🌟 If you'd like to support me or read EARLY ACCESS Chapters, you can find me on Patreon 🌟
 https://www.patreon.com/Its_Zack/
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finding superheroes in 1994 proved easier than Constantine expected, mainly because they found him first.
He'd been in mid-January New York for three days, tracking rumors of cult activity in Harlem while simultaneously fighting off increasingly severe temporal fragmentation episodes. During the worst ones, he'd find himself reliving moments from the present conversations with Strange, Sarah Chen's terrified face, the council meeting while still physically existing in 1994. It was like having schizophrenia mixed with severe PTSD, and Constantine's already questionable mental state wasn't improving.
He was in the middle of one such episode, standing in an abandoned lot while his mind experienced both 1994 and 2025 simultaneously, when someone cleared their throat behind him.
"You're the guy who helped Spider-Kid stop that church ritual in October," a female voice said. "Except that hasn't happened yet. Time travel?"
Constantine spun, instinctively dropping into a defensive stance. The woman was in her late twenties, with dark skin and an expression that suggested she'd seen too much too young. She wore street clothes, but Constantine's magical sight revealed immense power coiled within her reality-warping abilities, tightly controlled.
"Monica Rambeau," Constantine said, recognizing her from future briefings. "Captain Marvel. Though I don't think you're using that name yet in this time period."
"I'm not." Monica crossed her arms. "And you didn't answer my question. Time travel?"
"Unfortunately." Constantine lit a cigarette, hands shaking from temporal strain. "Trying to prevent a paradox that I accidentally created by preventing a different disaster. Time travel is bullshit, by the way. Don't recommend it."
"Noted." Monica studied him with eyes that could see across the electromagnetic spectrum. "You're fragmenting. Your physical form is anchored here, but your consciousness is bleeding across multiple time periods. Whatever you're doing, it's killing you."
"I know. Which is why I need to work fast." Constantine pulled out a worn notebook where he'd been tracking cult activity. "Someone in Harlem is organizing a major demonic summoning. The ritual won't happen until October, but they're recruiting now. Building resources. I need to find them and shut it down before it begins."
"Why?"
"Because if they attempt the ritual, I'll have to stop it, which creates a paradox that erases the Sorcerer Supreme from existence and possibly collapses the entire timeline. If I prevent the attempt from happening in the first place, the paradox resolves and everyone lives."
Monica absorbed this. "That's complicated."
"Understatement of the century."
"And you need help."
"Desperately." Constantine met her eyes. "I know you. Not here, not now, but in the future. You're one of the most powerful heroes on Earth. You've fought cosmic threats, stood against gods. I'm asking you to help me fight a demon cult in Harlem."
"That's quite a sales pitch." Monica smiled slightly. "Lucky for you, I was already investigating strange activity in the neighborhood. People disappearing. Reports of voices from abandoned buildings. Classic cult behavior."
"Then we're on the same side."
"Maybe." Monica gestured. "Come on. I've got a safehouse nearby. You look like you need coffee and a moment to stop existing in multiple time periods simultaneously."
The safehouse was a studio apartment in a building that Constantine vaguely remembered being demolished in 2003. Monica made coffee proper coffee, not the swill Constantine usually subjected himself to while he sat on a couch and tried to keep his consciousness from fragmenting again.
"So the Sorcerer Supreme," Monica said, handing him a mug. "In my time, that's Stephen Strange. Arrogant surgeon who lost his hands and found magic instead."
"He's a good man. Bit pompous, but he's saved the world more times than I can count. And right now, he's flickering in and out of existence because I mucked with the timeline."
"Which is why you're here, suffering through temporal fragmentation, to fix it." Monica sat across from him. "That's either noble or stupid."
"Both, usually." Constantine sipped the coffee. It was perfect. "Strange gave me a chance when I arrived in this reality. Helped me establish myself, gave me resources and allies. This is me paying that back."
Before Monica could respond, the apartment door opened. A teenage girl walked in Black, maybe fourteen, with her hair in intricate braids. She stopped short when she saw Constantine.
"We've got a guest?" The girl's accent was distinctly New York. "Mon, you know Strange's rules about bringing people to the safehouse."
"Riri," Monica said calmly, "this is John Constantine. Time traveler, magical practitioner, and currently fragmenting across multiple temporal periods. Constantine, this is Riri Williams. Genius inventor and occasional pain in my ass."
Constantine blinked. "Riri Williams. You're... you're fourteen."
"Thirteen, actually." Riri dropped a backpack that clanked with mechanical parts. "And you're from the future, which is either really cool or really dangerous. Probably both."
"Definitely both," Constantine agreed. He looked at Monica. "She knows about the supernatural?"
"Hard to hide it when you're fighting demons in the neighborhood." Riri pulled out what looked like a partially assembled gauntlet. "I've been building detection equipment. Trying to create tech that can identify demonic energy signatures before they become major threats."
"At thirteen."
"I'm gifted." Riri grinned. "Monica's been teaching me about the mystical side of things. Says every scientist should understand that there are rules beyond physics."
Constantine was impressed despite himself. In the future his present Riri Williams would become Ironheart, one of the most brilliant inventors of her generation. But here, in 1994, she was just a kid with genius-level intelligence and apparently a working relationship with Monica Rambeau.
