"So, are we really pressing on toward that mess?"
Constantine's voice cut through the tension, an attempt to halt Steve and his team. The recent skirmish had shown him their combat prowess, but he had a sinking feeling that continuing was a bad idea. As a mystic, he possessed a vague, almost precognitive intuition, and he trusted it implicitly.
"Our mission demands it. We'll arrange for someone to escort you out later," Coulson replied, his tone as gentle as ever, disarming and trustworthy.
"Those things weren't human. Even the usual bloodsucking scum aren't that strong," Constantine pressed, desperate to dissuade them. This wasn't just a fight—it felt like a plunge into the murky depths of the occult. He'd tangled with mythological beings before and always found a way out, but he'd rather not face them at all. Vampire soldiers? He'd never even heard of such a thing.
"Besides, your Robin Hood's out of arrows. Don't you think you should regroup first?" Constantine gestured, his cigarette twirling nervously between his fingers.
"I think he knows something. Maybe we should interrogate him," Melinda said, her voice icy. She and Coulson went way back, and in situations like this, she was the one to apply pressure.
With Hell sealed off, Constantine's powers were barely above a regular human's. His mystic tricks weren't much different from a superhuman's abilities—at least not to agents trained to handle superhuman threats.
"I'm telling you, I don't know anything! Ask him!" Constantine jabbed a finger at John Wick, pleading his innocence. Wick could vouch that he had no ties to those vampire soldiers, but the problem was, Coulson's team wouldn't trust the word of a notorious assassin.
"I doubt your father would give an unbiased account," Hawkeye interjected. "Didn't expect Baba Yaga to have a son, though—and one who's not exactly a kid."
"He's not my son," Wick snapped, his voice thick with irritation as he adjusted his grip on his dog's corpse. "I got married a few years ago. I've never betrayed my wife."
"Then how should we address this gentleman?" Coulson cut through the awkwardness.
"John Constantine, expert in mystical affairs," Constantine said, fishing a crumpled A4 sheet from his pocket. No business cards left—just this tattered paper. Melinda snatched it and unfolded it.
"'I, under fair and open conditions, sign this contract, free of coercion, exchanging Carter Slade's soul for my freedom in return for a marker pen. Signed, Mephisto. Witness: John Constantine.' What is this?" Melinda read aloud.
"Lady, snatching things isn't exactly polite," Constantine said, a hint of displeasure in his tone. Mephisto's name on the paper flared briefly, and Melinda swayed, disoriented. Steve steadied her.
"What did you do?" Coulson's gun snapped up, aimed at Constantine, while Hawkeye drew a throwing knife, eyeing Wick warily.
"Hell's sealed off from the mortal world, but a Hell Lord's name—especially one they signed themselves—isn't something mortals like you can just toss around," Constantine said, flicking ash from his cigarette, unfazed by the gun.
"Let me say it again: John Constantine, expert in mystical affairs. You can trust me." (As long as you don't team up with me,) he added silently, his expression calm. He knew they'd believe him.
Wick stayed silent. Having seen Mephisto himself, he had little doubt about Constantine's claims.
"Alright, Coulson, lower the gun," Steve said, releasing a now-steady Melinda.
Melinda raised her pistol, still clutching the contract. She wasn't letting it go.
"I'm Steve Rogers. The Steve Rogers," Captain America said, extending his hand.
He'd felt Bul-Kathos's pressure and now believed in Hell's existence. Constantine shook his hand, sealing their acquaintance.
"You're Captain America? Where's your shield?" Constantine asked, curiosity piqued.
"Damaged in a fight. It's being repaired," Steve said, unbothered by the question.
"I thought that shield was indestructible…" Constantine muttered, poking at a sore spot.
"The issue now is, if you don't share something useful, you're coming with us," Steve said, sidestepping the shield topic.
"If you tell me your objective, I could try a divination," Constantine offered. He had no desire to keep moving forward. Regret gnawed at him for angering Angel—otherwise, he'd be lounging on a couch, basking in good health.
"You should call for backup first," Wick said. He doubted a disciplined unit like those vampire soldiers would be just a single squad.
Hellboy lounged in his RV, awaiting further intel. His hulking frame wasn't suited for daylight appearances, though he longed to step into the public eye like Captain America, a hero recognized by all. He was tired of his deeds going unnoticed.
The aura he'd sensed would reveal itself again, and he'd pinpoint it instantly. For now, its owner seemed to be lying low, forcing Hellboy to linger in the area. The aura wasn't overwhelmingly powerful—comparable to his own, at most. But tracking wasn't his forte. His size made questioning victims impractical, though a graveyard might yield cooperative spirits. Living witnesses? Not so much.
"I'm starting to miss Abe," Hellboy muttered, grabbing a cigar from the table. "No clue why that jerk made Abe fight. He's better at psychic stuff and data analysis."
Chocolate bars calmed him, but cigars made him feel mature—grown-up, despite his age.
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