DC Hellblazer: I'm Constantine

C9. I'm Constantine

Alright, here's the kicker. A few hours ago, I got branded as the *HELLBLAZER.* Before, it was just a name whispered here and there, like urban legend stuff. But now it's seared into my skin, a literal mark on my back—hot enough to make a Ghost Rider jealous. It burns, with lines and symbols that pulse faintly in the darkness, like they're alive. I can't help but love it.

There's a part of me that wants to flaunt it, to show the whole damn world that even damnation can look good if you wear it right. Yeah, I inherited the body and mind of a notorious cynic, a selfish bastard who'd sell his soul twice if he thought he'd get a good deal. Maybe I'm walking his path too, but none of that matters. Right now, this mark feels like it's got a purpose, a strange kind of power—and I'm going to figure out exactly what it's worth.

It's 2 a.m., and I'm standing alone in an open field, miles from anything except the House. Zatanna, Deadman, Batman… they're somewhere else, probably tangled up in their own battles. Blood's situation's weighing heavy on them. But I'm not troubled. Just… expectant. Glad, even. He'll come in handy when it matters.

The trench coat's wrapped around me, almost like it's a part of this body, clinging to me as if it belongs more to the body than to me. There's history in it. I feel it every time it brushes against my skin. But tonight, I've got to let it go for a bit—because under the coat, there's a body marked by something far more potent, something I've got to see for myself.

I slip the coat off with a shrug, feeling the cool night air hit me, and it feels… right. The markings flare, casting faint shadows across my chest, the occult symbols twisted in lines and patterns. I look down, almost in awe. *Does it look as powerful as it feels?* I think to myself, almost grinning at the thought of devilish wings sprouting from my back. For a second, I half-expect them, blazing feathers, a true Hellblazer's crown. But nothing. Not yet. I roll my shoulders, letting the thought pass. *In time,* I tell myself.

I'm here with a purpose, a mental checklist of the things I need to test out tonight—things that go beyond the usual charm and wit. Constantine's power always came in sideways, trickster-style, twisting words and bending reality. Time to clarify what it truly means to be John Constantine.

I'm out here to do some power testing, and the first thing that comes to mind? A system. Y'know, those little HUD screens that keep flashing stats, levels, skills, the works. _God forbid_ I have one. Can't have a Hellblazer who relies on some godly menu to measure up his abilities. Nah, I'd rather rely on a brick in a sock when the occasion calls for it.

I try to call it up anyway, just in case. Concentration, willpower, all that stuff. Nothing. I try harder, willing every ounce of magic in me to pull it up, feeling for the slightest shimmer, some pop-up screen, anything—then a nasty fart slips out instead. That's about it. _Good._ No system. Just me and the wits, like it's supposed to be.

Alright, next on the list: healing factor. I'm looking at my body, which is younger, sprightlier, and not-so-worn out by years of chain-smoking. That's got to mean something. _Could this brand come with a built-in repair kit?_

To find out, I need to get hurt. I clench my teeth, then pull a knife out of my pocket. Just a small slice along the forearm—enough to sting but not too much. I make sure I've got a spell handy, a contingency I whipped up to patch myself up if I can't heal. Not exactly Doctor Strange's Eye of Agamotto, but it'll do in a pinch. _One nick for science._

The wound closes up quickly, skin pulling back into place like it's nothing. Not bad. I up the ante: a hard punch against a rock to test for anything serious, and pain flares through my hand. The bone's definitely out of place. But sure enough, I feel it knitting itself back together, slowly this time, a dull throb as it fixes itself.

_Looks like small stuff's no trouble, but for bigger injuries, I might be waiting a while._ Good to know. Healing's in the mix, but it's no cheat code—exactly what I'd hoped for.

Next up is speed. I take a deep breath, plant my feet, and explode forward, willing my body to move faster, faster, faster. The wind hits my face, and my legs pump beneath me with a surprising lightness. There's a small edge, a little more speed than before—like someone took the governor off, but only slightly. Still, I'm no blur in the night, no shadow darting through alleys unseen. Just a bit quicker on my feet, like I'm a younger, sharper version of myself.

I come to a stop, breathing in the cool night air as it settles around me. Testing for super strength next sounds like a good idea, but with nothing substantial around—no clear-cut rocks, no walls, not even a sturdy tree—I'm left with just miles of empty darkness, a perfect setting to unravel whatever hidden powers this new branding might have given me.

With a sigh, I glance up at the vast, open sky. _Flight._ Now, wouldn't that be a sight? Devilish Hellblazer wings, big and blazing, sprouting just for the job. I'd make a dramatic entrance wherever I pleased, descending from the heavens in a swirl of fire and brimstone. I shake my head, feeling a slight thrill at the idea, but when I focus on my back, willing something to appear, there's… nothing. Not a feather, not even a flicker.

Alright then, wings can wait. I've got more tricks up my sleeve anyway.

Next up: elemental manipulation. I start with fire, my go-to. Reaching back, I summon the flames from the Hellblazer mark, feeling heat rise beneath my skin as a flame begins to twine its way down my arm, twisting and blazing bright against the darkness. It moves easily, almost eagerly, following the slightest thought. I've controlled fire before, but this—_this_ feels different. There's a rawness, a heat that feels richer, deeper, as if Hell itself is coiling through my veins, ready to torch anything in its path.

