Beyond Star City: IC Thread

Lunaramblings

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Atlanta. A Decade Ago.

John and Chas were sprinting through an old warehouse.

"Chas, are they ready?"

"Yeah. I think. I did just what you said. Looks like they are right on us. This better work! 3! 2! 1!"

As Chas counted down to 1, the duo hit the ground, sliding on their stomachs through a doorway. As the beings behind them came hot and hard, they hit the doorway and were sliced into several pieces before exploding into ash and smoke.

"Good job."

"You wanna explain what the hell just happened? How did cultists just explode?"

"They weren't cultists. Well, they were, but they were also vampires. Didn't mention that. Sorry. But the strands I had you run, not fishing line like I said. Spun silver. Spun by a certain magical being. Wasn't just straws to gold, he also spun straw to reams of silver. Vampires are deathly allergic to silver. Running pell-mell, at those supernaturally enhanced speeds, they hit the lines like they were a cheese cutter. Poof."

"Next time you decide I am going to turn a door into a giant cheese cutter for vampires, I would appreciate a heads up."

"About the vampires or the plan?" John grins as he puts the cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

"Both. You really are an ass John. No wonder no one else is willing to do this with you." Chas laughs as he pulls the lighter from his pocket and tosses it to John. "So, your contact, he's here? Think he can help?"

John nods. Unwilling to speak the truth to the man that has come so far, further than anyone else, that he had no idea if this contact would actually help him. Or if he was even on the right team these days.

As they climbed the stairs to the office in the back of the warehouse they saw the shadow moving in the windows. The shadow stops and seems to peer into the darkened warehouse. Looking not at them, but through them.

"You have come a long way usurper. Why should I not smite you now?" The voice booms through out the warehouse, shaking them to their core.

Because ya git, you know it's the right choice. You see too much to stand idle. You may not like me. Hell, I don't much like me sometimes, but there is more happening than I can handle alone. I don't have anyone else that I can trust."

The darkness becomes light, and the warehouse is replaced by a meadow. Standing only a few yards ahead is a man.

"Your aura confirms that you are a man seeking redemption. This is a cause I cannot deny. I will assist you. But know this, one of those among your forces will betray you. They will take something most dear from you. When this happens you will be consumed by rage, hatred, and revenge. You must not act on this. You must keep your head and complete what you have sought to do. Vengeance will be yours later if you still require it."

"While your looking ahead, you want to give me the lucky lotto numbers too? Look, whatever support you can lend I'll take it. You clearly know who we are facing. And as for betrayal... we'll see."

As John finishes speaking there is a flash of light and John and Chas are standing outside Jasper's Hollow.

"That's what he calls helping?"

"He will be there when we need him mate. The Stranger is an odd one, but he is a man of his word."

Two Days Later.

The battle was raging on. John's final stand against the Brujaheria. He had called to him as many people as he could. He called in every favor he had. But secretly, he worried it still wouldn't be enough.

John and Zatanna were back to back, casting spells in unison. Taking down wave after wave of demons. The leaders of the Brujaheria stood in the center of the rubble of what had once been a church. They called forth such power. So many demons, beasts, monsters.

Chas was flanking on one side of the field. He was fighting side by side with Ystina, their blades flickering in the light of dawn. She wielded Caliburn with skill and grace. While Chas wielded an unnamed blade with passion and strength. The two were able to stave off and defeat many of the demons before they were pinned down by a monstrous dragon that had been called from one of the portals.

The mystics continued their magicks, trying with all their might to eliminate this final threat. One of them lobbed an orb of darkness straight toward Constantine's heart, but just before it collided, a light flashed and The Phantom Stranger stood before him, his amulet held out, the orb shriveling and dissipating to nothing on impact. Now with the Stranger at their side, Zatanna and Constantine began their progress. They decimated wave after wave.

As the battle reached the base of the alter, the Brujaheria stopped casting and turned their heads to the sky. From the sky, like a bolt of lightning, streaks the Angel. Manny lands before them. Standing in the middle of the two forces. His face hard and stoic. His eyes no longer seeking, now they have a predatory glint, like those of hawk.

Manny's hand blaze with holy fire. He turns and he faces John and his forces. "I'm sorry John. I told you. Angels, we don't get choices. We have rules. You were never expected to get this far. I truly regret this John."

Manny raises his hand and traces a sigil in the air. The flames empower the sigil and it streaks toward The Phantom Stranger. It engulfs him and he is stripped away.

"You bastard! I did what you asked! I... I had Faith. And now, you sanctimonious son of a bitch, I am going to finish what I started. Whether your in my way or not!"

Manny waves his hand and a wash of flame engulfs Zatanna and she too is gone. He flinches as the pair of blades collide with his wings. Caliburn bursts to flames as it slices into one of his wings. Manny falls to his knees as Chas' blade explodes. Shrapnel is driven into Chas and he is sent tumbling back.

Manny stands and turns to face Ystina. "Unfortunately for you, the power you wield is not yours. Your blade is more of a threat than you are girl. Be gone." As Manny speaks, his words become like arrows. They pierce her soul. They poison her mind and before she realizes what has happened, she is whisked away in another flurry of fire.

"Its just you John. I don't want to hurt you. I was ordered to stop you. And I will. Please, John, just quit. Join them. You can't win. Not here. Not against what they are."

Across the courtyard lays Chas. His body is bent, broken. He reaches into his shirt and fumbles a small medallion from his shirt. His bloody fingers clutch the medal and he closes his eyes as he begins to pray. "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray: and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls."

John grits his teeth and begins flinging every spell he knows. Flashes of fire, ice, lightning, all lashing around Manny and The Brujaheria. The cloaks obscuring them are torn asunder. Manny is knocked to the ground. Unmoving. As John moves forward, thunder explodes in the sky above.

Across the yard, there is a shimmer of light as Michael the Archangel appears before Chas. "Hello Francis. I heard your call my son."

"Then help us. Strike down these demon bastards." Chas coughs blood from his lungs as he struggles to stand, to look the Angel in his eyes.

"Sorry child, not demons. My purview is protection of man from the minions of Hell. The Brujaheria, they were never demonic. They are angels. Angels that have taken the ambiguity of the Creator's message and used it to justify a purging of mankind. If they were fallen, I would strike them down. But unfortunately, they are very adept at walking the razor's edge. By His Will, my hands are stayed."

Chas struggles to his feet. A force of will alone. "Then allow me the strength. Lend me the power and protection of your blessing in battle. That is well within your purview isn't it? Give me the power to strike down these perversions of Faith."

"You are clever. It is this cleverness that has caused me to have such respect for your kind. Despite all that you face, all the things that are thrown your way, you always find a way. You find some means to overcome. And so you have once again. You step into a battle which will decide your race's fate. As such, I give you my blessing. And with it, my sword. Wield it and all it's powers well. Until this battle ends, you will have the blessing and power of the Archangel Michael, Defender of the Faith. Use it well, for when the sword drops, your life, all of them, will be forfeit." With a shimmer he is once again gone.

Chas pulls the blade left in his place. As he holds the blade his wounds heal. The sky opens and rain begins to fall. And as the rain comes from the sky, with it, comes the army of the Creator. As these angelic warriors land on the field, the Brujaheria, now revealed to be angelic in their own right, some forth their followers. An army of monsters and angels alike, is called forth and a great battle commences. The Army of The Lord attacks their foes with abandon. John is struck by a blow from one of these beasts called by the Darkness. He falls to the ground, and as he sees a blade coming toward him, it is blocked by another. Chas stands above him. His body is glowing and he wields the blade of St. Michael as if it were his own. He overwhelms foe after foe. John watches as he corners the Brujaheria, and as they all strike out at once. The impact of their powers shatters Chas, but as it does he reflects the energy back with the blade, striking them down as well. As the sword falls to the ground, the battle ends. The minions of the Rising Darkness have turned tail. The Angelic Host are now departing. And John is left holding his dying friend once again.

"Chas, you bastard... what the Hell were you doing? You can't leave me. We were a good team mate, and I need someone to keep my ass in line. Why... the spell I cast, it should have protected you... come on you bastard, pull together!"

"I am truly sorry John. He knew this would be a sacrifice. He accepted that he would pay the price to wield such power. I have never seen a human able to wield my blade so effectively. He was a worthy soul. He will be celebrated by the songs of the Angels."

"The same ones that caused this? Does your Master know what you lot have been up to? Does he know that the Angels were leaving doors open for demons and other cursed and damned beings to find their way into the world he created and gave to his favorite child?"

"As I am sure you suspect John, my Father has been silent for some time. He has been disappointed with not only his first children, but yours as well. He never meant for the darkness, hatred, negativity, to be so powerful. He has seen all of his creations perverted. He has taken a leave, and while he has been away, there are those that have bastardized his teachings and his laws. You and your people defeated them today. They were clever enough to act through intermediaries so as not to draw the ire of me and my brothers and sisters. But in calling their armies to face mine, they have crossed that line. I will personally enshrine your friend, Francis, in the hall of the Angelic Host."

Give him back..." John's eyes are red, and wet. He is trying to hold back his tears, but he is crushed. "I have seen your kind do it. I have seen your kind bring back the dead. He earned such respect? Then bring him back for me?!"

"I am sorry John. He made his choice." Michael shimmers as he again disappears. Leaving John alone.

Every last fiber of his friend is gone. John screams at the sky, the rain pounding down, washing more than just the blood away with it.
 
Take me out into The Black, tell 'em I ain't comin' back. (Black Alice)

The Exchange,
At the Heart of The Multiverse.

********​

Power crackled, explosions that rippled spacetime itself with their decibels-- quantum events-- hyperstrings snapped and vibrating--

The Second Dial War raged unchecked across The Exchange, transforming what had once been a Utopia into post-apocalyptic Waste Lands.

Or, perhaps more appropriately: post-Apokoliptic.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

This was one of the hardest fought battlefields in the endless give-and-take between polar-opposite tidal forces.

Legions of Parademons-- powerful yet disposably endless armies of monstrous humanoids in yellow-and-green armor, cannon fodder armed with cannons --led by scattered Hench-Dialing lieutenants and their Villain-Dialing generals raked the forces of good over the coals. Soon the forces of good, the forces of Life, led by The Wizard, would rally and take back The Exchange's central dataspine-- but now-- now they were driven back, at the lowest of ebbs.

Because they controlled the dataspine, the forces of Anti-Life, led by their Master, had access to Operator technology, and could disrupt the Dials of their enemies-- by jamming them or accelerating them beyond control.

But they still had Heroes, did The Wizard's people. Heroes from the furthest reaches of this Multiverse, this corner of the transfinite Omniverse.

One of those Heroes was Benjamin Kirby Tennyson, called Ben 10,000, wielder of The BiOmnitrix, a binary dual-watch H-Dial that could transform him into any number of "mashed-up" extraterrestrial Heroes from his home timeline.

Another was Leon Tomari, called Kamen Rider Drive-- or just Drive-- whose Drive Driver-- a belt-and-watch combo --allowed him to mix and match powersets like few other Gear Dialers could ever dream.

Their Dials enabled them to remix their respective Heroes and Gear into unpredictable and impossibly versatile combinations-- a fact which prevented Operator technology from holding sway over them as much as traditional Dialers. They were using this to their full advantage-- though one still wondered, given the odds, if it would prove enough.

Watching these two gods among men do battle with the endless hordes was a Hero not quite so lucky.

Her name was Lori Morning.