"The cult we're tracking," Monica said, pulling out her own notes. "They call themselves the Crimson Veil. Been operating in Harlem for about three weeks. They're recruiting desperate people addicts, homeless, anyone society's forgotten. Promising them power, purpose, a place to belong."
"Classic cult manipulation," Constantine said. "Get them dependent on the community, isolate them from outside support, then introduce the demonic elements gradually so they're already invested before they realize what they've joined."
"Exactly." Monica spread out a map of Harlem marked with various locations. "I've identified three possible bases of operation. Here, here, and here. But they're cautious. I haven't been able to infiltrate."
"That's because you're obviously a hero," Constantine said. "They can probably sense the power you carry. But me?" He gestured to himself. "I look like a desperate addict. Hell, half the time I feel like one. I can get inside."
"That's dangerous," Monica warned.
"Everything I do is dangerous. Comes with the territory." Constantine studied the map. "This location the old theater. That's got good bones for a ritual space. High ceilings, large open area, probably structurally sound enough to hide a cult's activities. That's where I'd put my money."
Riri was tapping on a tablet. "Cross-referencing power usage data yeah, that building's been drawing electricity despite supposedly being abandoned. Someone's operating there."
"Smart kid." Constantine stood, ignoring the wave of temporal vertigo. "I'll do reconnaissance tonight. If it's the Crimson Veil, I infiltrate. Gain their trust. Find out who's leading them and what they're planning."
"And then?"
"Then I stop them. Permanently if necessary." Constantine's expression hardened. "I can't risk them attempting any summoning, even a failed one. The timeline's too fragile right now."
Monica studied him. "You've killed before."
It wasn't a question. Constantine didn't bother confirming. "I do what's necessary to save lives. Sometimes that means killing the people trying to end them."
"Fair enough." Monica stood. "But you're not going alone. I'll provide backup. Riri stays here."
"What? Come on!" Riri protested.
"You're thirteen," Monica said firmly. "And your mother would kill me if I let you infiltrate a demon cult. You stay here, monitor our comms, and provide tech support."
Riri grumbled but didn't argue further. She handed Constantine a nearly invisible earpiece. "Encrypted channel. I'll hear everything. If things go sideways, I can alert Monica."
"Appreciated." Constantine pocketed the device.
That night, Constantine approached the abandoned theater alone. It had been a beautiful building once art deco facade, marquee that probably lit up the street in its heyday. Now it was just another relic of urban decay, windows broken, doors chained.
But light leaked from inside. And Constantine could hear voices chanting.
He found a side entrance, chains already broken by previous visitors. The interior was worse than he'd imagined water damage, collapsed ceiling sections, decades of neglect. But someone had cleared a path through the debris, leading deeper into the building.
Constantine followed it, magical senses on high alert.
The main theater space had been converted into a makeshift church. Folding chairs arranged in rows. A makeshift altar at the stage. And gathered in the seats, maybe forty people, all listening raptly as a man in red robes preached.
"You have been cast aside by society," the preacher said, his voice resonant with unnatural power. "Told you are worthless, disposable, beneath notice. But I see your potential. The Dark Lord sees your potential. Join us, and you will have power beyond imagining. Purpose beyond measure. Belonging beyond price."
Constantine slipped into a seat at the back, making himself small and unnoticeable. The preacher was human, but something demonic was advising him Constantine could see the shadow behind the man's shadow, whispering guidance.
This was it. The Crimson Veil. And they were further along in recruitment than Monica had realized.
The preacher's eyes suddenly locked onto Constantine. "You. In the back. Are you one of the forgotten? The abandoned? The desperate?"
Every head turned. Constantine felt forty pairs of eyes on him.
"Yeah," Constantine said, letting exhaustion and desperation bleed into his voice not hard, given his temporal fragmentation. "Yeah, I'm all of those things."
"Then come forward, brother." The preacher smiled. "Come and be welcomed."
Constantine stood, walking down the aisle while his mind raced. He needed to identify the cult's leadership, understand their timeline, and find a way to disrupt their plans before they could attempt any summoning.
But as he approached the altar and saw the ritual materials already assembled blood, bones, texts written in languages that predated human civilization Constantine realized this was going to be much harder than he'd thought.
The Crimson Veil wasn't planning a summoning for October.
They were planning one for tonight.
And Constantine had approximately thirty minutes to stop them before the timeline paradox became academic compared to the actual demon invasion he'd just walked into.
In his ear, Riri's voice: "Constantine? Your vitals just spiked. What's happening?"
"Change of plans," Constantine muttered. "Monica? I need you here. Now. They're summoning something tonight."
"On my way."
Constantine approached the altar, mind racing through possibilities. He needed to stall. Buy time for Monica to arrive. And somehow do it without revealing himself as a hostile agent until he absolutely had to.
"Tell me," Constantine said to the preacher, "what exactly are we summoning?"
The preacher's smile widened. And behind him, the demonic shadow laughed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
🌟 If you'd like to support me or read EARLY ACCESS Chapters, you can find me on Patreon 🌟
 https://www.patreon.com/Its_Zack/