Rumlow sped toward Constantine's office, having seen the looping footage of Isabelle's death at Angel's place. For S.H.I.E.L.D., tracking Constantine was as quick as NYPD's system. To uncover what Bul-Kathos fought, asking the barbarian directly wasn't ideal yet—following this lead was better.
But before reaching the spot, all lights went out. His car lost control, stalling. In the pitch-black, Rumlow sensed a demonic presence. Unlike Luke or Matt, his trials under Talic let him distinguish these weak demons—barely worthy of the name.
Then Luke Cage's roar echoed. Rumlow gripped his wrist, feeling the Ancestor's Bracers' power. Axe in hand, he ran toward the sound.
…
"That guy's got some lungs!" Constantine said, exhaling smoke and pocketing the shroud. A rare consumable, it could be spared if others fought the demons.
"Skree!" The demons closed in. The cheap Virgin Mary statue's light fizzled, plunging the area into darkness, save for the ember of Constantine's cigarette.
"Ha!" "Xia!" "Ho!" Three war cries rang out, startling Constantine. His cigarette fell, sparking briefly before fading.
"Damn it! Three roars?" Constantine muttered amid the sounds of blades slicing demonic flesh.
He hadn't noticed Rumlow's approach, shocked by the triple cries. The new barbarians hadn't mastered war cries but were practicing, using roars to stoke their rage.
Thinking the demons would target the loud trio, Constantine bent to retrieve his cigarette, dodging a claw swipe overhead. A scream and gunfire erupted beside him, making him stand upright.
In the flash of Angel's muzzle, he met a grotesque demon's gaze. His knuckle-duster, etched with crosses and Bible verses, smashed its face. "I don't judge demons, but we're not close! Want a kiss? At least three dates and brush your teeth!" Constantine's trash talk accompanied the blow, shattering the stunned demon.
He pulled Angel behind him. The fight ended fast—these cannon-fodder demons were mere warm-ups for three fledgling barbarians. Their roars ensured no demon would escape back to Hell.
Light returned. Constantine spat out his spent cigarette, mock-saluting the Virgin Mary statue. "So, what do we call you? DD? Helmet Guy? Axe Man?" He pointed his fresh cigarette at Matt, Luke, and Rumlow.
Angel coughed violently, choking on the demons' sulfurous ash. "Easy, girl. Makes me think you're the one with lung cancer," Constantine said, patting her back, half-comforting.
Rumlow eyed Luke and Matt, hesitating to name them. They were old acquaintances, but their vigilante gear gave him pause. He'd seen plenty of oddballs in S.H.I.E.L.D. work.
"No danger now, so we're leaving," Matt said, tugging Luke back the way they came.
"What's with these creeps? I've lived here years, first time seeing this," Angel overheard Luke grumble.
"Alright, girl, these weren't after me. You've got a secret I don't know," Constantine said, unusually serious.
"And you, Mr. Mysterious Agency Guy, got something to say?" He wasn't surprised by Rumlow's arrival—demons meant official intervention was expected.
"Had something, not anymore," Rumlow said, throat itching, missing Harrogath's ancestral brews.
"Then come with me. Let's chat," Constantine invited. A strong ally was invaluable—extra safety or a potential scapegoat.
…
The next evening, Bul-Kathos dropped Gil at the New York Sanctum, then headed to the rooftop from before. He sensed Rumlow on a taller building nearby.
Rumlow, Constantine, and Angel were at the incident site. Last night, Constantine tried visiting Hell to find Isabelle's soul but was chased back by demons, empty-handed. The Ancient One had sent Isabelle's soul to Heaven via angels. Now, Constantine needed traces to understand why she died.
"You done yet?" Rumlow called from the window, uneasy, like a student watched by a stern teacher.
"Your agency types have no respect for the occult. Think it's just 'figuring it out'? It's a serious discipline!" Constantine snapped, pausing his questioning of Angel's memories.
"Stupid! NYPD's forensics aren't this sloppy. Ain't this just a matter of hands?" Rumlow shook off his unease, spraying a S.H.I.E.L.D. tech solution—some kind of revealing agent—on the window.
Words appeared. He didn't miss the chance to mock the "expert."
(Chapter End)
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