She huddled in a bunker, hugging her own Dial to herself, her blonde hair hanging in tatters around her cracked and smudged visor, trying to stay sane, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Her Dial wasn't so advanced as her comrades'-- it was a badly damaged prototype specialty Dial from the junkyards of The First Dial War, utilizing the old standard rotary design. She'd been flung through time and space, aged up and down all different ways-- and once upon a time, she'd had a functional if randomized Hero Dial. But that had been taken from her, and now all she had was a leftover near-crippled relic. It was so badly damaged that there was the risk that if she Dialed she'd just steal powers from someone out there in The Multiverse and they'd just suffer because of her-- nothing but risk.

In any case-- she couldn't mash-up, she couldn't remix-and-match, she was supremely vulnerable to Exchange Operator technology, which their enemies had in spades.

Trembling, she peered out of the bunker and watched Heroes at work.

"DIAMONDBLAST!" Ben roared, smashing his forearms together in an "X" shape-- Lori just now realized that it looked like the Roman numeral for "10" when he did that, oh, that was a clever motif --and he transformed with a flash of light and a rush of energy into--

--Lori wasn't sure what it was, but it looked like a hulkingly powerful creature made from diamond that was all on fire. With a wave of his hand, Diamondblast unleashed a razor-sharp hail of blazing diamond shards, herding a horde of Parademons into a knot in front of him--

--and then Diamondblast swung his arms up in front of him, fists clenched, a massive outcropping of that diamond speared up from the ground in some kind of geokinesis, and that diamond, too, was pyrokinetically infused--

--Parademons reeled and died and fled.

"Yeah," Diamondblast boomed, as with a whoosh of light he turned once more into Ben 10,000, "that's right, run!"

"Perhaps," an older man's voice echoed commandingly over the battlefield, "you'd do better to face an officer rather than the enlisted men!"

Ben 10,000 whirled to face--

--a man in a suit and a disturbing insectoid mask. The Centipede. A longtime foe of Open-Window Man and the original Dial Bunch, The Centipede owned one of the earliest Villain Dials and could combine it with his own spaciotemporal multilocation powers to devastating effect. He was one of The Master's greatest generals-- enough to give even Ben 10,000 pause.

The Centipede began to multiply, dividing and conquering, unleashing an endless-seeming stream of versions of himself, and each of them employed that Villain Dial to turn into a different Villain--

--this one turned into Electroplax, this one into Ayenbite, this one into Baba Iago, and on and on and on.

"Hnh," Ben growled, and slammed his BiOmnitrix gauntlets together. "Two can play at this game. EchoxLR8!"

And with another burst of light, he became a small white big-mouthed creature with sleek limbs, a visored face, and rollerball feet. And he, too, endlessly multiplied, duplicating and duplicating and duplicating to match every one of The Centipede's endless parade of selves-- and while EchoxLR8's multiples didn't have myriad different powers, they each had blinding supersonic speed and a deafening, thund'rous sonic cry...

Fresh waves of Parademons were inbound-- that was the thing about Parademons, they were an infestation, there were always more-- but even in his multiplicity, EchoxLR8 was not alone--

--Kamen Rider Drive wielded his perhaps most physically daunting combination of Gear, Type Tridoron Koujigenba, combining his Tridoron Armor with his Rumble Dump, Spin Mixer, and Rolling Gravity Shift Cars. What he sacrificed in agility, he more than made up for in raw power and control.

He waded into the fray, the drill on his right arm skewering demon after demon, concrete shards raining down to take out wave after wave of his enemies--

--and those who were still left standing from that were crushed to the ground by inexorable gravity shifts.

"You can't stop me, demons!" Leon crowed, gesturing emphatically. "My brain cells are in Top Gear!"

The Centipede lay on the ground, consolidated into a single self, hands on his ears as his helmet lay shattered around him from multiple sonic screams, a half-dozen EchoxLR8s standing around him, keeping up the pressure with a combined sonic bellow that could register on The Richter Scale.

Teeth rattling, The Centipede managed to grab his Villan Dial out of his suit coat pocket, and stabbed his finger into the rotary interface... "Curse... you... Tennyson...!"

--and with a shhhhhCLICK! he transformed into The Abyss and dissolved into The Void of nothingness between universes, the ultimate escape route.

EchoxLR8 consolidated into a single form, and he reverted to Ben 10,000 with a burst of red light, hands on his hips. "Hah! I can't believe how much of a chicken that guy was, and I can turn into Kickin' Hawk!"

Wading through what was left of his horde of Parademons, Drive stalked up to Ben 10,000. "I know I will regret saying this, but that was-- easy."

As if on cue, the entire horizon shook with incalculable fury.

And that voice-- that great and terrible voice-- echoed as though from the depths of Hell.

"IT VEXES ME THAT IT COMES TO THIS."

"BUT EVEN A GOD MUST STOOP TO CONQUER."


Drive stiffened, gestured with a flick of his right hand-- "Tennyson, we need to get out of here, pedal to the metal, there's no way we can face that. His Omega Beams alone--"

Even Ben 10,000 in his infuriating cocksure arrogance seemed-- disconcerted by the sound of that voice.

When the Boom Tube opened with a sound like the death knell of The Universe, and the craggy, granite-hewn powerhouse stepped out with eyes blazing less like coals than planetary cores, Ben seemed no less discouraged.

This was The Master, Lord of Anti-Life.

But he was Ben Tennyson. And he wasn't going down without a fight. He'd bailed on all his Plumber Academy classes where they'd covered tactical retreats.

He shook his head, and faced this darkly primordial god.

"Not a chance, Leon. He's just another Malgax to me. I eat intergalactic overlords for breakfast."

He swung his arms open. "And I don't care what kind of energy his eyes spit out, that's just a second breakfast for WAY BACK!" He slammed his arms together, X.

Green light eclipsed him, and his body-- grew massively in size, enlarging almost instantly to the height of a skyscraper-- a fin-headed titan adorned with energy conduit tendrils and energy conduit fingertips-- "IT'S HERO TIME!"

Drive stared incredulously up at Way Back, then shook his head and braced himself. "All right then. Let's go for a drive!" And he flung out his left hand, pitching Rolling Gravity's hyperdense weight at The Master, attempting to use that field of increased gravity to distort The Master's power--

--but this seemed to sway The Master not at all, as his eyes poured forth power, focusing on Way Back as the more credible threat--

--searing molten streams of worldbending red stormed towards the waiting Way Back, but Way Back stood his ground, spreading his conduit fingers and positioning his tendrils to absorb every erg of power. "BRING IT ON!"

...the power indeed, brought it on... filling Way Back's conduits to overflowing, seeming to seep out of his eyes, his every pore and orifice, and he stood there trembling with feet that could shake a mountain range, and his mouth opened in a wordless, strangled cry--

"NYYYYYYYYAHHHHHH--!"

And then, in a detonation of ruby red light not unlike his BiOmnitrix' time-out, Way Back was gone.

FWOOOM

"ENOUGH FROM YOU. ENSLAVED TO ONE OF EON'S ARMIES, WHICH WILL BE SWALLOWED BY MY OWN IN THEIR TURN."

He turned his gaze, then, to Drive, effortlessly reaching down and plucking the Rolling Gravity weight from the ground at his feet and tossing it back to the grim Kamen Rider.

"THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO KNEEL BEFORE ME, RIDER. YOU HAVE SEEN MY POWER. HOW CAN YOU HOPE TO STAND AGAINST ME?"

Leon squared his own shoulders and gestured dismissively, his helmet visor pulsing with its own white light. "I'm done thinking about it!"

And with a roar like a powerful engine, Drive sprinted towards The Master, Rumble Dump's drill screaming as it prepared to bore a third eye into The Master's bedrock forehead...

The Master harrumphed.

FWOOOM

And dismissed Drive with about as much effort as it would take to blink his eyes, a streak of red light hurling Drive off into The Multiverse, lost to the myriad worlds, no telling where he'd end up-- and for all the power of his Drive Driver, his mighty Gear Dial, he would have no Jump Dial to get back, not even the power of his Dimension Cab Shift Car could bridge timelines.

"IT IS THE FATE OF TYRANTS TO BE PLAGUED BY GNATS."

Tromping towards the bunker, he swept his gaze left and right.

"WHO ELSE DARES PLAGUE ME?"

Transfixed and horrified by the sight of such powerful warriors so casually dispatched, Lori Morning shook like a leaf, could not even bring herself to speak at first...

...but then she staggered out of the bunker, Dial in hand. "I do."

Her heart threatened to explode in her chest, she was so afraid. But whosoever held The Exchange in thrall held absolute power over The Multiverse, and she could not even imagine the horrors The Master would wreak with that power...

...she could not hope to stop him.

And yet she tried, with all her thunderclapping heart, she tried.

Her own shaking finger found the rotary of her Dial, and she Dialed with frantic hurry. 6... 2... 4... 3!

shhhhh--

But then, even as the Dial took hold, as it Dialed out and sought an ectype to bestow upon Lori, The Master shook his head.

"GNATS INDEED."

And red light stormed from his eyes, stabbing straight through Lori's Dial and into her very heart.

--CLICK!

FWOOOM


Dayton, Ohio.
In the Here and Now.

********​

Lori Zechlin sat up sharply, her heart still pounding in her chest, cold sweats beading on her brow, on her pale skin, her black hair hanging in tatters around her face.

What a dream that had been--

--that same last dream again--

--what had--

--what had happened?

She clutched at her head with both hands, shuddering as she returned to reality.

Remembered her mother's death. Her father's apathy.

Her excommunication from the local circle of Wiccans.

Remembered pains of withdrawal.

And immeasurable power as random as Hell, she knew not from where.

With trembling fingers she scrabbled at her bedside drawer, found an old prescription bottle inside.

It was empty, and she swore and threw it across the room, as angry at herself for checking as she was angry at the jar for letting her down.

She huddled in her sheets and pressed her forehead to her knees.

She remembered her life.

Lori Zechlin didn't remember her dream.
 
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Daniel Cassidy sat behind the huge oaken bar at the place where he worked. The Oblivion Bar was one of those magical places that you could either spend a lifetime trying to find or you knew exactly how to get into it. He had been working here as the bouncer ever since his resurrection.

He had originally just been a man in a suit, albeit a fantastic suit, but now thanks to a stupid deal he had made with Neron the new ruler of hell he had become a fully fledged demon, but at the cost of his closest friend Maria. He had walked away from all that his deal had gotten him then cheated Neron by sacrificing himself in heroic fashion. Of course he had come back as a new and better Blue Devil demon with an increase in both his powers but now also having his soul returned to him.

What really bugged him though was that he could no longer pray or set foot on any consecrated ground. Danny was a very devout catholic and he still had his soul, Yeah thanks Bro, but because of his now Demon heritage he was denied his faith.Every time he tried to pray he just ended up hurting himself and anything holy now hurt him. It was even hard for him to talk to a priest. His family priest was still willing to talk to him knowing his situation but it was tough on both of them and they could only bear it for a few minutes at a time.

Still it had not been all bad news. His strength was now boosted from what it used to be as was his healing abilities. He was now able to go toe to toe with big shots like Lobo and Eclipso and hold his own. He was also faster and more agile and his senses had been enhanced as well as his vision. Still he would give it up to be able to go back inside a church again.

He had decided if he could not be granted the peace of the church then he would hunt down and destroy all the demons and devils he could find on Earth and send them screaming back to hell. He set out on a one person hunt and although he was sometimes aided by other Heroes his crusade was normally a lonely one. After all most of them concentrated on saving the world from the glitzy villains, not many ventured into the world of the supernatural.

