When things fall apart, it happens slowly, and then all at once.
It was a rule of life and unlife both, one John heard again and again as a human child and careless teenager, before being forced to truly understand it when reality decided it was time to start really punching him in the face.
Now he knew.
The crumbling and erosion were gradual, steady and sometimes barely noticeable…until they weren't, and it all comes crashing down.
It worked for one's academic dedication or lack thereof, the job markets that no longer were, the economy that suddenly became a concern instead of the newest game release, the eldritch entities hijacking his life into a one way trip to a brand new earth with a side dish of vampirism to spice things up, or the slowly raising tensions until an inevitable gang war broke out.
Sadly, it also meant that he would have to wait a fair bit before the chaos starts raging, and he inevitably starts missing the quiet times.
Which means that the slow mundane things had to be taken care of.
Which means the systems he's built needed to be maintained.
And that meant that after a few hours of indulgence and almost whimsical fun enjoying his newest ghoul and trying to keep his little coterie from tearing itself apart, he needed to remember that the machine demanded sacrifice.
It hungered for his time and patience.
The first three hours after reaching the Harker Foundation's building were always the worst, bidding everyone but Reginald goodbye as they went away to resume their infinitely more exciting duties, or learn about what those were in Louise's case.
For him, nothing that glamorous, only fat men in suits and stern ladies quoting their spreadsheets at the start of every sentence, as if boring him was a whole competition.
Oh, wait, it was indeed a competition, one where the kine he didn't bother ghouling thought they could one up each other to earn his favors and the friendship of his wallet.
Wonderful.
"We can't just increase funding for Area 16 on a whim, everything but the emergency funds have already been allocated two months ago, and we can't touch this for anything above a code orange per official policy," A man with forty pounds too many and a moustache reminiscent of a walrus said with a frown on some exceptionally bushy brows, "it'll simply have to wait another month, and then we can discuss an adjustment on the next quarterly meeting, I don't see why it should be discussed now…"
"Because we can't go another month without increasing the budget, we've already reached the limit on the zero interest loans, but we've got nine more applications that fulfill each and every one of our current requirements, rejecting them would lower confidence," A wiry woman with bleached blond hair and purple eyes that were very obviously contacts argued back.
"Well, you should have foreseen it last quarter," The walrus shook his head, "as far as I see it, you should just ask for a loan from another department,"
From the way Contacts bristled and stopped herself from glancing at the head of the table, this was one of those things they saw as a humiliation and a loss in office politics.
"For a simple 13% increase in a single Area's budget? That's less than eighty thousands," She argued back, and the vampire lost what little interest he had, he couldn't believe this truly just cost him thirty whole seconds.
"Regulation exists for a reason," the Walrus said in a move that made him feel quite good about himself, judging by his heartrate, and was seen as a win by the rest of the table, "policy dictates that when an area's financial manager exceeds budget for anything below a code orange, they are to request a loan from an available department running a surplus,"
The man looked at him, as if seeking approval and a pat on the back, so John humored him with a short nod that made the older gentleman puff his chest.
Cutting the discussion before a minute passed meant he earned that win, and bragging rights in front of the water fountain.
"If we're done with that, we should take a look at Report A34, about the increases in risk bonuses for employees in the periphery and outside the managed territory," A balding youth who was doing a good job hiding it intervened while the walrus was patting himself on the back, and from the glances he shared with Contacts, those two might be more than friends, "it appears that—"
For three hours numbers were discussed; Supply lines. Staffing. Shelter capacity. Food distribution. The slow, ugly logistics of keeping over fifty thousand people from collapsing into chaos… and another forty thousand from doing the same while pretending they weren't already halfway there.
Bubbles usually handles most of the bureaucratic nightmares, a fact that made his ghouldom and recruitment worth it. He streamlined it, took care of the worst of it…
But most wasn't all, and there would always be things that required his personal attention, because that's how he built this system and now it was likely too late for him to change things without inviting further instability into a place that was already rife with it.
He could technically cut his losses, abandon everything and start an alternative lifestyle as yet another murder hobo vampires min-maxing his way into either quick growth or final death, swimming in rivers of blood and gratuitous violence.
It was almost tempting…almost.
'Yeah, not going to happen,' He snorted as the suits once more used their fancy degrees and considerable experience to debate whether or not they should switch diaper suppliers.
