Our Fuel To Fight. What Would You Give?" Crime Alley responded. 

The bird smirked. "All that I take, I would give as well. For I am Alley, and I would claim the Alley and be claimed by the Alley, and if the Alley takes the stain on the Alley stones, then in the end it is still the Alley who holds the stain."

"Then what's the point of the taking?" The small mouse asked.

The bird's smile was hungry. "Because by taking, a Curse can feed. And through that feeding, it can, I can, grow. Everything the Alley gives, everything that I take, in the instants in between the taking and the return, will grow, leaving me with more than when I started. So will the Alley's Curse grow in power, even as the Alley's mice notice no lack. Haven't you heard? Misery loves company."

"To What End Would You Use That Excess Misery, The Power Grown of The Alley's Pain? For What Would You Use This Claiming?" Crime Alley challenged.

"For the Alley, the larger Alley, not the small piece of it that is myself, would I use this claiming. For Our Mother, who grants us a special place in her heart, I would use this claiming. And for myself, not as Alley, not as Curse, not as Bearer of this Mantle, I would make my own way, with what I've clawed and snuck and won on my own merits, as any Alley Rat should."

"Is That A Promise?" The mice of Crime Alley breathed.

"I make you no promise. Here, now, I will speak to you no mere words, the sounds easily spoken, abandoned, and forgotten. Instead, I will speak from my foundation, from the Alley stones that are the bedrock of my self, even as I carve the words into the same. So does the Bearer of the Cursed Mantle, the Curse of Crime Alley, Hooded Crow, make an Alley's Promise."

"And So Does Crime Alley Make An Alley's Promise, In Turn, To Our Curse, The Hooded Crow, The Second Robin Fledged."

There was a new Curse upon Gotham City.