He eventually received help from some very strange quarters. The first was a new Trident he gained called the Trident of Lucifer.With it he is able to shoot out bolts of pure Hellfire that will send Demons and Devils straight back to hell, as well as severely injure super powered foes.
The other help was from an Organization called S.H.A.D.E.
They had originally come looking to recruit him, but he had turned them down, but he had helped them out on several missions and kept in contact with them. Whenever something Devilish turned up, he was there go to guy.

He was broken out of his memories as the door opened and he could see the view of a dark New York alleyway. He continued polishing the glass he was holding as a figure shrouded in a large cloak walked in and the door closed behind him, cutting off the smells of the large metropolis quickly and violently like they had offended it. Danny smiled at the thought. He was sure he was beginning to pick up on a few of the bars little quirks, and one of them was that it hated big industrial city smells.

As the being moved towards the bar, Danny caught the scent of Brimstone coming off him and his Trident that he always kept near him began to moan in his mind. He acted naturally though, there were a few other beings like himself in the world after all so blasting someone just because they smelled of the Pit was not a good way to go.

He sat down and Danny smiled pleasantly, a most disturbing sight until you got used to it. "What can I get you?" He left off any title. It was safer that way until you knew for certain. Hell he had been challenged to a duel because he had once called what he had thought was an obvious female Miss. How was he to know Grundaxian's physiology was completely opposite of humans?

"Top shelf Scotch and leave the bottle," it began in a deep voice. "I have had a hell of a night."

Sensing a story Danny got down the good Scottish twelve year old and a glass and put it down in front of the shrouded patron. "So you don't look all that banged up, I am guessing the boss kept you working all night then," he said prying for information.

"Oh you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Walking all over this stupid city, studying it, taking readings, measuring magical forces, checking the flow of energies. I tell you buddy, never ever become a familiar. It will be great, my mates told me. You will get to see the human world. Huh the didn't mention all the back breaking work and the long hours."

While they had been drinking it had polished off the bottle and stood up again. It reached into the cloak and flicked a small diamond over. "Thanks. Keep the change, I really needed that. Got to get back before high and mighty starts to miss me."

It turned and quickly left and Danny was left with more questions than answers. Who did that thing work for and what the hell had it been doing? It had not seemed evil as such to his senses but that's what familiars were good for. Evil could work through them without attracting attention before they struck themselves. Looked like one thing for sure, something was in the works.

Danny went back to polishing the glasses waiting for James to make an appearance and take over from him so he could go and get some sleep.
 
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Complicated Shadows

Mist and fog shrouded the Windy City in a thick blanket, deadening the wind, dampening sound. All that could be heard were the echoes of life below the cloud layer, sounding drawn out and eerie, like the sound of ancient leviathans hunting for prey.

On the rooftop of a three storey brownstone, a figure in a dark charcoal grey trench coat stood still as a stature, face hidden beneath the brim of a classic fedora, except for the brief flashes of orange light from the cigarette he was puffing on, the smoke hiding the features as quickly as the fire revealed them, it's pale blue shroud joining the fog.

From beneath the trench coat, gloved hands pulled a thick black AA-12 automatic shotgun, bringing it to the shoulder in one smooth motion. The drum mag held 20 custom made silver FRAG-12 rounds, essentially shotgun shell sized high explosive fragmentation rounds that would rain blessed silver hail and concussion like the cannons of heaven on any supernatural threat the shooter felt the need to kill.

Immediately, the door to the roof exploded from it's hinges, flying through the air and flipping end over end off the top of the roof. Dark forms leapt from the dim stairwell toward the figure in the trench coat, who let loose with a full automatic burst of fire. There was a flash of yellow-orange flames and the first figure simply shredded into bloody chunks, spraying it's companions with crimson.

The dark figures were feral vampires and in normal circumstances, would have been tearing the man in the trench coat apart to get at the marrow in his bones, but the sudden death of their leader gave them pause. This was unfortunate for them and only allowed the extremely accurate AA-12 to be carefully walked back and forth across them, rendering them into undead hamburger bits.

The man in the coat and hat didn't pause, but dropped the automatic shotgun and reached under his coat again, coming out with a cylindrical cannister in either hand, which he rolled underhand down the stairs, even as he covered his face with an arm and turned, crouching down to face away from the dark opening.

The canisters were compressed aerosol grenades filled with powdered silver and communion wafers blessed by a priest, thus representing the body of Christ. They popped with a hissssss and spewed glittering white clouds into the air of the stairwell, where another half dozen vampires waited for their prey. The powder screen burned and choked them, burning them to death from the inside out as they breathed in the silver and holy powder. They burst into dying embers and ashes. The man on the roof picked up his weapon and moved down the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, the same man stood across the street, watching the building burn, flames leaping high into the sky, imagining that he heard undead screaming. He light another cigarette and took a healthy drag, watching the fire dance in the night, even as the unnatural fog burned away due to the heat.

"Your methods are as effective and unsubtle as ever, Craft." Spoke a cultured voice from the shadows over the man's shoulder. The man never even flinched.

"I'm just a man Gabriel. When facing rogue vamps, I don't have the luxury of offering them any chances. Besides, I don't believe in fighting fair."

A tall, slender man in a deep cobalt suit strode up beside the man in the coat and hat. His hair was shoulder length and golden blond, his eyes a rich blue. He could only be described as beautiful, and when he smiled, flashing pure white teeth, his incisors were sharp as any cat's.

"What happens when someday you face something that your tricks and brutal tactics and uncanny luck are not enough to stop, Frank Craft?"

The human turned and grinned at the Master Vampire in the light of the fire, his handsome face weathered and his hazel eyes much older than they ought to be.

"Well then, I'll just ask for a miracle."

Craft turned and walked away, becoming one with the shadows and fog of his city, the city he had spent his life protecting. Gabriel watched him go for a moment, and then looked up at the overcast night sky, his face somber.
 
A Whiter Shade of Pale. (Revenant)

Seattle, Washington.
Now.

********​

Olivia Moore's head bobbed from side to side as she listened to music in her headphones, the lid of her blender shuddering under her palm as she pureed the contents.

Pausing to remove the lid, she tossed in a few more diced ghost peppers and another splash of hot sauce-- Beelzebub's Burn --then replaced the lid and ran it again.

Her apartment was beautiful-- big wide panoramic windows looking out from the top of a twenty-story apartment building, great view of The Space Needle, when the city lit up at night it was lovely to watch. Right now, though, it was as bright and sunny as mid-morning Pacific Northwest weather ever got.

Still humming along to the current top-ten pop ditty warbling in her ears, she filled a travel cup with the concoction and popped a straw in. Then she heard shouting, faintly, glanced up, tugged out her earbuds.

"Oi! Liv!" an aggravated-sounding British accent emanated from the living room. "Where the Hell are you, our queue just popped!"

"Right, sorry, sorry," Liv winced, hurried back through to the living room, vaulted the couch like a gold-medal gymnast, an actual one, she'd consulted on a very sad plane crash case once, and set her travel cup down next to her wireless keyboard.

On the double-wide TV, a splitscreen showed, on one half, the face of fellow medical doctor Ravi Chakrabarti, and on the other half the latest expansion of Warlock Forest. "Did I miss it, are we good?"

"By the skin of our proverbial teeth!" Ravi tagged a key on his board and she synched with his party, dumping them into the middle of a raid, as he crowed: "Leeeeeeeroy Jeeennnnkiiiiiins."

"Dear God, Ravi," Liv rolled her eyes, tugging her headset on. "That joke is twenty years old and doesn't even go here."

"That joke may have started twenty years ago," Ravi instructed her firmly, as they both joined the fray as their respective characters, he as the character he'd been playing for half of Leeroy Jenkins' shelf-life, her as a necromantic cleric called "iZombie." "but it will never get old."

"If you say so, 'ArfVader,'" Liv rolled her eyes and flew her fingers over the keyboard, then keyed in-game chat, "hey, hey, hey, I got debuffed, someone hit me up! ...thank you!" Then she toggled back to Ravi. "How's work?"

Ravi grinned a bit. "Oh, you would not believe. The other day I got to reverse-engineer a were-bat zoanthropic pathogen-- not the Kirk Langstrom formula, a different one, found in an ancient underground Mayan temple-- BLUDDY 'ELL, MATE, YOU CALL THAT TANKING? --in order to cure an infection plaguing that adorable little amnesiac Lagoon Boy who's in training as an amphibious field agent."

"Such a fancy-pants S.H.A.D.E. Department Head," Liv tutted, then frowned, toggled, "HEY THE SKELETON WARRIORS RESPAWNED EARLY, FRONT ROW, FRONT ROW," toggled, "and you're still working in a basement."

Ravi tsked, his own fingers chattering over the keyes, "It's a pretty fancy-pants basement, thank you very much, secret underground bunker directly beneath Greenwich Village. If the berks who fired me from The CDC could see-dee-see me now. And being the Head of Pestilence (and Pollution) has its definite perks. More perks, I'd say, than an undead 'consulting detective.'"

"I get to make my own hours," Liv grinned, and slurped from her travel cup. "Plus, since most of my income comes from the Max Rager class-action settlement Peyton litigated, I can afford to have your bosses pay their consulting fee to me in free-range organic no-guilt brains."

"Mm," Ravi nodded absently, "a life of luxury indeed. And who's the flavor of this month, Agent 'Revenant?' Is it one of those Cult of the Cold Flame prats? You'll be acing Defense Against The Dark Arts before you know it."

"Mm," Liv frowned at the tip of her straw, "actually, I think it was one of your analysts, he had a preternatural survival instinct-- not an actual meta ability, you know how bad it is when I eat meta brains, just one of those knacks that people have --and he used it to figure out how villains escape certain doom when the clean-up crews can't find a body? Poor guy had an aneurysm from stress but he'd signed the S.H.A.D.E. organ-donor card."

Ravi frowned softly. "Oh. Damn. Palermo, from Death? I liked him. Bit twitchy, but he couldn't half bring the house down on karaoke night."

Liv nodded quietly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry."

And then a sunbeam flickered across her TV screen, and she frowned, squinting, tilting her head-- "Hold on, hold on, I think I have to go AFK for a second, I've got some glare happening--"

Ravi tutted noisily. "I keep telling you and telling you, blackout curtains, they're not just for The London Blitz anymore."

And then-- and then a feeling a creeping crawling feeling like spider-sense like auras before a seizure like orthostatic hypotension dropping the bottom of the world-- it flourished in the back of Liv's brain and rushed out to widen her eyes and make her gasp softly, lips parted--

--not a vision, but like a vision--

--red alert--

--survival instinct--

--she threw herself sideways--

--a crossbow bolt shattered through the window behind her, grazed her skull, and drilled into the half of the TV screen that had shown Warlock Forest.

Liv rolled for cover, bellowing: "AFK! SO AFK!"
 
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::::: Two Years After The Fall Of The Rising Darkness :::::​

Jasper's Hollow had been empty of it's tenants for some time. Zed, furious over John hypnotized her to sleep through the final battle had left. John had spent over a year in a psychiatric hospital in London. And Chas had paid the ultimate price. But now... now things were changing.

"Your lucky I haven't killed you. You traitor." Constantine stood, shaking outside the door.

"I told you. We don't have a choice. I did everything I could within my binding. I never wanted to be part of this but I had no choice John. Only you humans have that."

Constantine stands with his hands in his coat pockets. His left hand wrapped around a very old weapon. One said to be able to slay anything. With a price. He pulls the weapon from his pocket. Leveling it at Manny. "Give me one reason ya wank, and I swear I will shove this jawbone right up yer ass. Cost be damned, I don't exactly have anything left to lose."

"I owe you John. I owe humanity. And I came back to pay my debt. But I need help. I need you and your friends. Only with all of us can I make my amends. Please. Let me give back."

