Arrowverse: I'm a Hero

Chapter 32: Hellblazer's Help & Mystical Matters

[ SYSTEM MESSAGE: Objective: Introduce John Constantine. Sub-objective: Adam leverages esoteric knowledge for mystical insights. Primary Skill Acquisition Target: Magic Expertise/Occult Knowledge (passive increase from proximity). Emotional Triggers: Cynicism, Desperation, Grudging Respect. ]

The Waverider's internal alarms blared with a cacophony of warnings. On the main screen, the street-level view of Whitechapel pulsed with an unnatural, sickly green light. Sara, Mick, and Jax, their voices strained with exertion, were fighting an enemy they couldn't touch. The shadowy figures, indistinct and malevolent, phased through solid objects, leaving behind trails of chilling despair and the faint, putrid smell of decay.

"They're intangible!" Sara's voice, usually so calm in combat, was laced with frustration. "My batons pass right through them! They're like shadows given form!"

"They ain't bleeding, Cap'n!" Mick roared, his flamethrower blasting futile gouts of fire that merely illuminated the spectral attackers, making them writhe without harm. "And they smell like old socks!"

"Their energy signature is incredibly unstable!" Jax added, trying to punch a shadowy assailant only to have his fist pass through. "And it's draining local temporal energy! They're like... like anchors pulling on the timeline itself!"

On the Waverider, Professor Stein looked aghast at the readings. "Their composition isn't biological, nor is it purely temporal! It's an energy matrix I cannot comprehend!"

Adam, however, felt a cold certainty settle in his gut. His Time Travel Awareness (now 85% proficiency, enhanced by the sheer temporal strangeness) resonated with the profound wrongness of these entities. This wasn't physics. This was something else. Something older. Something from the Kryptonian Data Crystal's vast, often unsettling, archives of forgotten Earth lore and cosmic anomalies. He remembered fleeting references to "spectral breaches" and "soul-hungry entities" from ancient civilizations.

"Rip!" Adam shouted, leaning into the comms. "They're not just temporal anomalies, they're entities of pure, malevolent ectoplasm! They feed on fear and temporal displacement! You can't fight them with science or brute force! You need something else! Something... mystical!"

Rip's voice was sharp with disbelief. "Mystical? Mr. Stiels, are you suggesting magic? On a time-traveling vessel?"

"Sometimes, Captain, the universe throws curveballs that your fancy temporal equations can't account for," Adam retorted, his mind racing through the Data Crystal's archives. "My 'network' has... extensive historical records of what humanity has called 'magic' throughout the ages. And these things? They're straight out of the darker, grimoire-covered chapters of that history. You need a banishing spell, an exorcism, or at the very least, something that can vibrate at a counter-spectral frequency to disrupt their non-corporeal forms."

He scanned the Waverider's historical database, cross-referencing Gideon's new "speculative paranormal scan" with what his Temporal Navigation/History Expertise (now 20% proficiency) could recall about powerful occult figures in Victorian London. One name kept resurfacing, surrounded by blurred historical data and disclaimers about "unreliable sources."

"Gideon," Adam commanded, "overlay the ectoplasmic hotspots with known occult practitioners in London, 1888. Prioritize those with a documented history of dealing with... 'unpleasant' entities. And look for anyone with a particularly unkempt appearance and a penchant for cigarettes."

Gideon paused, then displayed a single, blurry photograph. A man with a perpetually cynical expression, a rumpled trench coat, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. John Constantine.

"John Constantine," Adam muttered. "Of course. The universe's scruffiest supernatural troubleshooter. And probably the only person in this entire timeline who'd recognize these things as anything other than a really bad hangover."

[ SYSTEM MESSAGE: Emotion Lock-on: John Constantine (Cynicism/Magic Expertise/Willpower). Proximity: None. Pre-emptive Lock-on Established (Passive). You're sensing the supernatural. He'll be along eventually. ]

"That's... John Constantine," Rip said, a look of profound discomfort on his face. "A known con artist, a magician, and a general disruption to the temporal flow. We try to avoid him."

