Lucien stared down at a scene of pandemonium.

An alarmed and shouting crowd was watching as two heroes were squaring off against an ebon-skinned man in a priest’s attire. When Tiberius had contacted him about Constantine’s location, Lucien had raced over in two jumps — only to be met by the sight that now gave him pause. The tall metahuman, his gaze as chillingly cold as Lucien remembered, was facing off against two heroes that Ty had identified for him as Eventide and Morpheus; amateur heroes gaining a reputation for their impressive skills.

Eventide was a fit Iranian-American woman with a willowy outfit that sported loose silk ribbons of a beautiful ocean blue colour, and whose hair was covered by a matching hijab. Morpheus, meanwhile, was an Asian-American man with a long black coat and what looked like body armour beneath. Where Eventide was bare-fisted, Morpheus wielded a pair of chakrams that looked incredibly well-crafted to Lucien’s enhanced vision.

He had arrived just as Eventide and Morpheus had chosen to confront Constantine, and despite Selena’s desire for him to be the one to arrest the villain, he wasn’t about to get in the way of a pair of professional heroes. To avoid notice he’d perched himself on the ledge of a five-storey building overlooking the conflict while using his enhanced senses to stay with the situation as if he were standing on the street with the milling crowd.

Someone had clearly tipped off the heroes, since Lucien couldn’t see any sign of the expected carnage Constantine would be expected to unleash against a crowd of LGBT people, or what the black man referred to as ‘sinners’.

“Looks like you won’t get to test yourself against this guy after all.” Ty said in his ear. “Pity. Would’ve been cool to see you beat down one of Messiah’s psychopaths.”

“Yeah. Still bewilders me that Messiah’s rhetoric reached so many different people.”

“Well he was basically Hitler 2.0, but instead of aryans it was metahumans that were the ultimate race.”

“Good way to avoid having to turn away people with great powers and inconvenient ethnicity.”

Tiberius laughed. “A pragmatic genocidal despot, huh?”

“Something like that.” Lucien agreed while idly trailing his fingers over the edge of the roof. The texture of the stone, simulated perfectly through his gloves, was fascinating with his enhanced sense of touch. He could feel every grain of the concrete, and even spot the points of subtly thinner or thicker material.

Sudden movement from Morpheus caught his eye, and he watched as the wiry hero leapt into action with a sudden surge of super speed and a flurry of attacks. Immediately obvious to Lucien was the fact that Morpheus was considerably more skilled with his movements and speed than Lucien himself, and the exact acceleration and deceleration he used to amplify the flow of his strikes created an immediate admiration for the chakram-wielding hero.

Less pleasant was Constantine’s apparently effortless blocking of each strike or kick. The far older Nigerian man appeared completely unconcerned by Morpheus’ attack, and at one point when they broke apart he actually motioned for the younger metahuman to come at him again, beckoning with his right in an almost impatient gesture.

“Holy shit.” Lucien said while he watched and felt a chill ripple down his spine.

“Yeah.” Tiberius agreed. “The camera’s slowing it down so I can watch, and man… Constantine isn’t even breaking a sweat. This could be bad, Luc. You may need to help them.”

“It’ll be okay.” Lucien refuted, subtly curling his hand on the edge of the wall. “Morpheus and Eventide are real heroes, they’ll be okay.”

“Maybe.” Ty said dubiously. “Though I gotta wonder, why isn’t Eventide helping Morpheus?”

“Probably trying to avoid hurting him by accident.” Lucien suggested while observing the tense stand-off below. “Her abilities are elementally-focused, right? She’s a flyer and Aquamancer. I think she wants to let Morpheus try it his way first.”

Suddenly, Morpheus chose that moment to accept Constantine’s invitation and launched himself at the older man again with another flurry of slashes and thrusts with use of the circular weapons in his grip. Something changed when they engaged the second time, however, and Constantine abruptly conjured what appeared to be a metal rod in each hand, both about three feet long, and topped with wickedly spiked heads.