Constantine lowers the jawbone and returns it to his pocket. "What is it you claim your gonna do?"

"I can bring him back John. He won't be the same, what happened, it was too much power. But I can bring him back. His soul. But I need help preparing a vessel." Manny takes a turn fishing an item from his jacket. A small leather bound journal. He tosses it to John.

John catches the book and smiles as he flips through. "Is this real? The true research journal? Mate, I have seen loads of fakes. How do you know this is the real deal?"

"Because I stole it from the archives of Heaven. Taken from a subset of Michael's host, a group of Angels that had stripped their divinity and become known as the Gargoyle Host. They got it from the subject himself. He believes it was destroyed. Instead, it was brought to Heaven and given to Michael. He put it in the Archive and I took it. I believe we can do this John. But I need you to call in the people that can make it happen."
 
Little Red Riding Hood (A Grimm Fairy Tale for The Hip Kids). (Revenant/Shrieve)

Seattle, Washington.
Now.

********​

Ravi was yelling in her ear: "Liv! LIV!"

Liv clenched her teeth, scrunched her eyes shut, barked back: "I'm trying!"

Another bolt speared through the shattered window, with a zipline attached, and half a heartbeat later, a solidly-built blonde woman in a red turtleneck and a long black coat hurtled in and landed in a crouch on Liv's living room floor.

"Ah, damn," Liv growled into her headset. "It's Shrieve."

"It's what?" Ravi bleated, voice cracking, but then Liv yanked her headset off and stood up in a combat stance, and the game was on.

Miranda Shrieve, daughter of the late General Matthew Shrieve, came up from her crouch and leveled a Glock 17 at Liv's forehead.

"Mornin', Doc," she drawled, and she fired.

Liv dropped to a knee as the trigger clicked, felt the bullet whiff through her hair, and as Shrieve lowered her gun to go for the headshot again, Liv powered back up to her feet and the next three-round burst slammed into a neat triangular grouping at the center of Liv's torso.

That didn't slow Liv down in the slightest as she lunged like lightning across the room and ripped the slide off of Shrieve's gun like Jet Li in Lethal Weapon 4, tossing it aside.

"Light reflected off your scope, rookie mistake, and I've been a sniper. Anyway, I was kind of in the middle of something," Liv snarled. "Doctors and consulting detectives, aren't you supposed to make appointments?"

"I prefer it up-close anyway," Shrieve quirked a brow, dropping what was left of her gun but not looking especially bothered, instead drawing a Kurdish demon-killing knife from her belt, twirling it grimly, narrowing her eyes. "And as for calling first-- I didn't think you'd see me."

Liv danced back a bit, on the defensive. "You figured right. What's this about? It's a little statute-of-limitations to get pissy about getting fired from S.H.A.D.E., not that I had anything to do with that."

"All that bureaucracy was just holding me back from doing what I need to do," Shrieve jutted her chin. "Take you, for instance. A one-woman contagion waiting to happen, living at the heart of a major city. And a Hell of a challenge. Statute of limitations, Hell, you're lucky I let you walk around this long. Only good zombie's a dead zombie."

"Funny thing about that," Liv began to quip, but Shrieve didn't let her finish.

There were no words for the next few moments, dancing on a razor-wire of fast flourishes, blocks and jabs and ducks and dodges, forehand slashes and underhand stabs, a booted foot lashing through the air scant inches from Liv's jaw-- and Liv's pale bare foot cracking into Shrieve's rib cage and driving her staggering a yard back.

Shrieve laughed softly. "Oh, man, fighting you guys is always a hoot, like fighting twelve different people at once. But you-- you fight like a Power Ranger. Did you eat a Power Ranger, Doc? That one Power Ranger who died, did S.H.A.D.E. keep her grey-matter on ice and let you eat her?"

Liv squinted. "Thuy Trang died in a car accident on September 3, 2001 and was cremated," she noted, thank you trivia buff hitman Marvin Webster, and shook her head. "Show some respect. No, I just have a friend from Japan who's super into sentai."

Shrieve's lip quirked. "Like with the tentacles? Kinky."

"No," Liv growled, "not like with the tenta--"

But again, Shrieve didn't let Liv finish her sentence, she came at her again, swish swish stab...

...Liv deflected her with an elbow to the forearm, a palm block, but Shrieve powered a right cross into Liv's jaw and Liv saw stars, shaking her head as she took her turn to stumble back.

Liv had mad skills from all walks of life, perks of being that undead consulting detective, more skillsets than Echo from "Dollhouse," but Shrieve was a walking talking living weapon, literally born and bred to hunt monsters conventional and supernatural. Liv was in-- real danger here, she didn't need her new preternatural survival instinct for that.

"Feeling it now, aren't you?" Shrieve chortled. "Adrenaline making your sluggish heart pump that brackish blood in your veins?"

"You... don't want to make me angry," Liv cautioned her, pale fists going even whiter-knuckled at her sides, "you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

"Oh," Shrieve tutted, and grinned from ear to ear, "I really think I would."

And Shrieve powered in towards Liv, blade gleaming--

--but Liv braced herself, reached up with both hands and grabbed Shrieve's wrist, yanking the blade down so it sank deep into her upper chest rather than her skull--

--and her eyes rippled to red, blackish veins standing out in stark relief under her moon-pale skin--

--her grip was tight like a cold steel vise around Shrieve's wrist, Shrieve could feel her bones threatening to snap and she hissed through gritted teeth--

--Liv hissed back with undead fury and then slammed her head forward, cracking her cranium into Shrieve's and knocking Shrieve onto her ass, forcing her to leave the knife behind in Liv's chest and cracking the coffee table in half with the force of her landing.

Shrieve swore and rolled out of the debris, crouching and rising.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Come at me, girl. Show me what you've got--"

She shook her head to clear it, and flexed her fists. "--come at me, prove me right, come on, you're a ticking damn bioweapon time-bomb, all you've gotta do is lose your temper once, go dark, one bite one scratch and this whole part of the country, Seattle, Star City, it all turns into a quarantine zone. Prove me right, come on, come on, I'll turn your head concave with the heel of my boot and no-one'll mourn you a second."

Liv stood there, seething, at Shrieve...

...and then reached up and pulled the knife out of her chest, and threw it end-over-end-over-end with grim force...

...quivering in the floor beside Shrieve's boot.

Liv took a deep breath.

And her gaze cleared. And her monstrous visage returned to pale beauty.

"I'm not some George Romero Typhoid Mary," she informed the freelance black-ops monster hunter, and reached down and picked up her travel cup from where it had rolled across the floor near her foot, taking a noisy sip. "I'm an undead, alabaster bad-ass."

Shrieve growled, and yanked the knife out of the floor, ready to make another run at the zombie--

--but then the world seemed to fold like the pages of a pop-up book--

--and between them stood an African-American man in a suit and tie, a bowler hat, and a tied-on domino mask. This was Father Time, Director of S.H.A.D.E. He slid a fob-watch into the pocket of his suit jacket and he scowled at Shrieve.

"Ladies," he boomed in a voice not unlike Kevin Grevioux. "It's too damn early for this shit."

And the world folded again, and all three of them were gone, leaving Liv's shambled apartment empty but for the wind that whistled through the broken window.
 
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::::: 2 Years After The Fall of The Rising Darkness :::::​



Constantine and Manny stand in the back of a crowded night club. On stage there is a magic show. A beautiful young woman is standing there performing a variety of mundane illusions. She pulls them off well, but seems somehow vacant. Almost like these feats of amazement are boring to her.

"Hey honey, how bout you take off that corset and give us a real show! I can show you my "Magic Wand" honey!" The drunk in the front row begins to heckle as he sloshes down another gulp of his beer.

The young woman smiles. Something wicked fleeting through the spark in her eyes. "Oh sweety, you aren't nearly man enough to handle me."

The drunk stands up and lurches toward the stage. The bouncer begins moving in but the young woman holds up her hand and waves him off. "Looks like I have a volunteer. Come on up sweety. Lets play."

Manny turns to Constantine. "This is going to get bad. If she outs magic, all sorts of trouble could come."

Constantine laughs. "First mate, just about everyone here is drunk enough that they wouldn't remember if she took him up on his offer. And believe me that would be unforgettable. Second, she has this."

The drunk clambers onto the stage, spilling his remaining beer in the process. He lets out a howl of accomplishment as he begins moving toward her. As he does, she deftly switches off the microphone and gestures with her finger in a come-hither gesture.

As he gets just within reach she snaps her fingers and speaks softly to him. "Uoy era dezitonpyh." He stops cold. Sagging in his stance and appears to be sleeping on his feet. She reaches and takes the microphone and turns it back on. "It looks like our friend here needed a nap. What shall we do now?" She laughs and begins calling on people who raise their hands.

After 20 minutes of humiliation, all of which she tapes with his cell phone and sends to every contact in his cell, Zatanna Zatarra finally gives up the stage. She wanders toward Constantine and Manny.

"Why is he here? After what he did I figured you would have done terrible things to him."

"Like you did to that slob?"

"Suddenly a man of honor John? Or are you just jealous? He got what he deserved. Or maybe you have just been on the drunken end of that exchange too often and can sympathize."

"Not anymore love. I have a new outlook. And Manny here is about to help me. He's gonna help me get the band back together. Perform a little miracle for us."

Zatanna stops smiling. "John. His soul is at rest. Let it be. He wouldn't want this."

"He left his little girl behind. You telling me he wouldn't want to be able to hold her again? You know how much she meant to him. You think any heaven can be worth not being with her again? Besides, its voluntary. He can't be compelled. He has to choose it."

"No. I am not doing it. What are you going to do? Bind his soul to some trinket? Make him a servitor? No." Tears begin welling in her eyes as she argues with him. "John, I was there after. We had something special. It may have started from something dark, from loss, but I really did love you and no matter what you say, I know that those few months we had after the fight, I know they meant something to you too. But I can't do that John. I have seen what happens to a soul forced to into something like this. My father John, I saw what he became."

"He bound himself to that house for you. To protect you. To teach you what you needed to learn. But that isn't what we have in mind." John hands her the journal.

Zatanna looks at the book, flipping through the pages and then back into John's eyes. "John... even if this works... it didn't go well the first time. And now, forcing his soul back in... John. I don't like this. But if you swear it is only through choice that he can come back, that you can't compel him, I'll help."
 
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White is Red. (Revenant/Shrieve)

Greenwich Village, NYC.
Now.

********​

The world whirlwinded around them for less than a blink of an eye, and there came the strrreeetching sensation of touching every point between Seattle and New York at once.

And then they were there.

Standing in front of a little coffee shop on Bleecker Street named Radu Coffee with an adorable logo-- a mustachioed carafe --on its window. Apartment windows above the shop were open to the morning air, and Liv felt irony very strongly about this considering her own broken window.

If anyone was bothered by the fact that these three people had just appeared on a busy city sidewalk, no-one made mention of it.

Father Time squinted at Shrieve.

"You know you can't come in. You burned that bridge before you left."

Shrieve made a guttural noise at him, shoved her knife back into her belt. "If you're not going to invite me in, why bring me along? You've just taken me a continent away from my '67 Impala. Of all the damned inconvenient--"

Father Time poked a finger into Shrieve's sternum. "Listen here. You just attacked one of my Agents. I don't care that she's just a part-timer, or that she's a differently-active species of human, she's an Agent of S.H.A.D.E., and you're lucky I don't inconvenience you by stranding you three miles from McMurdo Station without a coat. You wanna get back to where you're parked? West is that way. Start walkin'."

Shrieve scowled. And backed up a step.

