C7. I'm Constantine

C7. I'm Constantine

I'm lost in thought, staring into the glass of water Zatanna hands me. Its surface trembles, reflecting the unease stirring in my gut. The Spectre's words haunt me, lingering like an unfinished curse. God's judgment… it's supposed to be final, unyielding. But he faltered. He looked into my soul and saw something he didn't recognize.

The John Constantine this world knew is gone, burned away in too many fires, replaced by someone else. Maybe it's why the Spectre faltered when he looked at my soul. He saw something he couldn't quite recognize, something that didn't fit the same old sins he's been sent to punish. And if that's the case—if I've changed—then what, really, is left to judge?

A sharp voice breaks through, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "You're zoning out again, John," Zatanna says, taking the glass back from my hand with a roll of her eyes. There's irritation, but I catch a flash of something else in her eyes—a worry she's trying hard to mask. "And you had a hole in your head, by the way. You were shivering like you had the worst fever on Earth when we found you."

I chuckle bitterly, shrugging. "All the more reason I didn't want any of you following me."

As I glance around the room, I take in their faces: Batman, Deadman... and Zatanna, watching me like hawks, their eyes sharp, questioning. The three of them stand around me like vultures circling a carcass, waiting for answers to the questions hanging thick in the air. I know they're desperate to know the truth, but I doubt any of them have the stomach to digest what I could tell them.

There's a heavy silence until Batman breaks it. "What happened?"

I exhale sharply, feeling the weight of Batman's gaze, his tone leaving no room for dodging. But I'm not in the mood for full confessions. "I knew none of you would resist sticking your noses in, so I made sure the House of Mystery dropped you off far away from me," I say with a wry smile. "Saved you the trouble of complicating things."

"That's not what I meant," Batman replies, his tone as controlled as ever—though there's something else there, maybe the slightest trace of approval.

I shrug, calculating which details to leave out. "I figured out who was casting your illusions and decided to clean up the mess. As you can see, it didn't go down easy, but it's done. Problem solved."

As I say it, though, something nags at the back of my mind—a growing dread that's hard to shake. The weight of what I've done presses heavy, yet something else feels… off. There's an absence I can't quite put my finger on. Then it hits me, sharp and sudden, like a punch to the gut.

My gaze darts around the room, counting faces. That's when I realize who's missing. "Where's Jason? Where's Jason Blood?"

"It's been quiet. No more incidents with people transforming into demons," Batman says in his gruff voice, clearly deflecting from my question.

"That's not what I'm bloody asking, is it?" I snap. "And wouldn't we have to wait a day or two to be sure? Not that I'm doubting my skills or anything."

Deadman glances at me, his face etched with concern. "You really don't remember, do you, Constantine?"

I grit my teeth, memories flashing back, some clearer than others. Jason was hit—hard. A fatal blast that separated him from Etrigan, his demon half. It should have been a death sentence, but I'd cast a precautionary hex on him, binding his soul to earth. It was my fail-safe. If he died, his soul wouldn't pass on but would stay bound to his body—only temporarily, though. To avoid a fate worse than death, he'd need to reunite with Etrigan within two days. Otherwise… his soul would turn into a haunted spirit, uncontrollable and powerful.

"You've been out for a week, John," Zatanna's voice breaks through, softer this time, tinged with worry. She's watching me, waiting for the weight of it all to sink in.

"A week?" The word stumbles out, my mind spinning in disbelief. A bloody week of torment that makes Hell seem like a cozy holiday. And if I've been out that long… Jason's likely become the very thing I tried to prevent. A rogue spirit. A ghost. And not just any ghost, but one with the kind of power that could make entire cities tremble. 

"God has the guts to judge me for my sins, but he won't even give me the time to tie up my own messes first…" I mutter, a storm of thoughts swirling in my head. Jason is out there, lost to his own power, and if he's become something twisted by his own torment, I can't even imagine the havoc he's wreaking.

Zatanna steps closer, her eyes filled with pity and something close to regret. "I told you—you had a hole in your head when we found you," she says, almost whispering. "But that wasn't all."