"Well, Captain, sometimes you have to dance with the devil when your historical figures are being eaten by spectral shadows," Adam countered. "He's our best, and probably only, shot at dealing with whatever these things are."

They materialized the Waverider a few blocks from the street team, near one of the ectoplasmic hotspots Gideon had indicated. The air was heavy, the gaslight casting long, dancing shadows. And then, they heard it: a sharp, cynical voice cutting through the London fog.

"Right then, you bloody wankers, that's enough of that! This ain't your pub, and you're spoiling a perfectly miserable evening for the rest of us!"

They found him in a darkened alley, a cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo of existential angst. John Constantine. He was surrounded by three of the shadowy entities, which recoiled from him as if repelled by an invisible force field. He was chanting something low and guttural, his hand glowing faintly.

"Constantine!" Rip called out, drawing his chronometer.

Constantine turned, his eyes narrowing, a look of extreme annoyance on his face. "Oh, for bugger's sake. The time police. You lot always show up when things are getting truly interesting, don't ya? And what's with the new bloke? Looks like he ironed his suit and actually slept last night. Not very on-brand for a cosmic horror show."

"We need your help," Adam stated, stepping forward, ignoring Constantine's jibes. "Those things. They're feeding on temporal energy, amplified by the fear of their victims. They're not just ghosts, they're inter-dimensional parasites pulled here by the temporal fluctuations caused by Chronos. They'll unravel this timeline from the inside out."

Constantine's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his cynical facade slipping for a moment. "Inter-dimensional parasites feeding on temporal energy? That's a new one. Even for me. Most of my ghouls just stick to the normal sort of misery. What exactly are you, sunshine? You sound like you swallowed a bloody encyclopedia of the occult."

"Just an avid reader," Adam replied, a subtle smirk. He was pulling information directly from the Kryptonian Data Crystal's vast archives, filtering it through his Advanced Physics/Chemistry (now 60% proficiency) to make it sound like a grand, if unconventional, theory. "The key to banishing them lies in disrupting their primary energy tether to this plane. They're not truly alive; they're echoes. You need to create a localized psychic void, a null-field that disrupts their ectoplasmic resonance, then force them back through the temporal-spiritual tear they emerged from. Think of it as a metaphysical short-circuit. And based on historical accounts of similar entities, a very specific incantation from the Book of Whispers, combined with a precise symbol for temporal banishment, would be effective."

Constantine stared at Adam, his cigarette hanging forgotten from his lips. His eyes, usually filled with weary disdain, now held a spark of genuine shock and grudging fascination. "The Book of Whispers? And a temporal banishment sigil? Blimey. That's... that's deep cuts, mate. Most so-called experts wouldn't even know that exists, let alone how to apply it. Who is your 'network,' then? Some dusty old bloke from the British Library's restricted section?"

[ SYSTEM MESSAGE: Emotion Spike Detected: Grudging Respect/Intrigue (John Constantine). Proficiency Upgrade: Magic Expertise/Occult Knowledge (10% - Passive). His respect is hard-won. You're slowly picking up the arcane arts. ]

Adam felt the subtle shift, a new layer of understanding settling into his mind. He wasn't casting spells yet, but he was starting to grasp the underlying principles of magic, the intricate dance between will and reality.

"Let's just say my 'network' has excellent access to very obscure libraries across various timelines," Adam said, maintaining his mysterious persona. "Now, can you perform this 'metaphysical short-circuit,' or are we going to stand here all night discussing my rather extensive bibliography?"

Constantine extinguished his cigarette with a definitive flick. "Right. Fine. You've given me something to work with, sunshine. And I suppose these temporal buggers are more trouble than they're worth. But you owe me. A lot. And I'm talking about more than just a pint." He turned, his trench coat swirling, and walked back towards the shadowy figures, muttering under his breath, drawing invisible symbols in the air. "Right, you nasty sods. Time to go home. And don't let the temporal door hit you on the way out."

Adam watched, intrigued, as Constantine began a complex, guttural incantation, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. The shadowy figures shrieked, recoiling further, their forms flickering. This was magic. Raw. Unapologetic. And utterly fascinating. He felt a deep resonance, a connection forming with the cynical magician's unique brand of chaos and willpower.

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