"'Lucky.' Lucky I don't send you on to your next life, old man. Maybe next Time, you'll be an old lady with osteogenesis imperfecta, we'll see who's walking where then."

But she turned, and she stalked off.

"Um," Liv mumbled, hugging herself self-consciously. "Father?"

Time turned to look at her, arching his eyebrows over his mask. "Hm?"

"I'm in my peejays. And I'm barefoot. And I've been shot. And kind of stabbed a little. And that coffee smells really good. Can we go inside now?"

Father Time grunted. "All anyone wants to talk about today is inconvenience."

But he turned and he led her through the glass door with the jingly bell over it.

The coffee shop was all warm colors inside, with a white-and-black checkerboard tile floor. The gentleman behind the counter was burly and bald, with a big smile and a mustache that immediately told anyone who looked at him who the inspiration was for the logo.

He nodded to Father Time, and tossed a jaunty salute to Liv. "Good to see you again, Dr. Moore. I will grind some sumatra beans with jalapenos the way you like it, it should be ready before you leave. Normally I would say no-shoes no-service, but for your pretty smile I will make an exception."

"Thanks, Radu," Liv grinned at him softly. "I'll try to make sure I'm out of sight before any health-code guys show up."

As they walked into the back room, they walked past a lovely couple sitting at a booth hand-in-hand, a simply breathtaking strawberry-blonde woman and an adorable black-haired lad with green eyes.

"Hey, Father Time," the lad nodded to the tall black fella. "You still doing that New York Mystery Man routine? You gotta let me update that mask sometime."'

"Change is inevitable, Kyle," Father Time replied drolly. "But the mask stays." He then nodded to the blonde woman. "Alex."

Alex grinned at him, and waved, and nodded to Liv as she sipped her coffee.

And then they were in the back room, standing by what looked like an old, unused freight elevator to the basement.

"There's clean-up crews already at your apartment," Father Time promised Liv. "The time they're done, it'll be like it never happened. Chakrabarti'll be relieved to learn you're still among the unliving. Shrieve is a wild card that's getting wilder, but I was going to swing by at some point anyway. Things are... developing."

"When are things not developing?" Liv wondered, not unreasonably. "Were they not developing at the same time Shrieve was not a wild card?"

"Constantine is on the move," Time squinted. "And we need you to keep an eye on him."

Liv flinched visibly. "Oh, God. Constantine. Really? Is it because you think he can't get me killed if I'm already dead?"

"With any luck," Time rumbled, as the freight elevator came up to their level, not so disused after all, "Frank'll be there, too. But Frank... isn't half the man he used to be."

"Well," Liv considered. "That's not ominous at all."

They boarded the elevator, and descended.

Into S.H.A.D.E.
 
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Danny woke up and stretched. he had slept a whole three hours this time, a new record. He was finding out this body did not need as much sleep as he was used to, but sometimes it was just damn used to get some.

James had finally turned up and relieved him sometime around six in the evening and he had headed off to bed straight away. He was getting sick of pulling these twenty odd hour shifts while his boss went and did god ...AHHHHHHHH...oh fuck now he couldn't even think his name.

Standing up he paced the room swearing a blue streak as he railed against his lot in life. Then he listened to himself. He was sure he had said the lords name a few times there. He thought back over what he had said being very careful and then realized what the difference was. He could say it as long as he said it in vain. Ahhh fuck. So the only way he could now say his name was if he was swearing or putting him down. Just great.

He needed some fresh air. Putting on his 'Outdoor clothes' consisting today of some sweatpants and a black hoody to hide his horns he grabbed his trident and set off. He walked out the door of the bar waving to James and thought of New York. He needed to be among familiar surroundings that were as dank and depressing as he was. Besides he was still worried about what that familiar had been up to.

He bounded up to the top of the nearest tall building, using his new strength to bounce from one building to the next. Finally he surveyed the local area from his perch and opened his mind to the supernatural trying to find any traces of what he had left behind.

As far as he could tell there was nothing. No portals, no circles, no gates, no nothing. Still there had to be something and if he couldn't do this the easy way he would have to do it the hard. he had got a good whif of the guy and now he jumped back down into the alley and smelled around. He picked him up easily and began to back track him, the trident helping him in his search. After all this is what they did, hunt down demons and send them back to hell. The fact that he might already be there meant nothing to him. His city might be in danger and he wanted to know from what.

Striding off into the night Danny knew he might be in for a long hunt.
 
::::: 2 Years After The Fall Of The Rising Darkness :::::​

Constantine, Zatanna and Manny stand at a table in Jasper's Hollow. Manny has drawn a map on the table, and he begins to speak.

"I know neither of you trust me. I can't blame you. I was forced to do terrible things. I could have rebelled John. But I was weak. I can never convince you that I deserve your trust. I can only do what ever I can to fix the damage I have done."

"I appreciate the kind words mate. Forgive me if I find them a bit hollow. I've 'eard yer pitch before and I don't like to fall for the same thing twice. I don't like that I am stuck with you being our best hope to pull this off."

"And I won't be. You and Zatanna are coming with me. I am going to bring you both to a place no human is meant to be this side of death. Wear these." Manny pulls out two amulets made of some sort of a white stone that shimmers with an internal radiance. "This will allow you to come to the tombs of the vanquished."

Zatanna looks uncomfortably at the amulet as it touches her hand. The stone is strangely cold despite the luminous flames that dance within it. She dons the amulet as does Constantine.

"Now we go." With the unfurling of his great wings, Manny clasps the hands of his two associates. He speaks in a tongue no man has ever known, and they are no longer in the Hollow. They are no longer in the realms of Man. As they sore through space and time they arrive at a place beyond both. A place taht is neither here nor there. In an instant, the world solidifies around them. They are standing in a huge courtyard of marble and greenery.

Manny gestures and they follow. Silence is overwhelming here. As if a single syllable spoken could dispell the whole thing. They move quickly and with purpose. Coming to a great gate. The doors are the wings of a giant angel made of the same glowing white stone. Each wing reaches out inhibiting the passage of all who approach. The angelic figure in the center is posed in a manner to suggest fealty to a greater power. Kneeling, hands held up to the sky, head bowed.

Manny steps forward and with a small knife cuts into his hand, and as blood comes forth, he draws sigils on the palms of the upturned hands. The great wings crackle and fold, covering the form of the angel, the wings no longer block the passage. Manny gestures to the right path, and they begin to again follow him.

They come to a great mausoleom with imagery of battle adorning the walls. Depictions of heroes at war cover the walls. The doorway is large enough for four men to stride through abreast, and twice as high. The interior seems to stretch impossibly long. All the walls are lined with square doors that are three feet high by three feet wide. Each has an image of a fallen hero. As they get to the last section, Manny reaches out and places his hands on the door of one of these graves. The door shutters and then ceases to exist. Manny reaches in and pulls out a shroud wrapped body.

As he does, thunder crashes. The building itself quakes. And through one of the openings in the ceiling, a shadow is cast. Like a streak of lightning, the shadow descends and solidifies into an angelic form. As he materializes the trumpets of war sound. Michael, the Archangel, leader of the Hosts of The Lord, Protector of Soldiers and Men-at-Arms, stands in the mausoleum for his fallen brethren.

"How dare you come here.... Manny. You are a sorry excuse. Your cowardice has brought shame. Such shame that you dare not even claim your true name. Why should I not strike you down where you stand?"

"I came to make up for my duplicity. I am sorry for what i did. For blindly following orders. You know Michael, we haven't the free will he gave to the humans. Unlike you, beholden only to His orders, I am behold to the orders of those who stand above my perch in the host. I could no more betray them without losing my wings than you could betray Him. But now Michael, I see that I was tested. And I failed. I am taking this man, this humble servant, and I will give back to him what he lost. It is the least I can do."

"He died in honor. His soul was purified in the fires of battle. Without his own soul to inhabit his body the curse placed by that one could no longer keep his body from failing. It is now as hollow as any other corpse."

"It was. One of the Raven Host owed me a favor. She gave me access to the hall of souls. Already his soul sits in Jasper's Hollow. In a place where even you cannot retrieve it."

Michael grits his teeth. Seething his fury. He extends his right hand and a sword materializes. "Then I will cut you down. Constantine, Zatanna of house Zatarra, this is not your time or place. Go home. Do not further desicrate your friends memory."

Manny hurls the body behind him and unfurls his great wings. He reaches forth and summons a long glaive-style blade. As Michael takes his stance Manny smiles. "John. Zatanna. Grab his body. Remove your amulets. It will take you home. Michael and I have a dance to do."

John lunges and grabs hold of the shroud wrapped form. He and Zatanna struggle to lift it into their arms and fumble to remove the amulets.

Manny and Michael clash violently. Their blows sound like thunder rolling and echoing through a deep valley. They move like the wind. Their blades flashing like lightning. As the humans finally grasp their amulets, Michael gains the upper hand, grappling Manny and pressing his flaming sword to his wings.

"Surrender. I will give you a merciful death. Better than a traitor like you deserves."

Manny again smiles at Michael. "No. I will earn my forgiveness Michael. One day He will forgive me. And until then I will serve without the hypocrisy of The Host. This day, I Zauriel, Angel of The Weak, Member of The Eagle Host, am sacrificing my wings. You can keep them." With a grunt and lunge, Manny-Zauriel, heaves himself up, severing his wings with the flaming sword of Michael. As his wings are cut and burst into flames, his body begins to shimmer and he is torn from the realm of the Angels. Forced by to the realm of Man.

John and Zatanna stand by in disbelief, but as the wings turn to ash, and Michael turns to their direction, they throw the amulets from their necks, joining Zauriel in his decent.

Back on Earth, Zauriel lays on the floor of Jasper's Hollow. Bleeding profusely he forces himself to his feet as Constantine and Zatanna arrive with the body. They lay it on the device they had put together. Hooking it up to the various wires and devices. Constantine goes to the small lockbox beneath his bed and draws out the urn that holds the lost soul. As they finish the alchemical procedures, they raise the body up, and with some magical assistance, they conjure lightning. The lightning soars through the air, filling the body on the sheets. The body jerks and jumps and as the lightning dissipates, the body comes to a rest.

Constantine walks over to the body and pulls the sheet from it. The body beneath has been sewn, stapled, and otherwise recreated by the alchemists of the Heavenly Host. The body being a temple they did their best to recreate that which was destroyed. As John grasps the hand of the thing that used to be his best friend, he fliches when it grasps back.

"John.... wh....wha...what happened. I feel... wrong. I died. I saw it. I saw It. How... what did you do?"

"Chas... old bean, I brought you back."

"I don't know if I am going to hug you or hit you. For now I am just going to lay here."

It took over a hundred years, but now, finally the work of Victor Von Frankenstein has been fully realized. A body reanimated with a soul. Frankenstein is born.
 
Trapped in The Body of a White Girl. (Revenant)

S.H.A.D.E. Headquarters, "The Legendarium."
Beneath Greenwich Village, NYC.
Now.

*******​

"...no-one remembers exactly when The Super-Human Advanced Defense Executive was first formed," Lagoon Boy recited, flippered hands folded in his swimsuited lap as he sat on a med-bed, "or it's classified and no-one's telling. Some people say it was first created by legendary vampire hunter Abraham Lincoln during his time in Presidential Office as a way to guarantee that the secret forces of darkness would not overrun These United States. Others say it was much more recent, in the time of President Lyndon Johnson, operating as an elite strike force out of the hidden Essex Airbase. In any case, S.H.A.D.E. was operating out of The Nerve Center beneath The U.N. Building 17 years ago when its prophets and oracles sensed the coming of a Rising Darkness that would, only a few years later, attempt to eclipse the world."