Before I can ask what she means, she pulls back the sleeves of my coat. First my left hand, then my right, then she slides the coat off completely. I look down, bracing myself, but nothing could've prepared me for what I see.

Symbols. Markings. They aren't tattoos—no, they're deeper than that. Each one is layered with occult symbols and seals, dark, intricate, laced with curses and hexes that make my skin crawl. Every inch of my arms is covered, as if Hell itself had branded me. 

I don't recognize half of the symbols etched into my skin. The ones I do? They're worse. They're marks I've only read about in texts meant to be destroyed or hidden away in the deepest, most cursed corners of the occult. My pulse quickens, a cold sweat pricking at the back of my neck. This isn't just bad. It's—*no, it can't be*.

"Where the hell did these come from?" I murmur, half to myself, my mind spinning as the implications come crashing down. My body's been marked, branded, cursed. And then the realization sinks in slowly, as sharp as a blade to the gut. These symbols… I'm damned.

Zatanna watches me closely, her voice soft and filled with concern. "They… appeared while you were out."

I can't stop looking at them, tracing the dark lines and twisting patterns with my eyes, almost like they're calling to me. A gnawing sense of dread churns in my stomach, but it's strangely overshadowed by something else—something I hadn't expected. The more I look, the more I feel… calm. No, *content*. Almost like the symbols are beautiful in a way, as though my body has been transformed into a work of art.

I can't stop myself. I rip the bandages off, every single one, desperate to see more, to understand what's been done to me. I stride purposefully toward the nearest mirror, needing to witness it fully, to confirm what my senses are already telling me. The glass near the door catches my eye, just the right size. 

I step in front of it, and my reflection stares back at me—my skin, once weary and worn, now feels somehow… different. It's not just the symbols. There's an undeniable shift in the way I carry myself, in the way my body feels—more alive, more *present*. I feel a warmth spreading through me, like a fire lighting up my very bones. I don't even flinch at the sight of the giant snake-like mark that coils across my arm anymore. No, I'm too fascinated by the intricate beauty of it all.

I feel a surge of warmth, of heat, almost like the symbols themselves are breathing life into me. And suddenly, my body starts to *change*. It's subtle at first, but then it becomes impossible to ignore. My skin starts to smooth out, sagging lines lifting as though time is being reversed. My face tightens, the years falling away, and before I even realize it, I'm staring back at a reflection of myself in my early twenties. 

"Bloody hell," I mutter, barely able to believe what I'm seeing. The curse—no, *judgment*—it's making me *younger*. Stronger, too. Alive in a way I haven't felt in years.

I stand taller, my breath coming in a little quicker, and I can't help but laugh—deep, throaty, filled with a sense of triumph. 

"John..." Zatanna gasps, her voice filled with disbelief. 

"Whoa!" Deadman exclaims, clearly stunned by the transformation. 

"Mrrhh…" Batman grunts, but there's something almost impressed in the way he watches me.

I glance at Zatanna, her face a mix of shock and concern. "What?" I ask, a little too pleased with myself. 

She's pointing at my back, her finger trembling slightly. I turn to look in the mirror, and that's when I notice it. A symbol across my back, stretching from one side to the other. At first, I think it's just another mark, another hex of some kind, but then I see the flames licking at the edges. Hellfire. The symbols are scorching, glowing with the intensity of the inferno they come from. And as my eyes scan the letters… the world stops.

On my back, etched into my skin in fiery, blazing script: *HELLBLAZER.*

I freeze. My heart skips a beat. A rush of pride surges through me, filling the emptiness inside. It's as if the universe, or God, or *whatever* is responsible for this, has finally acknowledged me. The weight of judgment doesn't feel like a burden anymore. No, it feels like a crown, like I've earned the damnation and *what* it means. *This is me.* *This is who I am*. If I'm going down, I might as well look damned good doing it.

I feel *pride*. I feel *power*. For the first time in what feels like ages, I'm at peace with whatever this damnation means. I don't care. Hell, if this is where it's all led me, I'll wear it like a badge. I *earned* this.

I glance at Zatanna, my lips curling into a smirk. "This?" I scoff, the words slipping from my mouth with an air of defiance. "It's nothing, luv. Just God's little confusion of a _Judgment_."