"Why is the Director dead here?" Coulson's voice quavered, his mind grappling with the surreal scene before him.
Constantine maintained a flawless poker face. As a seasoned con artist, this chaos wasn't enough to crack his composure. He acted as if it had nothing to do with him—because it didn't.
"No big deal. Probably another one of his decoys," Melinda said casually. To her, Nick Fury wasn't exactly likable, and she knew he didn't care to be. His countless decoys meant one or two deaths were trivial. Having seen his stand-ins before, Melinda considered this a minor spectacle.
Her words made Constantine realize he'd misjudged the situation with Mephisto. The corpse lacked a soul—not because Mephisto had consumed it to heal, but because it never had one to begin with.
Steve and Hawkeye barely reacted to Melinda's comment. Hawkeye had long suspected Fury's use of decoys, so he didn't dwell on it. As long as Fury was alive, S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't spiral into chaos. Steve, who'd seen both a decoy and the real Fury before this mission, wasn't shocked either.
Only John Wick clenched his fists, seething. The killer of his dog wasn't dead—a grave injustice in his eyes.
"So, is collecting the Director's 'body' part of our mission now? We can't leave it here—someone might exploit it," Coulson said, regaining his calm but wincing at the headache this caused. They hadn't expected to stumble across their boss's corpse, decoy or not.
"Our mission is to support Warpath. At the very least, we need to find out why he went missing," Steve clarified.
"Then you've basically succeeded," Constantine interjected, itching to return to the city. "I don't know how strong your 'Warpath' is, but the werewolves I know couldn't take on that squad of vampire soldiers."
"He's far stronger than the werewolves you're familiar with," Steve replied.
Yet Steve might have overestimated Warpath's prowess. In that fight, Warpath had barely resisted. These enemies weren't the type to cower at his fearsome form. The moment he charged their stronghold, roaring for battle, a hail of bullets cut him down. Against ghoulish soldiers like these, a flesh-and-blood creature didn't fare well.
"Hope so. Werewolves have solid physicality, but I doubt they can withstand gunfire—especially from a disciplined, non-human unit," Constantine said, his skepticism unshaken.
"After we complete the mission, I'd like to meet your Director," John Wick said, his tone as steady as he could muster.
"Damn it, do you even know what those things are?" Constantine snapped, surprised. He'd thought he and Wick were on the same page.
"Give me weapons that can hurt them, and I'll be an asset," Wick said firmly.
"Look at the horizon—the sun's setting!" Constantine pointed out. "You know what that means for vampires? No sunlight, no major weakness!" He'd seen one shrug off an arrow through its skull—an unnatural resilience. Without sunlight, their chances of escaping a lost fight were slim.
"We have Captain America. He'll lead us to victory," Coulson said, ever the loyal fan, brimming with faith in Steve.
"Damn it, then you'd better call for backup now—and bring weapons that actually work!" Constantine urged. He wanted to summon a demon to handle their goal and get back to the city, but with Hell sealed, he was out of options.
"Mystic expert, aren't you going to do something to help us win? Or are you just another 'I reckon this ain't gonna work' fraud?" Hawkeye snapped, fed up with Constantine's endless complications. In his missions, he'd met plenty of so-called prophets—either con artists or weak superhumans with no real power beyond theatrics.
"Don't say 'I reckon' to me! I hate illiterates!" Constantine roared, snatching Mephisto's contract from Melinda's hand. He sat on the ground, pressing a hand to the paper, muttering a string of unintelligible incantations.
A flash of black light erupted, and Mephisto's avatar reappeared at the spot where they'd parted.
"Why's it always you?! What do you want now, John Constantine?!" Mephisto's voice dripped with irritation. In a short time, he'd suffered multiple losses at Constantine's hands. His shadow, stretched long by the fading sunset, sported goat-like horns, distinctly inhuman.
Instantly, two guns and a throwing knife targeted him.
"What, planning to gang up on me again? I'm just an avatar, but I'm not something mortals can harm!" Mephisto sneered.
Whoosh! Hawkeye's knife sailed through Mephisto's form, clattering far off on the ground.
"What, mystic expert, you think an illusion can fool us?" Hawkeye scoffed, convinced Constantine was a superpowered trickster.
He wasn't entirely wrong—Constantine was exactly that kind of guy. But Mephisto's avatar was no illusion.
"You can't even convince them, huh? No matter, John. You'll soon learn the cost of toying with me!" Mephisto vanished, and not far away, a demon began speeding toward their location.
"Agent Barton, that was a bit reckless," Coulson said. He didn't think attacking first was the best way to solve problems—not unless the target was confirmed as an enemy.
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