"Sensing that their time as an operation of The U.S. Government was reaching the end of its usefulness, and that they might do more good work as an independent entity, they retreated to a ready-made fallback position under Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, now known as The Legendarium, and continued their operations from the shadows. Currently, The Legendarium is configured into a five-floor system, the first floor of which is operational central, and the other floors going down are devoted respectively to The Departments of War, Famine, Pestilence/Pollution, and Death, inspired by one interpretation of The Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse."

"The central figure of S.H.A.D.E. throughout its operational secrecy has been Father Time, an immortal superhuman with the ability to regenerate after mortal injury into a new form, and to physically spaciotemporally bilocate-- as he is able to transmit his second self anywhere on Earth, he is able to send nearby people and objects with him, and then bring them back as he reunifies with his other self, enabling S.H.A.D.E. to operate swiftly and efficiently on a global scale. His long life-span has enabled him to learn much about the supernatural, and thus how to instruct S.H.A.D.E. how to oppose the darkest of forces."

"How 'bout that," Time harrumphed, gazing quietly at Lagoon Boy as he stood nearby in one of The Department of Pestilence/Pollution's medbays. "I don't even bother remembering half that stuff."

"Lagoon Boy's a fascinating case, Father," Dr. Ravi Chakrabarti noted proudly, as he finished up suturing Liv's stab wound, as she sat-- less patiently than Lagoon Boy --on a different medbed. "Whatever caused his bizarre retrograde amnesia, it left his brain thirsty for data, like a sponge. He absorbs every fact he's exposed to."

Father Time nodded as though mildly impressed. "...huh."

Liv attempted to not glance down at the stitches Ravi was making, her now-empty travel cup sitting on the medbed beside her next to the tray of bullets that Ravi had already extracted. "Are you using that smaller stitch I showed you? Just because I'll heal up in no time doesn't mean I want to look awful for swimsuit season, it's bad enough that crossbow bolt messed up my haircut. Last time I had to take out the stitches myself and redo them in a mirror and it took ages."

Ravi grunted. "I've always wondered which brain you ate that gave you nitpicking as a special ability."

Liv squinted apologetically. "No, no, that's one of mine, homegrown, you didn't know me in medical school. Sorry."

"Quite all right, and yes," Ravi nodded, tying off the last stitch. "I have used that thing you showed me. Honestly, you'd think figuring out the cure for zombie-ism would get me a little credit. Just-- just a bit."

"Pathology maybe,"
Liv winked at him, ducking behind a partition to change into fresh clothes and, praise Jesus, a pair of shoes. "Surgery credit is a whole 'nother cred tree."

"I still don't see why you changed the Department's name to Pestilence and Pollution," Time squinted, "Dr. Chakrabarti. I've always been iffy about the 'Pestilence' interpretation anyway. When I was younger, that Horseman was always 'Conquest.'"

"Maybe when you were younger you should have read more Terry Pratchett," Ravi instructed Father Time, with a wag of a gloved finger. "Comments like that'll have him rolling in his grave so hard you'll have to call in half The Department of Death to settle 'im down again."

"Death's a little busy right now,"
Father Time grumped. "Seriously, the whole Department's on edge like nothing I've seen since before The Rising Darkness. At this rate, I highly doubt Palermo'll be the only one to have an aneurysm."

As Liv emerged from behind the partition tugging her shirt down-- a black hoodie she kept here for such emergencies --she and Ravi exchanged a worried look, she could feel Palermo's awareness of danger clamoring around in her head. If his aneurysm manifested in her, it could hypothetically kill her-- sufficient cerebral trauma was her Achilles' heel, after all, or "Achilles lobe" to be more precise.

Deciding she'd rather not think about that right now, Liv shot Father Time a winning, if weary grin. "You're hardly in a position to quip about the names of Horsemen, Father, considering that one of The Horsemen is sometimes named Time."

Father Time squinted at her for a moment. "You've been hanging around monster hunters too long, if you're making Metallica references."

"Good Omens, he's never heard of," Ravi sighed dismally, "and that pop-culture reference he gets?"
 
When this black sun revolved around you. (Black Alice)

"Have you considered residential care?" Janeane wondered as she sat down beside Lori on the church steps.

Lori glanced up at Janeane with weary eyes, the smoke from her cigarette curling around her black pigtails. "Wait, what?"

Janeane smiled helpfully, or, at least, in an attempt to be helpful. "You never talk at the meetings, and-- and that's okay, you should only talk when you're comfortable. But I just see you looking more and more tired every time you come, and I know that you're fighting a war every second you're awake."

Sometimes even when I'm asleep, Lori thought dismally: she never remembered her dreams, though she always remembered that they were... violent. Out loud, she twitched her head from side to side. "So I'm supposed to transplant myself into some kind of halfway house for addicts, and that's supposed to make all my problems go away? Whatever happened to 'No matter where you go, there you are?'"

Janeane smiled tolerantly.

(Lori hated that smile.)

"Simply geographically moving yourself from place to place won't 'cure' you, there's no such thing as a 'cure,'" she reminded Lori. "But taking yourself out of your everyday trappings can help you identify stressors and triggers, sources of anxiety that might drive you back to using."

Lori thought of her dad, of the bone-dry pool in her backyard in which her mother had once drowned. Of her schoolmates always giving her a wide berth, and of Dawn, still sitting with her Wiccan circle and staring smug daggers at Lori across the lunchroom, just try and sit with us, we dare you.

She took a drag off of her cigarette, and she closed her eyes.

She thought of the first time the power had rushed into her.

The way her clothes had changed into something so bizarre. The way she had teleported halfway around the world without even blinking-- and then back again before the absurd but awe-inspiring power dissipated once more, returning her to herself.

And then again, and again-- here an elven princess with mystic powers and a bow that shot bolts of darkness, there a little girl with fantastic dress sense and a ridiculously powerful six-sided die --a feeling of control of her life, of potential and potence that was as addictive as any drug.

Where could she go to get away from that?

And yet it never seemed to last long enough to save her from herself.

Here she was, going through the motions, working the program, but none of it could even scrape the foothillls of the titanic shit she was dealing with now. Standing on the edge of something much too deep.

Janeane's advice would have done wonders for any number of other people.

But Lori Zechlin was a whole 'nother echelon.

"You've read the t-shirts, lady," she grunted, crushing out her cigarette on the church step and then rising to stride away. "Rehab is for quitters."
 
Danny was not having a fun night. Whoever that thing had been, it had either been given a powerful glamor, had a natural one, or that damn trench coat really had performed miracles.

Seriously if that was all it took to walk around in this city without someone screaming out Demon he was definitely going to have to invest in one.

So far this things scent had led him into heavily populated areas where he had had to skulk in the shadows or take to the roof tops and then spend ages trying to find it again even with the aid of his trident. Now finally he had found his first real evidence though. A building it had entered. It was an old one, looking sort of out of place among the new glitzy buildings surrounding it, but it had been made over and was now a semi upmarket hotel. Getting in was not going to be a problem. Going undiscovered was.

Jumping over to the roof was simple, as was opening the roof access door after disabling the alarm. It was amazing what a small blast of hellfire did to electronics. He moved quietly down the stairs and checked the corridor. No one but no scent of the guy. Riding the normal elevators was out. He could just imagine the stir that would cause. Yes he could try using the old JS card and some people still remembered him from his glory days, but he looked a little different now and he really didn't want to cause a panic.

Looking around he saw the stairs. They were his best bet. Dashing to them he began his search. Floor by floor he stuck his head out and his trident. On nine he got a hit. The trident glowed and taken a larger wiff he caught a very faint trace. Great probably on the other side of the building. Still it was late and his senses should give him enough time to avoid anyone.

He set off and as he got closer he oriented in on the familiar. Oh he had been here alright and more than once. He came to the door and he sniffed again. No other scents in the air so no one else had entered the room yet. Perfect. A little trickle of hellfire to the lock and he was in. Time to see what was so important about this place.
 
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The room was a dirty basement at a local Catholic church. It was obviously used mostly as a kind of classroom most of the time, with a chalkboard and book cases with theological books crowded around the edges. Tonight, there was a folding table in the back with coffee and donuts set up on it and a lot of cheap metal folding chairs.

A handful of people, ranging from the obviously homeless, to the obviously very professional and uncomfortable, sat in the chairs, nursing their coffee, or wolfing down the donuts. The man in his mid-forties with short dark hair, greying at the temples, stood at the battered podium and stared out at the audience. He was dressed in dark slacks and a lighter grey dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show his scarred forearms.

"My name is Franklin Craft and I am an Alcoholic. It has been three years, five months and seventeen days since my last drink."

The crowd murmured; "Hi, Frank." Most of them were regulars at this meeting.

Taking a deep breath, Craft looked down at where his hands gripped the edges of the podium. No matter how many times he got up here, he still felt nervous. Which was amusing, considering that he could face down a mob of zombies or blood sucking vampires and keep his cool like he was waiting in line at the DMV.

"We all have our stories. We get up here night after night and tell them and to be honest, most of them sound just like all the others. We sit and listen quietly and politely and with every story, it's like listening to ourselves talking about ourselves. The same mistakes, the same stupid behavior, the same consequences and losses.

But we all have our own reasons for telling those stories. For the old timers, it's to maybe get some new kid in off the streets to listen and realize the kind of road he's headed down. For some of us, it's to remind ourselves that we could still fall off the wagon and end up right back in the gutter."

"There are all kinds of addictions and a lot of reasons people use them as the crutches that they are. We all have compulsions and cravings that we can't understand and are powerless over. For me, drinking wasn't even the worst."

"For me, the biggest and worst addiction was to puzzles. My worst compulsion was a need to ferret out secrets, at any cost, to myself, or others around me. I've always been drawn to the darkness, needing to touch the heart of evil. But when you touch evil, it touches you back and it gets inside you. Once it does, there are really only two choices. You either let the evil inside you destroy you..."

"...Or you learn to accept it. Embrace it as a part of yourself and use it, without letting it control you. For some of us, there will never again be a chance to walk in the light, the sun warm on our face. We've gone too far down the bad road. But that doesn't mean that we are lost souls, wandering alone in the dark. We can become something different, something else. We can become the shadow that stands between darkness and light. Grey men, who protect the innocent, at any cost, with any method the gets results, regardless of the price we pay."

"Because for us, this might be the only path to redemption. Sometimes, instead of going back, the only way is to choose to keep walking forward and hope to come out the other side. Even if no one else will ever understand why we do it."

Craft smiled, realizing that the room was uncommonly silent and still, no one there having any clue what the hell he was talking about.

"There are times that the world doesn't need another hero. It needs a villain. Thanks for listening, even if you have no idea what I was talking about."

Frank stepped down and walked into the crowd, gathered his trench coat and headed for the door, very aware of the half-unseen, hollow figures that stood around the edges of the room, glimpsed only from the corner of the eye. He knew that they HAD been listening, and knew exactly what he'd been talking about.
 
Red Band Trailer. (Shrieve)

Flushing, Queens, NYC.
Now.

********​

The door on the storage locker slid up, revealing the 5'x15' space and the numerous runic wards spray-painted on the inside walls... not to mention the actual stuff being stored.

Blades of every degree of serration, Mossbergs and Remingtons and Walthers, crossbows and longbows and quarterstaves oh my. Antique artifacts dating back to the distant origins of The Shrieves as a monster-hunting clan, back to the days of The Van Helsings and The Belmonts. One of many boltholes and stockpiles she and her family had set up throughout the country, though this one wasn't nearly as good as the crypt upstate in Sleepy Hollow.

