Wayne Manor glittered with wealth and privilege.
Crystal chandeliers cast their brilliance over Gotham's elite as they mingled, laughed, and pretended their city wasn't perpetually teetering on the edge of chaos.
The string quartet had shifted to something classical with just enough modern interpretation to be interesting without offending the older patrons.
"So, Mr. Luthor," Bruce Wayne said, his smile practiced but convincing, "how are you finding Gotham so far? I understand you've taken up residence in Bristol?"
"Please, call me Samael," he replied, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "And yes, my father had a property there. It seemed... convenient."
"Samael," Bruce repeated, something flickering briefly behind his eyes. "Unusual name."
"My father has unusual tastes," Samael said with a slight smile. "Though I'm sure you're well acquainted with that."
Bruce laughed, the carefree sound of a man with no worries beyond which yacht to take out next weekend. "Lex and I have had our professional disagreements, but I've always respected his vision. And please, introduce me to your lovely companion."
Cassandra - or Wren Vesper, as she was known for the evening - stood slightly behind Samael, her eyes constantly scanning the room despite her seemingly relaxed posture.
"This is Wren," Samael said, gesturing her forward. "Wren, Bruce Wayne."
Bruce offered his hand with a smile that was warm but noticeably different from his usual playboy charm-
immediately because of his awareness of relationship, sensing quite the closeness between Samael and Cassandra, knowing to act as he usually would, would start them off on a wrong foof.
"A pleasure, Ms. Vesper. I hope you're enjoying the evening."
Cassandra nodded, shaking his hand briefly. "Yes," she said simply, her voice soft from disuse.
"Wren isn't one for small talk," Samael explained smoothly. "A quality I find refreshing in society."
"I couldn't agree more," Bruce said, his eyes showing a flash of genuine appreciation. "Too many people talk without saying anything of substance."
Across the room, a tall, well-dressed man with slightly unruly blond hair caught Samael's attention.
There was something about him - a certain awareness that seemed out of place among the socialites. The man raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment when he caught Samael looking.
"Ah, I see you've noticed John Constantine," Bruce said, following Samael's gaze. "A... consultant of mine. Specialized knowledge in certain antiquities. He rarely attends these functions."
"Interesting," Samael murmured. The name triggered memories from his previous life - Constantine, the occult detective, the magician who dealt with angels and demons. This evening was becoming more intriguing by the minute.
"If you'll excuse me," Bruce continued, "I should greet some other guests. But please, enjoy yourselves. The bar is excellent, and the silent auction items are quite unique this year."
As Bruce moved away, Cassandra shifted closer to Samael. 'Constantine,' she signed discreetly, having immediately noticed his focus when his name was mentioned. 'Trouble?'
"Perhaps," Samael replied quietly. "Though not the kind you're thinking of."
They made their way through the crowd, accepting polite nods and curious glances. Lex Luthor's son was a novelty in Gotham - only the truly high status people knew his identity -
and everyone one of them wanted a glimpse of the mysterious young man who had suddenly appeared in their midst.
Near the bar, Constantine was nursing what appeared to be a whiskey neat. Up close, he looked remarkably put-together compared to Samael's memories of the character -
clean shaven, hair styled, wearing a well-tailored tuxedo that somehow still managed to look slightly rumpled.
"Mr. Constantine," Samael greeted him. "I understand you're a consultant for our host."
Constantine studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Among other things," he replied, his accent contrasting sharply with the refined tones around them. "And you're Luthor's boy. Heard you were in a coma for nearly two decades. Quite the recovery."
"Medical science is remarkable these days," Samael said smoothly.
"Is it now?" Constantine took a sip of his whiskey. "Funny thing about comas - they're like a door left ajar. All sorts of things can slip through when no one's watching."
Cassandra tensed beside Samael, her hand drifting subtly toward the concealed weapon strapped to her thigh.
"What an interesting perspective," Samael replied, his smile never wavering. "Are you speaking from experience, Mr. Constantine?"
"Let's just say I've seen people come back from long absences... changed." Constantine's eyes never left Samael's. "Sometimes they bring things back with them. Things that don't belong."
Before Samael could respond, a commotion near the main entrance drew everyone's attention.
Several servers were arguing with a thin, disheveled man who seemed to be trying to deliver something.
The man's agitation was growing, his voice rising above the murmur of conversation.
"Probably just a gate-crasher," Constantine muttered, but his posture had changed, alert and wary.
Samael sensed it too - a wrongness that had nothing to do with a simple party disturbance. Cassandra was already scanning for exits, her body tensed for action.
The thin man suddenly broke away from the servers, rushing into the center of the ballroom. "Fear!" he screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. "Fear is the only truth!"
He raised his hands, revealing what looked like modified aerosol canisters. Before anyone could react, he twisted the tops, and a pale yellowish mist began spraying into the air.
"Gas masks," Cassandra hissed, already reaching for the compact respirator hidden in her clutch.
But Samael could see the gas spreading too quickly - it would reach them before she could deploy both masks.
