"So Mammon's Satan's son?" Rumlow asked, seated at a table with Balza's head as a grim centerpiece, like an abstract art piece.
"How's he planning to pull it off?" Matt leaned back, relaxed.
"Just a demon. Chop it dead, done," Luke said, fingering his blade, unfazed.
"But should we let it come? Feels risky," Constantine said, jittery, likely from nicotine withdrawal, twirling a pencil nervously.
"Why my sister?" Angel, regaining her NYPD heavy crimes composure, asked.
Bul-Kathos, bottle in hand, slouched on a creaking sofa, indifferent. A demon, even Satan's son, was no match for a Hell lord embodying evil itself. One axe swing—nothing to fuss over.
"Mammon needs God's help and the Lord's holy blood to cross over," Constantine said. Less familiar with Corinthians, he'd consulted a friend he hadn't betrayed yet and studied the text. Now he was schooling the "illiterates" to curb their "figure it out" attitude, tapping the pencil for emphasis.
Matt wanted to speak but stayed silent.
"Spear of Destiny?" Angel, a devout believer, gasped, recognizing the weapon that pierced Jesus.
"So angels are involved?" Luke perked up, curious about winged beings he'd never seen.
"This isn't simple," Constantine said, fidgeting without nicotine.
"Need me to call in backup so I can handle my own stuff?" Rumlow, uninterested, ignored Fury's order to investigate Bul-Kathos. Caught in this mess, he was annoyed, betting Fury was more stressed.
"The problem is Mammon needs a powerful medium as a vessel!" Constantine shouted, gripping the pencil, eyes on Angel.
"Will it kill me?" Angel asked calmly.
"Likely," Constantine replied, solemn, like a guardian warning kids from danger. He explained why Isabelle was targeted—a strong medium.
"Thank you, Constantine. You're a good man," Angel said gratefully. Who among them was a stronger medium than Constantine?
"Ha! Didn't expect a stinking guy like you to have the noble guts to risk death!" Luke laughed, clapping Constantine's shoulder, warming to him.
"We'll do our best to keep you alive!" Matt vowed, admiring Constantine's "sacrifice."
"Hurry up! Kill that demon so I can move on!" Rumlow urged, arms crossed, glaring at Constantine.
"I meant—" Constantine started.
"Constantine, you'd definitely draw Mammon!" Balza cackled from the table, relishing his foe's predicament.
Constantine's pencil vanished into Balza's head like a magic trick. Bul-Kathos, uninterested in the talk, was impressed by the move—not something an angry amateur could pull off. Rumlow recalled John Wick, comparing his face to Constantine's. Despite an age gap, they looked nearly identical.
"Got an older brother?" Rumlow asked.
Bul-Kathos, meanwhile, tuned into Andariel's rampage in Hell. With nothing urgent, watching a one-sided fight was amusing. He doubted Andariel would find a worthy foe—Dormammu, a Hell lord, was a weak punching bag. It'd take three or four of his caliber to challenge Andariel.
…
"Come on, not enough!" Andariel, the oath-bound barbarian, roared. Forging Oathkeeper to prove vows' strength, he'd reclaimed his honor and enforced betrayal's consequences. Now, in Hell, he faced swarms of quivering demons, like locusts or cornered lambs.
Those daring to attack were obliterated, reduced to pulpy stains on the crimson ground. Once the Thunder Tribe's leader, Andariel fought like a storm, wielding Oathkeeper single-handedly, shredding Hell's corner like a meat grinder.
"What are you?" A gaunt, pale figure—vaguely vampiric, almost elegant but weary—appeared, pointing a sharp nail at Andariel. His soul, unlike any in Hell, puzzled the demon.
Pointing with one hand, the other rested on his waist, fatigued. "Come, demon! You're more interesting than these scum!" Andariel charged without asking names, Oathkeeper sparking lightning, stirring a cool breeze in Hell.
His wild steps spun into a whirlwind, the blade's thunder shredding trembling demons. "Demons don't deserve to breathe sulfur!" he taunted, trapping the demon in a bind—hindered by waist pain.
(Chapter End)
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