(Indeed, there was a mystically charged long leather whip hanging on the wall on the left that, legend had it, had once belonged to a pocket-universe version of Simon Belmont himself and been used, briefly but effectively, against Thanatos, The God of Death.)

Miranda Shrieve ran her gaze quietly, thoughtfully over the lot of it.

She hadn't had a lot of stuff on her when Time had brought herself and that aggravatingly kawaii revenant all the way to New York from the Seattle-Star City area. She'd left the crossbow on the opposite roof when she'd grappled across to Liv Moore's apartment-- which turned out to be a good thing, considering she doubted that Uber driver would have given her a lift to Queens if she'd been packing steampunk heat at the time.

Miranda had silver throwing blades, her demon-killing knife-- oh, if only that was as deadly to the ensouled "differently-active" as it was to most species of demonic entity, that fight would have gone very differently --her smartphone-- Uber, natch --and a couple of general purpose artifacts. So not a lot to go on, given that the lion's share of her portable arsenal was now in the trunk of a car in The Pacific Northwest and she was in The City That Never Sleeps.

What she really wanted was a shortcut to get back to Seattle. Driving across country was an option, of course, there was a motorcycle about three feet from her under a moisture-breathable cover, but that would take days even at top speed and having to get her baby out of an impound was a hassle she'd prefer to avoid.

The trouble was, even though New York City had been a hotbed of supernatural activity since before it had been New Amsterdam-- since The Rising Darkness, Dr. Spengler's Twinkie analogy had only gotten more apropos --today it seemed like it was deader than a dodo's doornail, at least according to her scrying pendant. No portals, circles, gates...

Ordinarily, she'd be delighted about that. Fewer open portals meant fewer supernaturals wandering onto this plane, fewer Fae and fewer ghosts, fewer demons inhabiting bodies and even fewer physically manifesting. Sure, it meant less job security for someone like her, but her ultimate goal was ridding the place of that sort of scum and she'd take any advantage she could get.

However, in this particular instance it meant she was a long ride from home.

But then a quivering needle caught her eye.

A slightly-refurbished Victorian-era demon detector was very earnestly pointing-- that way that way that way.

Shrieve arched a golden eyebrow, and absently, thoughtfully rubbed the scar under her left eye.

If there was a demon running around and it was a species that could teleport her all or part of the way back to Seattle through whatever kind of Darkforce or Brimstone Dimension it called home, so much the better. If it wasn't a teleport-capable demon, well, she could at least kill it before she started the long slog along the Interstate.

She loaded up on a few weapons, changed out her silver throwing blades for cold iron, selected a Walther with a few clips of custom "Whopper" rounds, picked up a replacement grapnel in the absence of her crossbow, and grabbed a "Pandora Box" feretory-- there was no telling if she might need to contain an incorporeal demon and hold it hostage to make her take her "home."

After another moment's consideration, she snagged that whip as well.

Then she turned and hauled the cover off of the motorcycle, swiftly and methodically dewinterizing it, replacing the sparkplugs, taking the battery off of the timered one-amp charger and locking it back in place on the bike, et cetera.

With the demon detector locked between the handlebars, she roared off into the daylight.

********​

Miranda managed, by some stretch of fortuitous happenstance, to draw up to a metered spot outside a gentrified hotel at just the right moment to see a blue blur jump to the roof.

She narrowed her eyes, kicked down the kickstand, and grabbed the demon detector off of the handlebars with one hand and drew her grapnel with the other.

As Blue Devil blew the lock on a door on the ninth floor, so wholly focused on his task, Shrieve stepped up behind him and pressed the barrel of her Walther against his blue skin just below his ear.

They'd known each other working for S.H.A.D.E., so he might not react to her presence as instantly hostile-- but she wasn't taking any chances with that literally damned Trident.

"Little Boy Blue," she purred, "come blow your horns off."

"Am I interrupting something? Usually with a booty call you knock before the B&E."
 
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Danny had frozen at the feel pf the gun barrel against his head. Not that a bullet would do much damage to him of course but it was best to know who he was up against and just how many opponents. Then she had spoken.

"Little Boy Blue," she purred, "come blow your horns off."

Oh hell it was Shrieve. That changed the dynamic a bit. Now he knew that the bullet that was in the gun would hurt a lot, maybe even send him back to hell for awhile. He had to handle this carefully. She had always been a bit of a wildcard and honestly he didn't know why she was here.

"Am I interrupting something? Usually with a booty call you knock before the B&E."

Smiling Danny almost laughed.Same old Shrieve. Even in the middle of a Zombie plague she would still be cracking wise. Perhaps he could find out exactly what was going on here.

"Hi Shrieve, what brings you all the way out here? I thought S.H.A.D.E. had you cooped up on the other side of the country. Don't tell me they finally let you out on your own, or are the rest of the gang here as well. A little heads up would have been nice if that's the case."

He gingerly began to turn around and look at her, the gun easing enough so he could but it never wavered and by the time he was facing her it was pointing straight between his eyes.

"Look, we kind of stand out in the hallway like this, but the room I am entering wellll...it is kinda hot. I have been tracking a familiar all over town and he seems to have made this place his home base considering the overlapping scents i am reading. Now you can keep pointing that gun at me and we can play grab ass out here, or you can lower it and we can go in there and find out exactly what it was doing. After that I will owe you one, Deal?"
 
Red Sky at Morning. (Shrieve)

Smiling Danny almost laughed.Same old Shrieve. Even in the middle of a Zombie plague she would still be cracking wise. Perhaps he could find out exactly what was going on here.

"Hi Shrieve, what brings you all the way out here? I thought S.H.A.D.E. had you cooped up on the other side of the country. Don't tell me they finally let you out on your own, or are the rest of the gang here as well. A little heads up would have been nice if that's the case."

The West Coast was... unusual. There was a reason that she and her Impala had been out there in the first place, there was a reason why Shrieve had been in Liv Moore's neighborhood.

The Darkmatter Breach in December of 2013 had coincided with the final onset of The Rising Darkness. The particle accelerator's initial dimensional crossrip had allowed much more metaphysical and astral energies into this world, not just hyperspacial ones. Being that Central City was in California, all sorts of interesting stuff had gone down there. Of course, the effects had proven worldwide, but California...

People who were too cool for The Oblivion Bar went to a nightclub called Bewitched in L.A., now that place was scary. Especially since Lucifer sometimes swung by there to tickle the ivories.

Yeah, that's right. The Devil Himself lived in The City of Angels. Which made keeping track of Hell's hierarchy somewhat problematic these days, as for the last near damn decade the other Lords of Hell had been civil-warring over the scraps. And then there were the fistfuls of souls that had bolted from Hell when The Accuser had left the barn door open walking out.

And don't get her started on San Francisco.

Add that to the non-magical superhuman population-- aliens and metahumans and tech-heads oh my --and, yeah, The West Coast was Shrieve's ultimate wild-ride hunting ground.

But she hadn't been there under S.H.A.D.E.'s orders for a little while now. In fact, Blue Devil had gone solo just before Time had fired her. Had no-one told him? Had-- she could use this. She could use him.

"I was in town for a briefing." Almost not a lie.

"Now I'm on discretionary time." Look at that, 7/8s truth, not even a half-truth. Luci Morningstar would be proud as Puck, what was more discretionary than being full-time freelance?

He gingerly began to turn around and look at her, the gun easing enough so he could but it never wavered and by the time he was facing her it was pointing straight between his eyes.

He turned... and she didn't pull the trigger, she even backpedaled a half-step so that while she kept a headshot on lock she let him look at her. Let him look at the Walther. Maybe the holy water and the white oak in the Whopper rounds with the silver shavings and the garlic wouldn't straight up put Blue down for a ten-count, but it would give him serious acid-esque burns and slow him down enough that she could bring her Kurdish knife to bear.

He was faster now, though, wasn't he? Faster and stronger.

And here she thought hunting Dr. Moore would be a challenge.

This should be interesting.

"Look, we kind of stand out in the hallway like this, but the room I am entering wellll...it is kinda hot. I have been tracking a familiar all over town and he seems to have made this place his home base considering the overlapping scents i am reading. Now you can keep pointing that gun at me and we can play grab ass out here, or you can lower it and we can go in there and find out exactly what it was doing. After that I will owe you one, Deal?"

Miranda Shrieve was a tough mutha. The Walther wavered barely a centimeter in any direction as she listened to his exposition and his proposition.

But what good did Blue Devil's-- she refused to call him "Danny" in her head, as far as she was concerned he had forsaken his human name and didn't deserve one --owing her one do her? It wasn't like he could teleport her to--

--hm.

Speaking of that wretched hive of scum and villainy, did he still work at The Oblivion Bar?

"Yeah. Okay. You can owe me one. Now that I know you're not using your free agency to stalk the unwary." Ah, irony.

She swung the Walther to point down and away, finger off the trigger.

Shrieve wasn't especially worried about conventional authorities. Even without the backing of a pseudo-governmental agency like S.H.A.D.E. or the resources of The Ancestral Order of Hunters, Blue could plead the Masked Hero Act and she could claim Stand My Ground, it'd be an inconvenience at most.

But getting on with hunting a monster, even if she had to team up with another monster to do it? That was right up her alley.

Especially if it ultimately got her back to her car.

"What kind of familiar, demonic or Fae? If it's Fae, what Court?"

The white oak in her Whopper rounds was good against all sorts of impurities both pagan and Judeo-Christian, not to mention the holy water. And then there were her cold iron throwing blades.

"I've got a feretory that can probably trap it."
 
"Yeah. Okay. You can owe me one. Now that I know you're not using your free agency to stalk the unwary." Ah, irony.

"Perish the thought my dear. In fact I am so pissed off with this whole demon thing that I find the fuckers in our dimension and send them back to hell where they belong. Do you know what it is like being a Catholic 'ahhhhh' and not being able to say "HIS" name or even pray anymore without hurting myself."

He looked at her with fury in his eyes for a few seconds then waved his hand at her while turning his head.

"Sorry,sorry, Just a sore point with me. Needless to say killing demons and devils is a lot of fun just now."

She swung the Walther to point down and away, finger off the trigger.

"What kind of familiar, demonic or Fae? If it's Fae, what Court?"
"I've got a feretory that can probably trap it."

Danny shook his head. "I'm not one hundred percent sure of what type but it is definitely not Fae. This thing stinks too much of the pit for that. Thing is I'm not getting a strong wiff of evil off the thing but you know the story about that. Familiars are hired to do the grunt work and normally don't even know their employers, that's why they can smell so clean. It was so rugged up in the bar I couldn't even tell you what it was. The only thing I know is my trident gets a reading on it and it's been in here a lot but not for at least a day."
 
Red Light Means Danger. (Shrieve)

"Perish the thought my dear. In fact I am so pissed off with this whole demon thing that I find the fuckers in our dimension and send them back to hell where they belong. Do you know what it is like being a Catholic 'ahhhhh' and not being able to say "HIS" name or even pray anymore without hurting myself."

He looked at her with fury in his eyes for a few seconds then waved his hand at her while turning his head.

"Sorry,sorry, Just a sore point with me. Needless to say killing demons and devils is a lot of fun just now."

What was it that old man had said when the other old man had asked him if he was Catholic? 'Among other things.'

He looked at her with those Hellfire eyes and she alllllmost pulled the trigger just to watch them wink out.

But she erred on the side of pragmatism.

Shrieve herself was strictly... nondenominational. How could you believe in one thing where it seemed like just about all the myths were true? But she sure as Hell didn't throw her chips down on God's number because while it was hard to ignore His existence in a world plagued by demons and angels, He sure as Hell wasn't cleaning up His own mess.