John was many things, a shameless cheating piece of shit scumbag, a murderer who hid it very well, a cannibal depending on whether you counted him as human, someone with enough issues to give Bruce a run for his money…but he was no quitter.
For better or worse.
So he stayed, sat his arse down on a chair that cost more than his old crackhouse apartment, and listened.
He asked questions, short and precise ones that forced them to think before they answered, took long looks at reports he could have parsed in seconds but didn't…because the people who made them were looking at him, and people weren't paper.
They needed to feel heard, to see they were part of something real and true, that John Harker was a real person who chose to stand by them, who chose them.
Because he needed them.
Because the Walrus had a masters in economics on top of twenty years as a lawyer and hospital records showing all seven times crooks tried to make him bend, and he chose the broken jaw instead.
Because Contacts had given up on a fancy position in Central City to live in what is still on paper Gotham's most impoverished neighborhood, and did that because some kid with new money and bright blue eyes made her believe in it.
Because vampire or not, he only had twelve hours every night, and if he tried to do right by his people, a hundred would still not be enough.
So he nodded at the right times. Paused just long enough, and offered them a rare smile when it was earned, which was more often than his restless bloodthirst would like to admit.
And it worked.
It always did.
. . .
Then Reginald's beeper rang three times, and with a single quick goodbye, the suits left like a neat and ordered line of ants, each one of them either leaving to get some sleep, or working even longer hours at a time when nobody should.
But John had little sympathy, because for him, the end of the grinding meetings meant something that might just be worse.
Paperwork.
He tried to rush it, use that celerity to blitz through it, once.
The pen tore through paper, ink covered his hand, and there was smoke coming from what remained of the paper.
Now he simply read faster than any human could, but that only helped so much when the sheer magnitude of work ahead of him entered the equation.
Stacks of it were on his desk, some needed hardly anything more than a signature, others requiring more thought, but all of it seemed to multiply each time he looked away.
It had to be sorcery.
'One more reason never to meet John Constantine.' the John who didn't fuck a shark thought as Bubbles stepped yet with yet another stack of papers, 'Wait a minute…'
"Bubs," He called out just as the man dropped his load on the mahogany desk with a loud thud.
"Yes?"
"Fuck you," John said in his most serious voice, poison dripping with each word.
"I know," Reginald nodded.
"I should fire you," He continued, signing yet another paper for some creative accounting,
"That would be well within your rights, boss," Reginald spoke calmly, splitting the pile into three.
"But I won't, you don't deserve that," John shook his head, looking at what appeared to be the results of that week's money laundering, because even a vampire would't fuck with the IRS.
"That's kind of you, sir," Reginald said without a hint of pleasure or relief,
"If I fired you, then you would no longer have to do your own paperwork," John continued in the very same tone, "I can't have that, you'll be working for me in perpetuity through the universe until I can figure out how to kill bureaucracy,"
"Harsh, but fair," the ghoul nodded grimly, lips shaking through his poker face, "we still got four piles to deal with, you know?"
John paused, pen in hand.
"Fuck me," He closed his eyes.
Bubbles stayed silent for one merciful moment, the professional and the dopefiend fighting each other within his chest, a vicious battle between nature and nurture.
"With all due respects, I think I will be calling HR, sir," Reginald said, his voice full of condemnation, "I know I am an exceptional specimen, but this conduct is unbecoming of our respectable institution and the rules you've established,"
John snorted, but before he could open his mouth and strike back, Bubbles beat him to it.
"Also, for the record, that's fucking gay,"
. . .
And on it went, until the Great Enemy was defeated, and he could leave the fancy office and expansive building, not as the vampire, nor as the vigilante, and certainly not the leader.
But as the easiest face he had to wear, the first one he adopted back when Brideshead was drowned in shit, Johnny Blue Eyes with his easy smile and utter lack of responsibility.
The one who could take a walk in the neighborhood, a nice walk, not the murderous kind.
The one who was seen, made sure he was seen, touched and joked with.
All around the revitalized streets where he recognised the faces, and was recognized in turn by the people he carefully cultivated into a viable workforce, units of growth and production that would secure the years, decades and perhaps centuries to come.
Brick by brick.
