"I'm Mephisto, lord of hell!" Mephisto declared, dropping pretenses after John Wick revealed his name.
"He's just a clone," Constantine added, whistling off-key.
Wick pulled out cigarettes, lit one, and Constantine swiped the pack. Oddly, rule-abiding Wick tolerated Constantine's chaos. Studying his face, Wick wondered about Liverpool kin.
"Silk Cut? Really no Liverpool relatives?" Constantine lit Wick's cigarette with Angel's lighter, then his own.
Wick glanced at his dog's corpse, recalling its soul. "Didn't believe in your kind till today," he said, firing another shot into Fury's decoy corpse, questions swirling.
Mephisto eyed the body. "John, you don't mess with human souls…" he said, framing Constantine. He saw the corpse wasn't human, lacking a soul, and used it to smear him. Once, he wielded hell's power, but now, independent yet weakened, he resorted to tricks.
"First soul I played was mine," Constantine quipped, unbothered by his rotten rep. He always found allies.
"Call me Mephisto," the demon insisted.
"Still a clone," Constantine shot back, trading barbs.
"Can you really bring it back?" Wick asked Mephisto, exhaling smoke.
"Why so set on reviving this dog?" Constantine cut in, blocking a demon deal. No gain for him otherwise.
"It's my wife's stand-in," Wick said, voice heavy, charm radiating.
"Good you've no Liverpool kin. People shouldn't…" Constantine trailed off, unsettled by Wick's words, though he didn't judge oddities.
Mephisto's faint power nudged Wick's openness, unusual for a cold killer. Constantine stomped a stone, sketching a crude magic circle, breaking the influence.
"Why not your wife, not the dog?" Constantine pressed.
Mephisto cursed inwardly. He could revive the dog's nearby soul, but a years-dead woman? Impossible.
"This old man can do that?" Wick snapped awake.
Mephisto seethed. Wick's shaken soul was ripe until he saw the dog's spirit.
"Sorry, he can't. Even the dog? Two days max," Constantine said.
Wick drove a pencil into Mephisto's forehead. No harm, but fury followed.
"Cool move. Where'd you hide that pencil?" Constantine grinned. Mephisto's weakened clone was powerless, and Wick's act tied him to Constantine's chaotic "warship"—friendships he flipped like boats.
"You'll see what I can do!" Mephisto yanked the pencil out, vanishing. Weak, but he had a knight—not Carter Slade—to task, like stealing the St. Vanganza Contract from Constantine.
Meanwhile, twelve Third Reich-clad soldiers in protective suits marched their way, fresh from defeating Werewolf and Mummy. Yang Valentine summoned them for manpower, their plan nearing. They needed more combat data.
"Was that magic making me waver?" Wick asked, tossing his empty gun, sensing his earlier lapse.
"Pretty much," Constantine said, spitting out his cigarette butt, lighting another.
"Can someone really be revived?" Wick asked, snatching his pack back, lighting one.
"Mephisto's true form could. Still no kin?" Constantine pressed.
"None," Wick said, dialing a number. "One dinner, one cleanup, location XXX."
"Reviving costs more than most can pay. Stick with me, I might find a way," Constantine said, liking tough allies to shield his frail frame.
"I'm not ready for this," Wick said, distracted by synchronized footsteps.
"What's that?" he growled, spotting the squad. Their suits hid faces, but their Third Reich garb was absurd here.
"Let's move," Constantine said, sensing no life in them. "No quick tricks for non-humans."
He bolted, vanishing silently, a master at dodging danger. The soldiers, prepared to leave no witnesses, sped up, guns aimed. This road led to their base—rarely traveled, perfect for testing suits and eliminating threats.
They knew the Howling Commandos, tangled with Hydra, were part of their experiment. Next target awaited. No survivors was their specialty.
"Run!" Wick shouted, grabbing his dog's corpse, light enough to carry. Constantine was already far. Fury's decoy was ignored—Continental Hotel cleaners were en route.
The soldiers, not human, matched human speed but never tired. Wick and Constantine couldn't run forever, not even marathoners could.
"Captain, check the Howling Commandos' base. I hit a snag getting there," Fury said, post-Bucky arrangements, rubbing his temples. The dog-driven murder by Wick haunted him. An FBI badge didn't stop the assassin.
Without Wick, Fury'd be with Frankenstein and Man-Thing, or dead by Third Reich soldiers.
"I'll go after. I need to see Peggy," Steve said, glaring. Since waking, he'd had no rest.
"Your shield's not fixed. Make do," Fury said, unable to equip him.
"Get Rumlow and Coulson," Fury added.
"No. They're old friends. I trust them," Steve said, staring. Fury hadn't explained the mission.
"Take Frankenstein and Man-Thing to support Werewolf and Mummy. They're lost in a Hydra base," Fury said.
"Combat mission?" Steve bristled. No weapon?
"That's why I said Rumlow…" Fury's face darkened.
Rumlow outfought anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D., even summoning otherworldly allies near death. But he was unreliable now.
"Probably chatting with Tony," Steve said, seeking Coulson, Fury's trusted man, and Melinda, whose combat impressed him.
Pepper calmed Tony, who drunkenly recounted events, trusting her more than his uncle Stane.
"How long they staying?" Rumlow asked, drinking with Burkasso outside, stargazing.
"Till they leave," Burkasso said, bored. Without constant battles, he craved a worthy foe. Rifts' phantom demons were dull.
"Your golden beard looked fiercer in battle," Rumlow said, chugging.
"Fierce? Clean my car instead," Burkasso replied, stroking his beard, recalling Death's skeletal form. Her presence had eased his deathly aura.
"Toughest fight?" Rumlow asked, tipsy, still new to barbarian life.
"Facing a thousand walking corpses with a handaxe. Swapped to Arthef's Light of Life, bashed them all. Felt sick after," Burkasso said, open about defeats. Even Volusk had been knocked out by demons—ancestors shared such tales for centuries.
"You don't celebrate strength?" Rumlow asked.
"Celebrate dying to stronger demons?" Burkasso retorted, recalling Sanctuary's relentless fights. Survivors weren't always strong, just lucky. He'd been lucky, avoiding unbeatable foes.
"No one says you're bad at small talk?" Rumlow set down his bottle.
"Everyone does, especially Li-Ming, that awe-inspiring mage," Burkasso said, shuddering at her black hole spell. He'd pinned her, but took a hit.
Rumlow, clueless to Burkasso's might, couldn't see his heights.
"Like dogs? I'll get you one. Might cheer you up," Rumlow said.
Burkasso's eyes glinted. His old hound could've crushed a hundred Rumlows. It dragged corpses for fun, a rare joy.
(End of Chapter)
✨ Want early access to the latest chapters and exclusive content? Support me on Patreon and unlock special perks!
👉 [pat*eon*com/DaoistRoeoNQ]