every breath you take.
a bad dude rip thread for @thedemonconstantine
That John Constantine, of all the people in all of history, had the bloody tip of the bloody Longinus Spear was a wrench in the otherwise perfect mechanism of Rip’s decision to burn history all the way down. Of course, Rip never had very good luck to begin with, so that was probably par for the course.
Fortunately for him, it wasn’t as if the man was too difficult to find, given his infamous reputation and Rip’s own technology. His current ship was infinitely smaller compared to the Waverider (and sure, he missed her sometimes, but with the stupid Legends piloting her? God, chances were whatever brains he’d programmed into Gideon were all gone now), but its capacities were just as good, if not better. Tracking John Constantine’s place in time and space was easy as one-two-three. Watching the things that he did through his ship’s virtual lens was... slightly less so, but only because it felt very much like the 21st century simply bred idiots for a living.
At first, he’d assumed it would be easy-- surely one day Constantine would lead him to some place he kept all his things, some safehouse or other. Lord knew the little drone he’d sent into the man’s flat had yielded no results even remotely resembling the spear he so desperately sought. But after over a month of waiting, and watching, and wanting very much to just tear Constantine’s brain out of his skull and examine its contents for himself, he finally decided that enough was enough.
Given all they’d been through together (or, rather, all that Rip had watched from the confines of his jump ship), Rip knew far too much about Constantine than was probably healthy. He knew the route the man took home like he knew the back of his own hand. He knew which streets he walked, which shortcuts he ducked into, what sort of beans he liked with his toast. He knew of the seedy bars and the seedy people. He knew of the adventures, if they could even be called anything like that. He knew the man had barely anything good in his life. He knew that perhaps it couldn’t even be considered living.
It was unfortunate that he couldn’t just kill him, if only because the lack of Constantine’s presence would be felt far more than it had any right to. But Rip had other things, other methods, and there wasn’t anything that a good, hard memory wipe couldn’t achieve, either.
This was the first time he was out of his ship in days, Rip realised as his boots hit the wet pavement of the dreary streets of downtown. It was the first time in a while, and he was spending it in the shittiest place in the whole city.
Waiting in an alleyway with a knife and a gun on him was so unbearably cliche, but there Rip stood with a hand in the pocket of his trench coat, back up against the wall and a Silk Cut cigarette between his lips. The glow of orange was small, near imperceptible with the darkness all about, and as he breathed in, the cigarette's heat filled his lungs only to burn them when he held it in.
The thing was half gone when the sound of shuffling footsteps made its way to his ears. Rip turned his head, nonchalant like anyone would be if someone came to interrupt their smoke, but he knew who would be there-- knew that it would be John Constantine, and that he would be so, so piss drunk.
The tip of the cigarette burned orange as he inhaled, and though his head turned away from watching him, Rip timed his next move perfectly.
Constantine walked past him.
Rip breathed out warm.
Smoke tickled the collar of the man's coat.
And then Rip moved, fast and efficient, with his knife turned ‘round in his palm to bang the end of the handle into a precise point in John's skull.
