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“Trigon is not a demon”
Tim’s voice escapes him before he can stop himself, but the incredulity stays, lingering in the still silence.
Even Raven is squinting at him as if unsure of what to do with his words, but Tim doesn’t retract them, doesn’t take them back.
“Um, I think he’s pretty demon-like” Dick voices, gently, as if Tim needs to be handled with kid gloves.
Now that makes Tim angry. And Angry Tim doesn’t always make the best decisions, but he does tend to stick with Tim’s decisions made. And Tim decided to reveal that he knows more about this world than first let on.
Tim doesn’t bother sighing, only meeting Constantine’s eyes with an exasperated look as he says “Most demons are mortal souls that were condemned to hell. Or Hell’s native denizens like Imps. Trigon is neither. He’s probably some kind of interdimensional creature from a place that may seem like hell”
His voice is flat, factual, sure. And Constantine’s eye narrow at him. It’s enough to convince a majority of the people in the room that Tim knows what he’s talking about.
“However” Tim continues “Maybe bringing in a demon isn’t the worst idea”
Constantine’s eyes narrow even more as he takes a drag of his cigarette, even as the rest of the room stop and stare in shock.
“Probably not a Duke or anything like that. But maybe an Overlord? Powerful enough to take Trigon in a fight but uncaring about people up on the surface, would be my best bet. Preferably someone that has at least some faith in humanity or…something similar, given that…you know. But ruthless. So not Carmilla, she’d never leave her daughters alone for that long. Not Zestial, I’m not even sure he remembers being human, if he ever was. The V’s are useless on the best of days. Maybe Rosie? But I don’t feel like unleashing the leader of the Cannibals is a great idea. So Alastor it is”
The muttering is almost too quiet to hear. But the silence of the room makes it loud enough to hear every word. Enough that Constantine’s eyes take on a calculating glint before he removes the cigarette from his lips.
“You sure know a lot about Hell and its hierarchy” Constantine remarks, interrupting Tim’s pacing and further muttering, wondering what he can offer Alastor for his help.
Tim doesn’t stop pacing, continues to walk back and forth in a loose circle as he glances upward.
The Titans look slightly shocked but more resigned, the Bats staring at Tim with visually cocked heads, and the league is staring at him like he’s grown a second head.
Tim’s eyes focus on Constantine’s blue for a moment too long before he answers “Know your friends well and your enemies better”
“That isn’t the phrase” someone says, but Tim isn’t paying attention anymore.
He needs something to offer Alastor in exchange for his help.
Alastor tends to like old-fashioned things. Maybe an old radio? But he’d already have that, since his mic is basically part of him.
Maybe something more traditional? A weapon of some sort?
But before that…
Tim turns to Constantine with a snap of his cloak that causes a ripple of winces from their audience.
Constantine’s still looking at him.
Tim’s mouth opens before he can think to stop himself “You have any demon-summoning rituals that aren’t horrendous?”
Constantine raises an eyebrow but nods with the air of someone being held at gunpoint.
Tim narrows his eyes “You need a name?”
Constantine’s other eyebrow raises to meet its counterpart but shakes his head.
“Good”
The ritual involves blood, because of course it does. Tim almost wishes that he could just hop through a convenient portal.
Unfortunately, nobody takes the suggestion that it should be Tim’s blood, all that well.
Tim watches them argue, scrabble, squabble. He looks between the circle drawn on the floor with chalk. Looks to the metal bowl in the middle. Looks to a very annoyed Constantine.
Looks to his bo.
Tim twists the segment of his bo that rotates, the quiet shink of a blade being forced through its metal casing hidden by rising voices.
Constantine’s looking at him but Tim bets that he isn’t gonna say anything so he takes a step toward the bowl.
Nobody reacts to the motion so he continues with the plan.
Presses the very sharp blade to the side of his wrist, where there are less bending parts to hurt afterwards and watches a puddle of blood form in the bowl.
Nobody notices the circle glowing until the bottom of the bowl is covered and by then, it’s too late to stop him anyway, despite the objections and raised voices.
The white chalk burns white across the front of Tim’s civilian clothes, and he knows already that something isn’t right.
Something isn’t specific enough.
Alastor wouldn’t come without dramatics. And he wouldn’t come in a wash of white. His sigils were always green, toxic like the Lazarus pits.
