Marvel's FBI?

Rewind ten minutes...

"What the hell kind of artifact is this!? I nearly dragged a demon out of Hell to possess me, and it still won't budge! What is this thing!?"

Constantine cursed and kicked Mjolnir furiously, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unbelievable.

He'd never seen an artifact like this before.

No retaliation. No defense mechanisms. Not even a warning pulse.

He kicked, punched, slammed it—it didn't fight back or react in any way. Aside from refusing to move an inch, it might as well have been a regular oversized hammer.

If he couldn't sense the surging divine energy coiled around it like living lightning, he would've sworn this was some cosplay prop off eBay.

"Man, you're taking this real easy. Is this how all you magic circle guys are? I know another male mage—his favorite hobby is close-quarters combat with daggers like he's some dual-wielding rogue."

"...Is that guy mentally ill?" Constantine asked automatically.

Then he froze.

Because the voice had come from directly behind him.

And sure enough, standing just inches away...

Was Dante.

The second Constantine turned, he instinctively started chanting a spell—an incantation loaded with eldritch syllables meant to unleash Hellfire.

He barely got the first sound out before a hand clamped around his mouth and shoved the smoke right back into his lungs.

Constantine began choking violently, eyes bulging.

"Shhh. Bad mage. No Hellfire spells," Dante said, wagging a finger in front of his face. "Play with fire too much and you'll wet the bed. A mighty Archmage like you wouldn't want to publicly pee yourself, right?"

Constantine didn't have the energy to argue with the crude taunting. All he could feel was that Dante's grip was like a hydraulic press.

Even trying to use non-verbal casting was useless.

Before he could activate any failsafe, Dante conjured a glowing green energy straightjacket straight out of a psychiatric ward.

If Magneto were watching this, he'd probably tear up.

Yes! This is the feeling!

This pain—it's only real when someone else shares it!

Constantine, now fully bound, looked absolutely baffled.

What the hell was this green energy?

It wasn't tech.

It wasn't any known form of magic.

Even someone who could blackmail Kings of Hell couldn't break this down on the fly.

For the first time in years, Constantine felt a twinge of helplessness.

Especially when he realized he couldn't even cast non-chant spells with his hands bound.

"John Constantine. Renowned mage. Legendary conman. A betrayal record longer than his romantic history," Dante said, finally letting go of his mouth. "So, how exactly did you know there was an artifact here?"

"If I answer… will you let me go?" Constantine wheezed. "I have an eighty-year-old mother to care for… and a child who just got weaned…"

"Do you think I'd believe that? You? Constantine? With an eighty-year-old mom and a just-weaned kid?"

"Well, you can flip it around. I've got a just-weaned mother and an eighty-year-old kid. Both require full-time care."

Dante stared at him like he was trying to decide whether to punch him for comedy or therapy.

He used to like Constantine a lot—as a comic book character.

But face-to-face? In the flesh?

Ugh. Just… no.

Still, the guy was a high-level mage. And with the amount of chaos coming down the pipeline, Dante knew he might need someone who specialized in the kinds of problems that broke causality just by existing.

Didn't mean he couldn't rough him up a little first.

Even with Constantine's "broad spectrum" interests, he probably wouldn't enjoy this part.

Seeing the look in Dante's eye shift from amused to 'I'm gonna rearrange your face for fun', Constantine waved the white flag.

"Esteemed superhuman! We have no beef—past or present. Let's just pretend this was all a misunderstanding. You can keep the artifact—think of it as a welcome gift!"

Constantine said, a smile twitching into something vaguely charming, "Just so you know, I spent a long time on a southern island—Purgatory. Lovely weather. I met a good friend there. He's an FBI elite now. If I ever go missing, he'd turn the whole damn country upside down to find me."

Classic Constantine—sweet talk laced with soft threats and emotional manipulation.

If Dante had really been some rogue superhuman, wrongfully imprisoned and low on political capital, this kind of pitch might have worked.

Unfortunately for Constantine...

"You wouldn't happen to mean a certain archer named Oliver Queen, would you?"

"You've heard of my brother-in-arms? Excellent. Then we can talk terms. You let me go, I hand over the artifact—wait, what are you doing?"

Dante didn't answer. He casually tapped his communicator, switched it to speaker mode.

"Skye, is Oliver there?"

"Yup yup!" Skye's voice came through with a pop. "Not just Oliver—everyone's watching your mission. We just don't have visuals where you are."

"Don't be disappointed yet. Put Oliver on the line."

Two seconds later, a rich, tired voice came through.

"Agent Dante. What do you need?"

"There's a British guy in a yellow trench coat in front of me. Says he has an eternal bond with you. Claims the friendship was forged in Purgatory."

"British? Magician? Purgatory? Oh hell no—is that Constantine?! That bastard made me tank all the melee damage! I'm a ranged unit, you idiot!"

"Says you two are very close."

"Bullsh—! I mean… We've worked together a few times. That's it."

"He also says you'd flip the country upside down looking for him."

"Only if I was trying to return him to Hell!"

Constantine's smile slowly turned into a thousand-yard stare as Oliver's voice kept coming through loud and clear.

Welp. There went that bluff.

Constantine scrambled for Plan C.

He couldn't outmuscle the guy.

Couldn't out-talk him.

Then, with surgical efficiency, Dante sealed Constantine's mouth shut with Will Green Light and chucked him aside.

By now, Mick Rory had finally recovered from Dante's kidney-shot and made his way to the bottom of the crater.

He was about to help Snart up when Constantine, now hogtied in green energy, landed next to him.

Dante gave Mick a shrug.

"You and Snart aren't allowed to run. We've still got business. But in the meantime—go ahead. Beat the crap outta him. Consider it prison warm-up."

Snart: "Don't help me up! Beat him first! Start with that smug nose!"

Dante ignored the chaos behind him—Mick's rage, Snart's cheers, Constantine's muffled yelps—and walked straight toward Mjolnir.

He reached out…

And failed.

Not even a wobble.

"This hammer's got trust issues! I'm so righteous! What else do you want from me!?"

"Sure, I enjoy staring at Ada's legs. And Harley's too. But I've got principles! My soul is pure!"

Dante grumbled, but didn't linger.

He moved to the cell at the far end.

Just a regular iron door—but loaded with complex, divine-targeting enchantments.

He examined them.

They weren't meant to hurt humans.

They were designed to suppress divine beings. If someone like Loki tried to walk through, he'd lose all power—like a Devil Fruit user swimming in Seastone.

Which meant…

There was a god inside.

And with Mjolnir just lying in the pit?

The identity was obvious.

Thor.

Dante didn't hesitate. He tore the door open and stepped inside.

In the center of a fading seal was a tall, blonde figure with a godly build.

This version of Thor looked more like a tired 90s action star than the usual golden-haired himbo.

Dante erased the last of the enchantments, then opened a portal.

Time to drop Thor off with the team—and maybe bring them here too.

Because the second he broke the seal…

A red streak sliced through the sky—originating from the Warden's tower.

(To be continued.)

***

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