A grin spreads across my face as the fire blazes from one hand to the other, swirling in a controlled inferno. I have a hunch I could call forth more than ever before, holding it longer, pushing it hotter. And this fire's not your average flame; it's Hell's own, strong enough to char a demon down to its last pitiful ember.

The other elements… well, I'm no Avatar. But magic has a way of bending to will, and with this brand, I'm more certain than ever that they'll answer when I call.

Now it feels like I've covered the basics. Most of them, anyway. I'm a bit hesitant to tap into some of the heavier powers—those tend to come with the nastiest consequences—but it wouldn't be very Constantine of me to avoid a bit of reckless action and danger. So, next up: curses.

Let's see… _just_ how many of these damned things do I have stashed away? The markings across my body hold most of them. I get this feeling that I used to know all of them, but their memory is slowly slipping from my grasp. For instance, the serpent coiled around my left arm, its scaled shape slithering up to my shoulder. That's the _Curse of Devouring,_ one I'm familiar with from past memories. Its purpose is to gnaw away at a target's life force, and technically, I'm not supposed to live past fifty-five—but hey, we'll see.

Still, what I'm wondering is whether I can physically manifest it… hold that thought.

Then there's the larger brown circle in the center of my back. It's not just one curse but a cluster, like a cursed spellbook bound directly into my skin. I don't know why they're all physically etched into me, but the Spectre did mutter something about "carrying my sins for eternity." So here I am, cursed from head to toe. Worrying? Maybe. But if I can weaponize it, then maybe it's more blessing than burden.

Now, say I want to unleash a curse—without having to recall the whole bloody ritual and the endless incantation. I focus on one in particular—an italicized diamond scribbled across my abdomen—a hex I have no idea what it does.

I feel the fire shifting, crawling through the symbols, channelling toward where the mark sits as if to concentrate the magic. There's that foul, sulphurous stench in the air again. A low rumble vibrates in my chest, like the sound of an angry stomach, and I can feel something stirring, something… _off._

I snap my fingers, hoping for something ominous, maybe a small plague of locusts or at least a sharp pain in the gut to get the blood flowing.

Instead, I hear a sharp, high-pitched bark.

I look up, confused, just in time for a black dog to materialize in front of me—scrappy, wild-eyed, and _pissed_. Its fur looks like it hasn't been washed in years, and there's a thick diamond-shaped mark tattooed across its forehead. It's the kind of dog that looks like it spends all its time in dark alleys, stealing sandwiches and scaring old women.

And before I can even react, it lunges at me.

I barely dodge to the side, but this little monster's fast. I feel its teeth snap inches from my leg as it comes around for another go, barking like it's possessed by a hellhound on speed.

"Oi! What the hell is this?!" I shout, trying to regain my balance.

The dog growls at me, tail stiff, eyes locked on my throat. It's not just angry, it's _out for blood_—mine, specifically. 

I scramble back, barely dodging as the dog lunges, snapping inches from my face. It's fast, a bit too fast, and before I know it, it's latched onto my calf with teeth like razors, sinking deep enough that a shout tears from my throat.

"Bloody hell!" I growl, jerking my leg to shake it off. I manage to kick it free, but it leaps right back, teeth flashing, eyes blazing with a ferocity that defies its scrappy form.

"Alright, mutt, enough!" I snarl. But before I can steady myself, it pounces, landing squarely on my chest, claws raking across my face as it snaps inches from my nose. Pain flares, and my patience snaps.

I bite back a yell, fury boiling in my chest. This damned mutt has _no idea_ who it's messing with.

"Okay, _that's it_!" My rage spills over, and the fire within me surges. Hellfire erupts around us, a blazing ring that lights up the darkness and should scorch any living creature. But the cursed hound dances around the flames, dodging every searing lick with eerie precision.

It's relentless, a curse given form, and it darts around me, eyes gleaming with something wild and primal. It charges again, and this time I meet it head-on, my fists clenched, my blood boiling as I dive straight into it.

I slam it to the ground, pinning it beneath me with an iron grip. It writhes, snapping at my face, and rage flares up—my own damned curse if I'm honest, and in that instant, I lose it. I bark, growling, louder and louder, primal fury consuming me as I grip it harder, intent on crushing every last bit of fight out of it. The flames of Hell are nothing to the fire I feel now.

My hands are shaking. My whole body too. And I'm certain I could tear it to shreds if I just add a little more pressure. My fury boils down for a second.

"If you don't submit to me right now," I snarl, tightening my grip until the fires in my eyes flicker into life, "I'll tear you to shreds and send you back to whatever cursed pit you came from."

The dog stills, its growling fading into a whimper. Slowly, it lowers its head, ears flattening, and I feel its body slacken under my grip. Its defiance wanes, replaced by a submission that even I can sense—a dog's recognition of a master.

Finally, it fades, dissolving back into the shadowed mark on my skin. I let out a long breath, staring down at the symbol, feeling a strange satisfaction despite the pain gnawing at me.

I'm too sour to laugh, but I can't help the twisted satisfaction that settles in my gut. At least the mystery surrounding those damned markings is one step closer to being solved. And maybe, just maybe, I've got myself a pet—or, hell, at the very least, one less curse to worry about.

Notes from MimicLord:

Let's hope I post tomorrow. No early access chapters at the moment. 🥱💤