So Tim lowers his voice, bowing his head and turning his face away from his observers.
“Alastor, the Radio Demon” he whispers into the rushing wind, feeling a gust rip the sound from his lips a moment before the circle changes.
The sigils turn green.
The wind settles but an ungodly static fills its place.
Shadows swirl around Tim like a tornado of blackness.
And a moment later, all of it stops.
Tim’s left standing in a green circle on the floor, no sound around him, no shadows clinging to his form.
And in the silence, the words are clear, despite the crackle.
“Well, this is certainly something new”
It’s Alastor’s voice, Tim knows, knows that if he turns to look, he’ll see yellow teeth, a red coat and vaguely deer-like features.
“Alastor” Tim greets respectfully, like he knows he’s supposed to. After all, this isn’t the first time they’ve met.
Alastor looks Tim up and down, likely taking in the changes, the growth from a small, 13-year old boy to a 17-year-old. He doesn’t look all that shocked.
“Why Timothy my boy, lovely to see you again”
It’s the cheer, Tim reminds himself, that makes Alastor so dangerous. He seems so earnest. Seems so kind. But Tim’s seen things. He knows better.
Alastor is an Overlord. He’s powerful. He’s dangerous.
He’s also the closest thing Tim has to a childhood friend.
Tim gives him a smile that Alastor himself taught him, sharp and wide and deceiving.
Alastor’s eyes twinkle with something like pride or malice. Tim’s never been great at differentiating between those two. Especially not with Alastor.
There’s silence from behind them both as the Bats, Titans, League and otherwise take in Alastor’s scrawny form and apparent lack of size.
Tim intends to speak before someone can raise their voice and say something stupid.
But there’s something wrong.
Alastor hasn’t moved since summoned.
Hasn’t spoken beyond the first few words.
And Alastor always had loved talking, almost as much as the violence.
There’s only one real explanation.
“You’re injured” Tim voices, something between incredulity and awe colouring his voice. He honestly hadn’t thought anyone would dare even try to hurt Alastor. Let alone succeed.
There is, after all, a reason that most of Hell fears him. A very valid reason. Or a couple dozen.
Alastor doesn’t confirm anything, doesn’t argue either.
He gives Tim a smile full of yellow, pointed teeth instead, as he speaks.
“You interrupted Extermination day”
Tim’s brain freezes, does the math.
“But Extermination year is always the same time every year. The last one couldn’t have been more than a month ago!” Tim’s lips say without his thought. Alastor doesn’t seem to mind.
“Our dear princess decided to start a fight. Rather unfortunate that I couldn’t end it myself”
Now armed with new information, Tim glances over his form again. His mic broken into 2 pieces. Some kind of static or visual distortion around his chest.
Alastor isn’t just injured. He’s nearly dead.
Tim’s jaw clenches without his permission.
Dangerous.
Ruthless.
Things that Alastor had always been described as, even when Tim followed him though the convenient portal to hell his parents had unknowingly brought home. Even when walking through Pentagon City, fending off Alastor’s attempts at his soul.
Dangerous.
Ruthless.
But Tim’s never been able to look at Alastor as only that. Hasn’t been able to see the toothed killer that the other demons glanced at out of the corner of their eyes.
He holds out a hand and the room around him freezes.
“You get a place to recover. And you help us fight something that isn’t nearly as strong as you are” Tim voices, clear and fair and direct.
Alastor’s deer-like ears twitch in the direction of Constantine’s mumbled, almost incoherent protests, but his eyes are locked on Tim.
At the child he’d basically raised to be the same as him.
Dangerous.
Ruthless.
And people thought he acted like Bruce? Like he didn’t take each deal with both hands?
No.
Tim was raised by a demon that had more power than most supers. Had less morals than most villains. Had cared more about Tim than his own parents.
Tim wasn’t Bruce’s child.
And Alastor’s grip around his hand says he knows this.
This isn’t a deal between some uselessly hopeless mortal and one of the most powerful Overlords in Hell. This is between 2 friends. Mentor and Mentee. Teacher and student. Parent and Child. Equals.
Green sigils fly around the old house Constantine had dragged them to. A staticky laugh intersped with screams. The deal holds. And Alastor’s shoulders relax just the slightest bit.
Tim can’t help the smile he gives in response.
“Now let me tell you about Trigon while you recover your strength”