With a subtle gesture, he created an invisible barrier of grace around them, thin enough to be undetectable but sufficient to filter the toxin.
The effects on the other guests were immediate and horrifying. Screams erupted as people began hallucinating their worst fears.
A woman in diamonds clawed at her skin, shrieking about spiders. A distinguished judge cowered in a corner, begging for mercy from unseen accusers.
Chaos consumed the ballroom in seconds.
Constantine, who had been reaching for something in his jacket, paused, his eyes widening as he realized he wasn't affected. His gaze snapped to Samael, a dawning comprehension in his expression.
"Bloody hell," he whispered.
More figures appeared at the entrance - men in burlap masks carrying more gas dispensers. And behind them, a tall, gaunt figure in a ragged suit and grotesque burlap mask.
"Scarecrow," Samael said, recognition from his previous life's knowledge clicking into place.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham's elite!" Scarecrow's amplified voice cut through the screams. "Welcome to your reckoning! Tonight, you will face your deepest fears - the failure, the inadequacy, the worthlessness you hide behind your wealth and privilege!"
Security guards attempted to rush him, only to be met with concentrated blasts of fear toxin that left them writhing on the floor, lost in their own personal hells.
"We need to move," Cassandra urged, tugging at Samael's arm. "Side exit. Now."
But Samael remained still, watching the scene unfold with detached curiosity. "Interesting," he murmured to himself. "He's modified the formula. This isn't just about fear - it's about shame, inadequacy, social humiliation."
"Fascinating psychological analysis," Constantine said dryly, moving closer to them. "How about we continue it somewhere less toxic?"
Cassandra was already pulling Samael toward an exit, her other hand reaching for her weapon. But before they could reach it, three of Scarecrow's masked assistants blocked their path.
"No escaping the experiment," one of them rasped, raising a gas dispenser.
Samael sighed. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he directed a pulse of grace - just enough to disrupt the dispenser's mechanism without being obvious. The device sputtered and died in the man's hand.
"Run!" Cassandra ordered, launching herself at the nearest attacker. Her movements were fluid and precise, even in her evening gown. The first man went down with a choked gasp as her elbow connected with his throat.
Constantine muttered something under his breath, making a quick gesture with his hand. The second attacker suddenly screamed, dropping his weapon and clutching his head as if experiencing his own dose of fear toxin.
"Neat trick," Samael commented as he casually sidestepped the third attacker, tripping him with seemingly little effort.
"Speak for yourself, mate," Constantine replied, his eyes narrowing. "That wasn't a mechanical failure just now, was it?"
Before Samael could answer, the lights went out. Emergency generators kicked in seconds later, bathing the ballroom in dim red light that made the ongoing chaos even more hellish.
And there, silhouetted against a window, was a new figure - one whose appearance caused even Scarecrow to pause.
Batman.
"Ah, the guest of honor arrives," Scarecrow called out, his voice tinged with manic delight. "Come to face your fears, Dark Knight?"
Batman didn't respond. Instead, he launched himself from the window ledge, cape billowing as he descended into the chaos.
"That's our cue to leave," Constantine said, grabbing Samael's arm. "Unless you fancy getting caught between a bat and a madman."
This time, Samael allowed himself to be guided toward the exit, Cassandra taking point to clear their path.
Around them, the ballroom had descended into complete mayhem - guests stumbling blindly, security personnel trying ineffectively to maintain order, Scarecrow's men spreading more fear toxin.
Through it all, Batman moved like a shadow, systematically taking down Scarecrow's henchmen while avoiding the clouds of gas.
They reached a side door that led to a terrace. Outside, the night air was clear and cool, a stark contrast to the poisoned atmosphere within.
Several other guests had made it outside as well, many still in the grip of the toxin's effects, whimpering and cowering from phantom terrors.
"Your car is this way," Cassandra said, gesturing toward a path that led around the side of the mansion.
"Aren't you even slightly affected?" Constantine asked Samael, studying him intently. "That was Crane's latest formula in there. I felt it trying to get in before... whatever you did."
"I have excellent control over my biochemistry," Samael replied smoothly. "A side effect of my condition, perhaps."
"Right. Your 'condition.'" Constantine's voice dripped with skepticism. "Look, mate, I don't know what you are, but you're not just Luthor's miracle boy. That light I felt-"
"This really isn't the time for a metaphysical discussion, Mr. Constantine," Samael interrupted, his tone pleasant but firm. "As fascinating as I'm sure it would be."
Though having connection to Constantine now would prove to make things more interesting with the chaos that follows him, perhaps he can get his hands on quality demon blood soon.
Constantine opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by the sound of breaking glass.
They turned to see Batman and Scarecrow crashing through an upper window, locked in combat as they fell.
Batman's grapnel gun fired, arresting their descent and swinging them in a wide arc toward another part of the grounds.
"We should go," Cassandra insisted, her hand on her weapon.
"I believe you're right," Samael agreed. "Mr. Constantine, it was... enlightening to meet you. Perhaps we'll continue our conversation another time."
Constantine's eyes narrowed. "Count on it."