Lucien’s eyes widened when his hearing picked up speech between the two combatants, and he leaned forward precariously without realizing what he was doing.

“You fight well, child.” Constantine said in accented but perfected English. “But your movements show your naivety. You have never had to fight in a true battle.” His voice was mellifluous; smooth and deep in a way that was disturbingly paternal. It gave Lucien the heebie jeebies.

“Spare me.” Morpheus replied between blows, moving with liquid grace and impressing Lucien with his breathing control. “You might have escaped the authorities in Rome, but you won’t escape here. I don’t know what the deal is with that outfit, but it only hammers home my opinion: you’re disgusting.”

“Ah.” Constantine responded over the sounds of steel clanging against steel, and their footwork tearing apart the asphalt beneath while he rebuffed Morpheus’ blows over and over again. “So you have heard of my Holy Mission.”

“Holy Mission!?” Morpheus demanded while he attempted to slash a Chakram across Constantine’s chest with well-partitioned force. He was still avoiding lethality, Lucien noticed immediately. A true hero. “You’re a serial killer, you nutjob, and we’re going to stop you here and now!”

“I highly doubt that heretic broodmare poses a threat to me.” The older man replied dismissively while slapping aside another attempted slash and side-stepping a pivoting kick at his chest. Something bothered Lucien about the way Constantine was fighting while he watched. It almost seemed as if the older metahuman was actively choosing to do nothing more than deflect or dodge, and was intentionally never going on the direct offensive. “Have you sullied yourself with her body, my child?”

“The hell are you talking about?!” Morpheus demanded while he took a moment to stare at Constantine and then engage with a rapid flurry of attacks at the older man’s chest and arms, meeting only thin air or the despondent clang of the faux Priest’s dark metal rodes as his blows were expertly dodged, deflected, or blocked. “Who even asks that? You’re demented!” Morpheus feinted left and then put on a blistering surge of speed, tapping into his own power and darting to his own right while ramming home a chakram strike into Constantine’s left arm.

“Yes!” Lucien said with a fist-pump, echoed a moment later by the jubilation of the crowd. He noticed with a twinge of irritation that many of them had their phones out and were recording or livestreaming the interaction. “Those people are idiots, but that was awesome.”

“They’re going to get mauled if they stay there,” Ty agreed grimly in his ear.

Morpheus smiled in satisfaction as he spun his other chakram in his left hand. “You should surrender, Constantine. Make this easier for everyone.”

Constantine, however, was ignoring everyone including Morpheus. The priest reached instead for the chakram buried in his muscle and pulled it out as if it were a minor splinter, drawing silence from the crowd when blood sprayed over the asphalt. He stared at the weapon, almost as if it were a curiosity in a museum. “Practitioner work. Your Chakrams nullify the Blessings of the Chosen when they enter flesh.” Constantine sounded almost impressed. It was unnerving. “How surprisingly resourceful, my son.”

“That’s pretty cool.” Lucien said to Ty over the radio. “I should think about something like that.”

“Something like what?” Ty asked.

“Oh, right, I forgot you don’t have a way to hear them.” He said with a wry grin. Having superpowers was pretty fun sometimes. “Basically, Morpheus has his Chakrams enchanted to shut down metahuman abilities when they’re impaled into someone, though I think it’s only in the local area of the blow based on what I’m seeing.”

“Wow!” Ty said with an impressed voice. “That’s actually hella useful.”

“I know, right?” Lucien agreed eagerly. “Maybe I should invest in, like, a sword or something!”

“Yeah okay Perseus,” Ty snorted, “just focus on the fight. We can talk about swords later.”

Lucien grinned but listened to Ty’s advice, and refocused on watching Morpheus while the hero circled Constantine more confidently. Another oddity struck Lucien when he focused on Constantine, and he noted a strange sense of what he could only call predatory superiority in the way the older man held himself. Constantine had maintained a solely defensive posture against Morpheus, and yet something nagged at Lucien — an instinct borne of his training with Malachi that told him the would-be Priest was waiting for something.