Then onto the street he had yet to devour into his domain, the one he kept free of major crimes, the underworld staying clear lest they be faced with Alucard…
Or worse, Copperhead, when she was in a bad mood.
Or in a particularly good mood.
He took a walk around the East End beyond his immediate domain, and was made to remember everything he built, everything they built in a year.
Through rehab centers that smelled of antiseptic and fresh paint, because not a month before you could have found crackfiends lurking about in what once was a drug den.
Through non-profit clinics stretched thin by too many patients and not enough hands, some were his own, the rest were all too happy to accept the Harker Foundation's money.
Through community halls filled with folding chairs, disgusting coffee, and people who had run out of better options, or any other option beyond crime and prostitution.
He never stayed too long.
That was important.
Long enough to be remembered. Not long enough to become routine. Presence, not saturation. If he became expected, he lost value. If he disappeared entirely, he lost trust. So he walked the line between the two with careful precision and a whole lot of supernatural charisma…with the occasional emotional manipulation, though that was for their own good.
He greeted people by name.
Not all of them, there were too many people, and too many new heads each time he passed by a single facility, but enough that it felt like all of them. Enough that word could spread, filling in the gaps his memory left open. A man who remembered you felt different. It felt personal. Felt real.
More real than the ghosts of Thomas and Martha Wayne, or Bruce who just couldn't handle being seen as too much of a good person, the rich fool was simply a much better cover apparently.
Until their time ran out, or his social battery did, because as amusing as it was to cultivate his reputation and secure his grasp over his greater domain, as pleasant as it felt to offer months of progress to someone with nothing but a fraction of his attention and a single push into their hearts and minds, it was still work.
And there was always a limit to how much work someone can take, especially when you cannot drown your brain in alcohol and coffee while pulling boring all nighters.
In such times, there is only one correct decision to be made.
Fucking off to a random warehouse that once belonged to a early twentieth century teapot maker in order to test out new abilities and enhanced powers with all the enthusiasm of a twelve year old child in a candy store.
Sure, John did technically own the warehouse under a company held by a trustee so it wasn't that random, and he did send ten men to scour it for surveillance devices promising them a ten grand bonus if they actually caught a bug or wire, because Batman was a thing and he wasn't taking any chances.
Still, it was the principle of the matter, using warehouses to get the hand of incredible powers was a man's romance.
'First things first, gotta measure the limits of body,' John thought, stretching a bit as he set up the stop watch right in front of the hundred meter makeshift track he had prepared, his finger on the button.
The moment he pressed it, he pushed the ground with all his strength, breaking concrete and damaging his boots as he was sent forward like a humanoid cannonball.
His perception and thinking speed adjusted nearly instantly to the change in velocity, for celerity was a pathway to many abilities that allowed you not to get plastered into a wall because you dashed too quickly.
John wasn't moving even remotely fast enough to create a sonic boom, but it sure felt that way as his body was plowing through air, a sharp whoosh filling his ears, his limbs and clothes causing turbulence and causing a gust of wind and disturbed air flows.
Then it stopped, just as he reached the finish line and clicked on the reinforced steel stopwatch once more, only for the momentum to carry him forward for another thirty meters despite celerity being bullshit and breaking multiple laws of physics.
He had kicked enough dust to seriously inconvenience him if he actually needed to breathe, but it didn't stop him from seeing the number clearly, 1.504 seconds to finish a hundred meters, so 66.7 meters per seconds in a sprint.
Some quick maths converted it to more understandable figures, because the metric system was glorious like that, he was moving at 240 kilometers per hour in a single burst.
That wasn't as fast as a speeding bullet, nor was he as strong as a locomotive, but he was now officially fast enough to race a train.
'That's almost double my old top speed,' John couldn't help but grin at that.
Only to repeat the same sprint over and over again, shedding microseconds as he started figuring out how to shift his posture to increase velocity, how to properly step into the increasingly shattered ground to run at these speeds.
Slowly improving, until he was satisfied enough to move on to the weights, a less useful metric since he didn't often have to actually lift or push objects, nor could he get an accurate estimate without spending millions into equipment he simply couldn't justify getting without alerting anyone paying attention to these things.
And people most definitely were paying attention, in a world where people regularly attained inhuman might, there simply was no way the various think tanks, geniuses and organizations didn't have full lists of suspicious spending behavior with automated warning systems and tracking protocols.
