"Where am I?"
A voice echoed from the forge—not Bucky, the Winter Soldier, but Kasilius, just waking from Ancient One's chokehold.
"I contacted the Dark Dimension… then passed out?" Kasilius mumbled, still buzzing with the thrill of nearing power.
"Damn it, I was this close to exposing Ancient One's lies…"
Burkasso knocked him out again.
"Forgot about this guy. Who's going to the Holy Mountain? I'll send you together," Burkasso said, smacking his forehead.
"Thought you had plans for him," Rumlow said, rolling his eyes. "My weapon's broken. Now what?"
"Go to the Holy Mountain. Let Rasuk forge you a new one," Burkasso replied casually. Forging for Rumlow was no hassle; he couldn't handle powerful gear yet.
"I thought you'd gift me something," Rumlow said, finishing his beer and crushing the can.
"I gave you my potion bottle. What more do you want?" Burkasso snapped.
"Feels unsafe. Who knows where it'll teleport me," Rumlow said, eyeing the Endless Chaos Potion, savoring its liquor-like aroma.
"Plenty of barbarians use it. Few complain," Burkasso grumbled. The potion was Rumlow's now; he couldn't drink it anymore. His other flavors were stashed at Harrogath.
Matt rolled his eyes. Only living barbarians used potions. Dead ones didn't complain. Rhea had told him tales, like Orak's warnings against the potion.
"Mr. Burkasso, I'm here for Bucky," Steve said, entering in casual clothes, his shield under repair at S.H.I.E.L.D.
Steve nodded at Burkasso but hesitated at Rumlow.
"Take him. He's useless here," Burkasso said, placing Hit-Monkey's corpse on the anvil, stuffing a Forgotten Soul in its mouth.
"If possible, I'd like to take Hit-Monkey too. Dugan cares about it," Steve said urgently. Dugan didn't, but Steve wanted to honor his old comrade's remains.
"Squeak!" Hit-Monkey's soul leaped onto Steve's head, slapping his face. If Steve took the corpse, its chance to escape the demon's contract was gone.
Steve's cheeks swelled with paw prints.
Rumlow scoffed at the soul. That monkey's sniping nearly killed him.
"Once restored, this monkey's my gift to you. Don't want it? Give it to Matt. He needs a helper," Burkasso said, avoiding mention of Matt's blindness.
"I don't want it. If it's a gift, give me a weapon. Luke's warblade looks nice," Rumlow said, eyeing the monkey yanking Steve's hair.
Burkasso shrugged. Rumlow would regret it when the monkey proved useful for looting.
Barbarian rifts came in three types: Legacy Rifts, recreating ancestors' experiences; Greater Rifts, tougher with bosses, controlled by Burkasso; and Lesser Rifts, where credentials earned opened Greater Rift portals. Harrogath's rifts dropped gold and gear, and pets were invaluable.
Burkasso recalled Ten Pounds of Flesh, now mush. Did his hound eat it? The hound was ash now anyway.
"Whatever. Let it roam the Holy Mountain," Burkasso said. A warblade wasn't precious.
He yanked Hit-Monkey's soul off Steve.
Meanwhile, Nick Fury drove his air-conditioned car toward the Howling Commandos' base, but trouble found him. His impaired arm and leg led to him accidentally killing an unleashed dog at a gas station. Instead of waiting, he drove off for "more important matters."
Intel said Werewolf and Mummy were trapped in a Hydra base, fighting Third Reich soldiers in WWII gear, fearless and armed with modern weapons. The Commandos, meant to terrify enemies, were now the scared ones. Werewolf sensed Midnight Vampire's aura in the soldiers.
About three hundred vampire soldiers, using trenches and relentless tactics, cornered Werewolf and Mummy. The base held only a dim-witted humanoid and Frankenstein, who never left. Dugan was in treatment, Mina was a skeleton at Vanguard Tech, Hit-Monkey was with Burkasso, and Blade was evading Yang Valentine.
(Hulk hadn't appeared; young Abomination wasn't born.)
Fury, fretting over the injured Amphibian Man—on loan from B.P.R.D.—dreaded explaining to Hellboy. A confrontation with that stone-fisted monster was the last thing he needed.
Unbeknownst to him, a bearded man cradled the dead dog, vowing revenge.
John Wick, Night Devil. No relation to Constantine, despite the name. Fresh from wiping out a gang for killing his first dog, he'd found another—his "destiny." Leaving it briefly to grab food, he returned to find it dead.
Wick stormed the gas station, demanding footage to hunt the hit-and-run driver. Bloodied fists shaking, he sped off, ready for a high-speed chase.
Fury was in deep trouble.
Constantine rode with Angel, cigarette smoke choking the car.
They'd buried the St. Vanganza Contract in Carter Slade's grave, but Constantine rigged it, tying its aura to himself for a future "deal" with Mephisto's avatar.
"John, keep smoking, and you'll need cancer treatment again in five years," Angel snapped, wrinkling her nose.
"Got that angel feather to save me," Constantine teased.
Angel slammed the brakes, his head smacking the windshield.
"Planning to scam me?" she yelled, pounding the wheel, barely restraining curses—a victory, outdoing most who dealt with Constantine.
"You never said you kept the feather. Thought you made a quill," Constantine said, flicking his cigarette out the window. It sparked against a passing car's glass.
He braced for a fight, but the car sped on.
"People don't drive safe anymore," he muttered, lighting another cigarette.
"He should've slowed for an emergency," he added.
Angel kicked him out, sending him tumbling. A car roared by, its draft yanking his cigarette. Death brushed close.
"Another bad driver," Constantine quipped, retrieving his smoke. He couldn't waste it—money was tight.
He lit up and walked back.
"Constantine, you bastard!" Angel cursed, slamming the door, and sped off.
She wasn't worried. Constantine wouldn't care about being stranded. He was used to it.
(End of Chapter)
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