Or preparing something.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” He muttered.

“About what, Obi-Wan?” Ty asked in an amused tone.

“Just in general.” Lucien responded while brushing aside the teasing nickname. “Anyway, let’s see what Morpheus does. Maybe… maybe I’m overthinking it.” He was still determined not to interfere despite his misgivings, lest his presence cause a distraction for the heroes taking on Constantine.

The confrontation below had turned into something of a stand-off as Morpheus continued to circle Constantine in a more self-assured manner, and with a look of growing confidence on his features. “If you surrender, I promise you’ll be treated fairly.” He said with a hint of swagger. “It’s more than you deserve, really.”

“I offer you this chance to pledge yourself to my Crusade.” Constantine replied as if Morpheus had not spoken, stunning the hero into stillness for a moment. “Your confidence and capability are worthy of serving His divine charge. My Martyred lord would have approved of you, given his predications towards the young and rambunctious.”

“Your Martyred lord?” Morpheus asked with disdain after he recovered from the momentary disbelief-induced lapse. “Some nutcase doomsayer that convinced you murdering people for being different was alright?”

Lucien’s eyes widened as he reached the same instant conclusion that Constantine must have: Morpheus and Eventide don’t know.

“I see my assumption about your enlightenment was premature.” The Priest intoned with a cold edge. “But I shall forgive your heresy out of understanding for your ignorance.” The Priest lifted his arms, turning to face the watching crowd as if Morpheus and Eventide weren’t even there. “I am Constantine, humble servant of the world’s slain saviour.” Lucien heard murmurs erupt through the crowd, followed by nervous shuffling. The crowd seemed riveted, soaking in the drama of the moment.

“Who is my Master, you ask?” Constantine continued as he turned back towards Morpheus, his posture shifting subtly towards a more aggressive footing. “You knew Him as Messiah.”

Morpheus stiffened in shock. Lucien’s instincts roared at the mistake.

“Run!” Lucien shouted despite himself, his voice lost to the distance while the crowd stood watching with rapt, horrified attention. It had been too long, he realized, for people to see a metahuman in a Priest outfit and immediately associate them to The Brotherhood — but upon Constantine’s naming of one of the Trumpets, reality had seemingly asserted itself; and the crowd had understood they were witnessing something extraordinary.

Constantine chose that moment to attack.

Lucien watched in horror.

The moment the old priest had seen Morpheus react to Messiah’s name he’d launched himself forwards, obliterating the asphalt under his feet in a storm of debris that tore through the crowd. Propelled by the backwards force of Constantine’s speed and strength combined, the sudden detonation of shrapnel sliced through dozens of people. An entire swathe of the crowd dropped like puppets with their strings cut as screams of terror and pain rippled through the assembled.

Morpheus found himself suddenly doubled over as Constantine slammed a superpowered knee into the Asian man’s abdomen, coercing an ejection of blood from the superhero’s lips as his organs were impacted by a force they were not prepared to withstand. He desperately swung a chakram at the Priest, who moved around it with a fluidity and grace that left no doubts he had been reserved in their earlier contest.

Lucien looked at Eventide when she cried out, extending her arms to intercede on Morpheus’ behalf with a sudden pair of undulating ropes of water, only to stagger a second later when a metal spike seemed to appear in her right shoulder with an explosion of blood. Eventide’s subsequent screams were lost on Constantine, who took advantage of Morpheus’ sudden distraction to grab the shorter man by the face and pivot as if he were performing an elegant dance before slamming the younger metahuman spine-first into the street with an echoing BOOM two seconds later.

Bile rose in Lucien’s throat as Morpheus’ body spasmed, cratered into the ground with several of his limbs bent at odd angles from the impact. Blood leaked from a dozen wounds across his body, turned bright scarlet by the neon lights of the city around them while the hero twitched in the cratered depression his impact had formed.