It wasn't paranoia when people were indeed out to get you.
Still, John figured out he could in fact lift a heavy truck with only mild difficulty, outside of balancing an object that simply wasn't meant to be lifted by a human's grubby mitts.
'Tactile telekinesis is bullshit,' He thought as he heard and felt the vibration of a hundred grand worth of utility truck breaking as he deadlift it, teeth gritting despite feeling quite good about himself in that one moment, before it cracked again and he hurriedly put down the doubtlessly ruined machine.
He didn't sweat, though his clothes were now stained with grime, that first part was mostly because he couldn't unless he really wanted to and spent actual blood for it…Still, it did make him feel a lot cooler about it.
'Not going to be deadlifting trucks from now on,' He decided, moving on to less pleasant tests, letting the mask of humanity leave his hands, nails growing longer into vampiric claws.
Only for him to grab his own forearm, and start pressing harder and harder, trying to see what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, only to come to the only viable conclusion and surrender.
'So my strength and resistance are about evenly matched, huh,' He concluded from the failed attempt at self-harm, though he did try a couple slashes at his wrists just to be safe, his fortitude still in full effect.
It was all in vain, King Shark's contribution to his growth was outstanding.
'Maybe I should set up a TV in his cell as a thank you? Being a quadruple amputee doesn't mean he can't enjoy some good ol' cartoons,' John thought, before deciding it was indeed a good idea, truly he was a good person.
He quickly forgot about the humanoid man eating fish when it was time for the truly fun stuff.
It was a strange feeling, having access to an ability that was so visibility impressive, so foreign from his own vampirism yet tied to it all the same, with a mere thought and some resistance from the lack of practise, he reached into that switch in his mind and strained a muscle that did not exist.
He could feel the temperature more acutely, the heat stored in everything from the ruined truck to the hot trails of his sprint and his body producing nothing, not even the slightest warmth without the blush of life.
Focusing on those sensing, he simply pulled, channeling the heat away from the air before his hand, absorbing it into the thermal black hole that was his body in this state, and watched the air misting and cooling rapidly.
'Not good enough,' John thought with a frown, this was nothing but a party trick, focusing even more on that action, he stopped trying to pull the heat and started actively draining it, like he would drain a blood doll from her essence.
The range expanded, and so did the effect, condensation forming then freezing in place, the ground getting damp then freezing on the surface, John touched a wall and watched as it was rapidly covered in a thin sheet of ice.
If it was a warm body, a single touch would be enough to hurt them badly, or even kill them…if they weren't wearing a thermoresistant reinforced kevlar and bullshit tech suit, or were a superhuman who could take intense temperatures.
Still, he had ice power.
'Just as I thought,' John was smiling even as he dissected his new ability for weakness, 'it's not even remotely close to what Killer Frost can do, the range is much shorter, and I need to practise more before I can use it in a combat situation without wasting seconds to focus, ice constructs are also pretty much beyond me, unless…'
Employing a power that was until now only good for less nasty blood drinking, he produced a thick stream of blood from his palm, focusing it into a floating sphere only to shape it into a spike, marvelling at the increased versatility of this ability.
It was, however, simply a spike of blood that required his focus not to fall down on the floor, liquid and nearly harmless…
John smiled, then pulled the heat away from the blood, freezing it solid, yet still keeping it afloat.
With a mental push, it was sent hurling toward the back of the ruined truck, piercing through the metal despite much of the blood ice shattering on impact.
The blood quickly melted, then started flowing back toward him, seeping through his damaged shoes and pants before entering his body again, not a single piece of dust staining it, not a single drop of blood left anywhere.
John's smile widened.
'This…has potential,'
. . .
Discord:
Chapter Length: 3400 words
Shed about half of it, since I promised more action, interaction and dialogue and less narration. Still pretty tough to do that with the 'kingdom building' parts of the story, and the whole masquerade and dominion of territory and people side of the Vampire business.
Next chapter's gonna be some feel good fluff, by the way, so rejoice.
Also, those with suggestions or just the desire to be part of the story (meaning: insult me for delays and not releasing every chapter I have immediately, which is your right) you can join us in the Asylum, on Discord. Link above.
So drink some water, pet a cute animal, don't catch the flue like some cringe hamster, and hug your parents.
Oh, and have a nice day :)