So she wasn't going to shed any tears over this guy not being able to sit in a confessional and say his Hail Maries and feel so much goshdarn better about himself. But a monster killing other monsters made her job easier.

"I can dig it," she assured him.

Again, not entirely a lie. She knew what it was like to be kicked out of a thing she'd been bred and programmed for all her life-- it was just something she'd decided she was better off without, rather than this guy-- you can't take the church out of the boy.

Weapon down, she requested intel.

Danny shook his head. "I'm not one hundred percent sure of what type but it is definitely not Fae. This thing stinks too much of the pit for that. Thing is I'm not getting a strong wiff of evil off the thing but you know the story about that. Familiars are hired to do the grunt work and normally don't even know their employers, that's why they can smell so clean. It was so rugged up in the bar I couldn't even tell you what it was. The only thing I know is my trident gets a reading on it and it's been in here a lot but not for at least a day."

"So this is recon and canvassing," Shrieve mused. "Search, but not yet destroy."

She jutted her head towards the door, tugging her scrying pendant out of a pocket. "Fine, after you then. Let's see what kind of nest this creepy-crawly's built."
 
Danny nodded. It made good sense strategically. He was the heavy hitter here. He had the strength, speed and toughness to take on most things they would find behind the door and Shrieve had the technical know how and skills to back him up in a fight while he soaked up all the punishment.

Of course that didn't mean he had to just go in there guns blazing like in the movies, that was stupid. He slowly turned the handle listening for any traps or wards activating and then slowly pushing the door open. He looked into the dark room and his eyes automatically switched and he could see it as plain as day. Apparently they were on the ritzy floor as this was just a corridor and instead of leading to a bed, it led to a table. A suite probably with a separate bedroom.

"Looks like a two room job Shrieve. Got a medium length corridor to a decent sized room with a table. Curtains are all blackout of course but I think something else has been done as well. It is never that black in a room no matter how hard they try."

He turned around and looked at her. Now that they were working together he had no problems slipping back into the usual roles of team muscle and tactician.

"You got anything to see with or you want me to supply the light?" he asked gently holding up the trident.

"Just give me the word when you are ready to move in. This place reeks of whatever that thing was. Maybe I can find a clue what it was up to in my city."
 
::::: Jasper's Hollow. Atlanta. Now. :::::

Chas had never really been comfortable with his role as John's sidekick. Even after John had given him the lives of all the people that died in the fire that should have killed him. He did what he did out of a sense of obligation. Now... Now he had no choice. He was a walking abomination. His body had been obliterated during the battle with the Rising Darkness. John and the others had pieced back together what they could, and used bits and pieces from others to replace what they needed.

He spent the last 8 years coming to terms with this. For a year after, he wandered. He just wandered. In that time he found that he seemed to be drawn to trouble. And he began helping others where he could. Eventually, becoming an agent of SHADE. He even began to feel like he belonged. A little.

Chas found that as long as he has the will to keep on, he is nigh immortal. Bullets hurt, knives hurt. But they are no more a threat to him than a child with a pop gun. As long as he can replace the damaged parts, he can keep on going. And that is what he has done.

Chas was ruminating on these issues when he heard John get home.

"John? Where ya been?" Chas calls to John as he reaches into the drawer beside him. Pulling his steampistol just in case.

"Would you put that bleedin' hand-cannon away. I told ya that this place was warded. Not many people know it exists and those that do are either welcome or would be hard pressed to get in in the first place."

"Forgive me if I don't take everything you say as gospel. Still trying to find a way to undo what the Old Man did?"

"From everythin' I can find those kids are what they are. They willingly took his power and unless he revokes it, or they die, no way to undo it. Gonna keep lookin' but found somethin' we need to look into. More vital at the moment. Get yer kit. We need to go."

"The kids... I mean, they at least have some good role models and people watchin' their backs. So where we headed?"

"Small town in upstate New York. You ever hear of a place in Wales called Brigend?"

Chas, or as he was now called, Frankenstein(Or Frank), pondered for a moment. "Can't say I have. What's it got to do with upstate New York?"

"Back in the early 2000's, there was a period where there were over 100 suicides by hanging in about a 5 year period, mostly all teens and early twenties. That's only the hangings. I was a mite bit busy at the time, what with the Rising Darkness and all. But now it looks like there is a repeat here in the US. This small town has had 15 suicides in the same manner in the last year and a half. Again all kids. We need to look into this. If it is supernatural, we need to end it. If not, than its one helluva coincidence."

"Jesus. Okay. Think we need back up? I know this doctor out in Seattle, she might be a huge help."

"I don't want anything to do with Father of The Year and his crew. We can do this. Leaving in 5. Lets go!"

John wanders off to his room to apparently grab supplies. Leaving Frank to gather his own.

As they load their bags into the back of the taxi that Chas had driven them about in for so many years, he can't help be wince as he thinks of the fear in his daughter's eyes the last time she saw what he had become. His old life was gone. He knew that. And he thought back to when he thought he was going to lose her, and how he felt. He couldn't imagine what all these parents were going through. And he couldn't let it continue.


:):::: The Tragedy of Bridgend is a real thing. There is a documentary on the tragedy available on Netflix titled Bridgend. Between 2007 and 2012 over 90 teens and early twenty year olds committed suicide by hanging. No notes were left. No cause was known. Many seemed to have no history of depression and were fervent that they would never do so in interviews about the tragedy. I hope that by including it here, that I have not offended anyone. On the contrary, I hope by including it, perhaps people will want to look into this and learn from the tragedy. :::::)
 
Seeing Red. (Shrieve)

Danny nodded. It made good sense strategically. He was the heavy hitter here. He had the strength, speed and toughness to take on most things they would find behind the door and Shrieve had the technical know how and skills to back him up in a fight while he soaked up all the punishment.

That had actually been Shrieve's logic as well.

Screw chivalry, she wasn't going to take any hits that the supernatural being with a solid rating on The Palmer Metahuman Scale couldn't meat-shield for her.

Additionally, it might make it easier for her to take him out later if things came to that.

Of course that didn't mean he had to just go in there guns blazing like in the movies, that was stupid.

Oh, well. It had been a nice thought.

He slowly turned the handle listening for any traps or wards activating and then slowly pushing the door open. He looked into the dark room and his eyes automatically switched and he could see it as plain as day. Apparently they were on the ritzy floor as this was just a corridor and instead of leading to a bed, it led to a table. A suite probably with a separate bedroom.

"Looks like a two room job Shrieve. Got a medium length corridor to a decent sized room with a table. Curtains are all blackout of course but I think something else has been done as well. It is never that black in a room no matter how hard they try."

He turned around and looked at her. Now that they were working together he had no problems slipping back into the usual roles of team muscle and tactician.

"You got anything to see with or you want me to supply the light?" he asked gently holding up the trident.

She squinted, and then fished in a pocket of her coat. "What kind of monster-hunter would I be if I didn't go everywhere prepared to spelunk a subterranean labyrinth after a minotaur?"

Shrieve tugged a glasses case out of her pocket, and tugged out what looked like a pair of round-rimmed John Lennon style sunglasses, except their lenses glowed a pale white. Moonglasses. She'd be able to see everything as though it were bathed in the light of a full moon on a cloudless night.

(That is, if it were working right. Magical artifacts had been mighty unpredictable lately, going back about six weeks. Well, more than usual.)

"If these don't work, I might need you to flick your Bic, but let's not risk burning the place down if we don't have to."

"Just give me the word when you are ready to move in. This place reeks of whatever that thing was. Maybe I can find a clue what it was up to in my city."

"'Your' city?" she chuckled faintly. "You spent too long hanging out with that Arrow bastard, you still talk like you're in The Justice Society."

Besides which, I haven't reckoned with him yet for his role in my dad's death, that's overdue.

Maybe that'll be my next stop once I get back to my driver's seat. Star City and Seattle are practically on top of each other.


"On your go, Devil," she indicated, gun ready, scrying pendant glowing its own tiny golden glow. "This thing doesn't get to run around unsupervised, I don't care whose city this is."
 
Danny was a bit worried at that last comment about the Arrow.He knew Shrieve didn't like the guy but really, bringing him up now. Sure he might feel like New York was his city but that was because he spent most of his time here now. He sure as heck wasn't as fanatical about it as the Arrow was about Star City though.

That crack about the Justice Society hadn't been called for either. She knew he was a loner now. Hell what group wanted a bloody demon on their team. Sort of bad for the whole hero image thing. Even S.H.A.D.E. hadn't called him up for a while, that was how bad it was. Still he needed her so he guessed he could let it slide for now. Later though he and her might have a few words.

Looking back to make sure she was ready he held up three fingers and then counted down. On one he faced forward and as his finger came down he moved in.

He walked down the hall and into the lounge area. A small two seater sat facing a large screen TV with two armchairs beside it, while behind it was a small dining room table with four chairs. A small kitchen area completed the room. All in all a pretty fancy set up but nothing out of the ordinary. The stink of the familiar however was heavy in the area. This was definitely the place it had hung out in.

Moving over to the small passageway beside the kitchen he moved down it and kicked the bedroom door in, then paused at the threshold. Well this explained a lot. The huge king sized bed had been upturned and flung upright against the wall clearing a huge space in the middle of the room. A huge magical circle had been drawn in numerous substances in it and at the moment they were only faintly glowing.

Moving to the side so Shrieve could see he gestured inside the room.
"Well there's something you don't see every day. In fact I have never seen anything like it before. The pattern is pretty basic and most of the writing and runes are your stock standard ones of protection and containment, but there are a couple there that I only vaguely recall seeing before and others I have never seen. Plus I have never seen a circle done in so many colors before."

He looked around again and not spying any other runes or physical traps he edged into the room and as close to it as he wanted to get.

"So Ms monster hunter extraordinaire. Anything like this ever been written about in those fancy books of yours in the Hunter's society, because I am officially stumped and I really don't like that."
 
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Red Rum. (Shrieve)

Shrieve swept the kitchen swiftly and efficiently, looking both for supernatural security and conventional bugging equipment.

She'd just gotten to the fridge-- wondered if she'd see some fiery extradimensional vortex inside, generally you don't see that kind of behavior in a major appliance --when Blue Devil caved in the bedroom door and she went to see what he'd found.

He took a poke at her education in antiquated lore and languages, and she harrumphed.

"Actually," she noted, "usually I would say I have an app for that. But there's no way my phone camera would pick anything up in this darkness field."

Part of the reason why facial recognition algorithms had come so far in the last couple of decades was that Hunters had been behind the scenes pushing for a way to identify runes quicker-- it turned out the vagaries of visual comparision had dovetailed really well together. So, kind of like advances in military tech benefiting civilians, Hunter researches benefited the ol' Muggle population.

Of course, none of that helped her in a room where magic would swallow up the light from her phone's flash as quick as she pressed the shutter.

Right now, she'd consider it a bonus that her moonglasses weren't flickering out on her.

She tilted her head this way, and that.

"There's Enochian. There's Fae. I think that one's Draconic? And-- I think-- four distinct dialects of Infernal, maybe representing four of the factions warring for supremacy in Hell?" she grunted. "Of course, Hell if I know."

"Seven languages in one magic circle, that's the mystical equivalent of fusion cuisine."

Shrieve glanced up at Devil, gave him the side-eye as she swept her scrying pendant near the edge of the circle without crossing the perimeter just yet, trying to get a reading.

"I can't see colors right now, everything's all fifty shades of moonlight. How many colors are you seeing-- is it seven? A different color for each language?"
 
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