Constantine seemed disinterested in his pain and spun his remaining spike in his right hand before slamming it into Morpheus’ right shoulder to pin him to the concrete. “You are not yet beyond saving, child. Thank Messiah for His lasting benevolence and teachings, for it is only by His grace that I spare you a wretch’s death.”

“Lucien, you need to get in there!” Ty said urgently in his ear, and roused him from his shock. “Constantine’s out of their league!”

“Then how the fuck am I meant to beat him?!” Lucien demanded while his eyes stayed fixed on the action; watching Eventide take to the air to keep Constantine at bay and begin harassing him with desperate slashes of her remaining water-whip. It was piteously ineffective.

“Morpheus and Eventide are barely B-rated! They were predicted to hit A-Class soon, but they’re probably a lot weaker than Malachi right now.” Ty’s voice was urgent. “The only reason Morpheus is alive is because of his healing factor, but it’s way, way slower than yours.”

“And Eventide?” Lucien asked quickly while his mind raced.

“Hasn’t got one.” Ty said grimly.

“Fuck.”

“I know you want to believe in these guys, Luc, but you need to believe in yourself too.” Tiberius continued with forced calm. “Forget about Hyperion and the League, forget about the fact they’re registered heroes. You’re stronger than both of them. You know that. You can do this. You’re the son of fucking Olympus, dude!”

“Alright.” Lucien said after a few precious moments while his eyes darted between Constantine, weaving around Eventide’s water attacks, and the screaming crowd. “What’s the plan if a Leaguer shows up?”

“Disengage and run.” Ty said simply. “Selena said she’ll cover you if she needs to, as well. I think she’s realizing how far in over her head she is with this guy.”

“Got it.” Lucien said as he stepped onto the edge of the wall. He swallowed down his fear and trepidation when he stepped forward, and fought to find the ‘calm’ that Malachi had instilled in him for battle. “I’m going.”

“Beat his fucking ass, bro.” Ty said fiercely.

Lucien launched himself off the building with as much force as he could safely muster, not jumping as much as falling and shoving himself forwards like a missile. He hit the street a second later with a bang of impact, sliding along the protesting concrete and tearing it up as he came to a careful halt in front of the injured and Morpheus, his back to both. More screams came from the civilians before someone shouted ‘Kid Olympus’ over the din, and suddenly the screams of the uninjured started to subside. Shouts of encouragement replaced them.

“Kick his ass like your Dad kicked Messiah’s!” Someone called.

“We’re with you, Aquila!” Another person cried.

“You got this, Kid Olympus!” A third declared, the voices conjoining into a tumult of support that put heat into Lucien’s cheeks, and stirred the intention with him. He could feel it, like an awakening beast, reacting to the collective calls for justice and protection radiating from the hearts of the people around him. Even without practitioner blood, normal humans were still passively sensitive to magic — and his intention tasted their desires through that link, enhancing its own impetus for action.

You’ll find no resistance from me. He said into his own mind.

Something akin to approval resonated throughout his body.

“At last!” A deep voice boomed, drawing all eyes as Constantine focused his attention on Lucien and away from a mauled Eventide, her leg pierced by yet another metal spike. She followed the Priest’s gaze to Lucien, and he saw her eyes widen in… hope? The reality of that reaction hit him harder than he’d even expected, seeing a registered Hero — a professional one, at that! — look at him as if he was saving her.

“Oh how I’ve looked forward to this, child. Ever since your thrice-accursed face was revealed to the world.” Constantine’s previously serene features were twisted into a kind of fervent hatred, spittle flying from his lips as veins protruded along his temple and neck. He looked as insane as Lucien suspected he truly was. “Your blasphemous father Martyred my lord. It is only fitting I deliver justice upon his son in kind!”

An array of responses entered Lucien’s mind, but only one seemed appropriate.

“Come and try, asshole.”

Constantine exploded into motion at the same time as Lucien launched forwards to meet him, and the pair met with a titanic detonation of force.