They parted ways, Constantine heading back toward the mansion while Samael and Cassandra made their way to where their security team was already bringing the car around.
"That was reckless," Cassandra said once they were safely inside the vehicle and moving down the manor's long driveway. "I had gas masks. You didn't need to... do whatever you did."
"I was being cautious," Samael replied, straightening his cuffs. "The toxin was spreading quickly. I didn't want to risk exposure."
'Could have exposed yourself instead,' she signed, switching to her preferred method of communication now that they were alone. 'Constantine noticed.'
"Constantine was always going to notice," Samael said - which is true - with a slight smile. "That's what he does."
'You knew him?' Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"I know of him," Samael corrected smoothly. "My father keeps files on many of the world's... interesting residents."
She didn't look convinced but didn't press further. Instead, she asked, 'Are you hurt?'
"Not in the slightest," he assured her. "Though I am rather disappointed the evening was cut short. It was just getting interesting."
'Interesting?' she signed, incredulous. 'People were suffering.'
"Yes," Samael acknowledged, his expression sobering slightly. "Fear is a fascinating thing, isn't it? So primal, so universal. Even beings far greater than humans experience it."
Cassandra studied him for a moment, then signed, 'You're not afraid of anything.'
It wasn't a question.
Samael smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Everyone fears something, Cassandra. Even me."
The rest of the ride passed in silence, Cassandra occasionally checking security updates on her phone while Samael gazed out the window, lost in thought.
--------------------
Later that night, in a rundown apartment in one of Gotham's less reputable neighborhoods, John Constantine poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. His tuxedo jacket was discarded over a chair, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck.
He took a long swallow, then set the glass down and reached for an old, worn leather pouch. From it, he withdrew a small, polished stone with strange markings etched into its surface.
"Alright, you feathery bastard," he muttered, rubbing the stone between his fingers. "Time to earn your keep."
The stone began to glow faintly, emitting a soft hum. The air in front of Constantine shimmered, and a figure appeared - a dark skinned man in a grey jacket and dark blue pants, his features handsome but somehow ageless and cold.
"John," the figure said, his voice carrying an echo that wasn't quite natural. "This is unexpected."
"Cut the act, Manny," Constantine replied, taking another drink. "We've got a situation, and I think it's right up your alley."
The angel Manny raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"I met someone tonight," Constantine said, leaning forward. "Someone who probably shouldn't exist now that I think about it. He was at Wayne's charity do when Scarecrow crashed the party.
Fear gas everywhere - the good stuff, not the watered-down version. And this bloke, he's just standing there, cool as you like, while everyone else is losing their minds."
"Many people have resistance to-"
"He used divinity," Constantine interrupted flatly. "Angelic divinity. I felt it. Not much, just a flicker, but it was there. And not just any divinity - it was bright, Manny.
Like looking at the sun. The kind of light that only comes from the top shelf."
Manny's expression changed, the casual indifference replaced by something sharper, more focused. "Who is he?"
"That's the kicker," Constantine said with a humorless laugh. "He's Lex bloody Luthor's son. Been in a coma for nearly twenty years, apparently just woke up. Calls himself Samael."
At the name, Manny went completely still, an unnatural stillness that no human could achieve. "Samael," he repeated, the word carrying weight beyond its two syllables.
"Yeah, that got my attention too," Constantine said, watching the angel closely. "Want to tell me what's going on?
Because last I checked there is one bloody son of a bitch with that name and he's opened a bar in L.A. in another universe - and angels with his name and power don't just pop up as the sons of megalomaniacal billionaires."
Manny was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, "I need to consult with... others. This is unexpected."
"Unexpected?" Constantine echoed incredulously. "That's all you've got? A bloody archangel - or something wearing archangel power - is walking around Gotham, and all you can say is it's 'unexpected'?"
"Be careful, John," Manny said, his voice suddenly serious. "If what you're saying is true, then this being is far beyond your usual adversaries. Do not confront him. Do not provoke him. And above all, do not attempt to bind or control him."
"So he is an archangel then?"
Manny's form was already beginning to fade. "I will return when I have more information. Until then, observe but do not engage."
"Manny!" Constantine called, but the angel was gone, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air.
Constantine cursed, downing the rest of his whiskey in one swallow. "Bloody angels," he muttered, reaching for the bottle again. "Never a straight answer."
He poured another drink, then moved to his cluttered desk, pulling out an old, leather-bound book. The cover was unmarked, but when he opened it, strange symbols glowed faintly on the pages.
"Alright, Samael," he murmured, flipping through the ancient text. "Let's find out who - or what - you really are."
Outside his window, the stars seemed brighter than usual against Gotham's perpetually smog-tinged sky.
--------------------
(Author note: So, yeah, Constantine was like Samael said always gonna notice.
He's dealt with Lucifer before after all, and Constantine will panic, panic like insane fucking panic, because this isn't TV Show Lucifer only, but a mix between him and DC comics one, and well,
Last I read the comics, Constantine nearly shit himself in front of Lucifer. Like no joke, he was scared shitless of him.
Well, the plot will soon thicken, I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)