Devil sword Sparda (DMC) in DC

"Hey. Wake up. Wake up, dickhead. We got company."

Liam was floating in the void, blissfully unconscious, drifting through a dark, dreamless

abyss—

"WAKE THE FUCK UP, MORON!"

Liam jolted awake so hard he smacked his head against the car window. "Ow! What the

hell?!"

"Two cops incoming. Try not to be a dumbass about this."

Liam's eyes widened as he saw two uniformed officers approaching the stolen car . He was still in the driver's seat, the damn cursed sword lying in the trunk, and his clothes were covered in blood. Not a great look.

"Oh shit—"

"Relax," Sparda's voice echoed in his head. "Stay calm and do exactly as I say. And for

fuck's sake, try not to sound like a fugitive."

Taking a deep breath, Liam rolled down the window and forced a nervous smile.

"Afternoon, officers! Is there a problem?"

The cops gave each other a glance before one stepped closer. "Sir, we received reports

of a stolen car. Can you step out—"

The moment they entered the car's immediate vicinity, their faces went pale. They froze

mid-step, their bodies convulsing like they had been doused in ice water. Then—like

marionettes with their strings cut—both of them collapsed.

Liam blinked. "Holy shit, are they dead?!"

"No, dumbass. They're just unconscious. My aura is… let's say, 'not great' for normal

people's health."

Liam looked down at the cops, then at the stolen car, then back at the cops. "So… what

now?"

"Now, you get out, strip one of them, and put on his uniform. Your outfit is shredded and

covered in blood. You attract attention like a black man in the North in the 1700s."

Liam paused. "Bro. That's racist as hell."

"So is life. Now shut up and change."

Liam sighed, dragging one of the unconscious cops behind the car before stripping him.

Before putting on the uniform, he took a moment to check on himself—particularly his,

uh, lower regions. After all, earlier today, he had been impaled by a metal rod down

there.

…Not a single scar.

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome," Sparda muttered. "Now stop playing with it and get

dressed. Haven't you learned anything from your past life?"

Liam muttered under his breath, "Learned not to trust talking swords, that's for damn

sure."

After suiting up, he tossed the two cops into the trunk and got into the driver's seat. He

was about to question how the hell Sparda knew about his past life, but

"Before you ask—yes, I know everything about you. I'm stuck in your damn head. Your

past life is the least of my concerns. Now start driving. We need to get out of sight

before she finds us."

That word sent a chill down Liam's spine.

"Wait. 'She'? You mean… a girl with a demonic crystal in her forehead?"

"Ding ding ding. Took you long enough, genius. Now step on it before we both get soul-

sucked by an angry goth chick."

Liam didn't need to be told twice. He slammed on the gas and got the hell out of there.

After what felt like an hour of non-stop driving, Liam finally reached the outskirts of

Metropolis and pulled into a gas station.

The radio In the cop car was crackling with police chatter. No doubt about it—the

authorities were looking for him.

Grabbing what little cash he had, Liam stepped into the gas station's convenience store

and grabbed a hoodie and jeans, trying to blend in.

"Didn't know I was stuck with a hipster," Sparda muttered.

Liam rolled his eyes. "Bro, I'm like a mile away from you. Can you shut up?"

"And how, exactly, are you going to hide me? You can't just walk around carrying a giant

demonic sword. This isn't Final Fantasy, dumbass."

Liam groaned. "Shit, you're right."

"Of course, I'm right. Now go back to the trunk."

Liam hesitated, then opened the trunk—only to find that the massive sword was gone.

In its place was a necklace with a dark gemstone embedded in it.

"Boom. Problem solved. Now you can wear me like a basic white girl at Coachella."

Liam picked up the necklace. "You turned into jewelry?"

"Happy now? You can wear me and give people more reasons to think you're

homosexual. Not that it matters, considering your impressive track record with women,

virgin boy."

Liam squinted. "I swear to God, if you keep that attitude up, I will wear you around my

dick."

"Do it, and I'll turn back into a sword."

Liam sighed, defeated. "I can't win against you, can I?"

"Know your place, mortal. Now hurry up and grab some food. We can't stay here

forever—I have a very bad feeling about this place."

Liam stepped outside, eyeing a bar next to a gun shop.

"Well, welcome to America," he muttered.

Feeling like he needed a drink, Liam walked into the bar. The moment he stepped

inside, he knew something was wrong.

The place was empty. No bartender. No customers. Just eerie silence.

"Okay… that's creepy."

Then Sparda's voice returned, his tone sharper.

"How long will it take you to realize you just walked into a trap?"

Liam's hand twitched toward his belt. "Trap?"

"This place is separated from the outside world by magic. A strong individual is behind

this. And he's not alone."

A slow smirk crept onto Liam's face. "I think I know exactly who we're dealing with."

"For once, I agree with you."

The door slammed shut behind him.

A flick of a lighter. A wisp of cigarette smoke.

Then—a voice. Smooth. Cocky. British as hell.

"Well, well. Looks like I've got myself a lost little lamb. The question is—"

"Are you a demon in disguise… or just an unlucky bastard?"

Liam turned toward the man leaning lazily against the bar, cigarette hanging from his

lips, wearing a signature trench coat.

John Constantine.

Liam leaned against the bar, arms crossed, smirking at the blonde Brit in the trench

coat. "Well, you sure as hell know how to make an entrance, John."

Constantine exhaled a puff of smoke, his signature cocky smirk in place. "Gotta keep up

appearances, mate. Can't have people thinkin' I lost my touch."

Before Liam could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the back room. A

massive, hulking figure emerged, carrying a bottle of Jack Daniel's like it was a soda

can. His skin was crimson, his eyes burned like embers, and a constant low growl

rumbled from his throat.

Etrigan.

"Ah, humans and their petty fights," the demon muttered, his deep, gravelly voice

carrying a casual arrogance. "If your squabbles bore me, I'll be taking flight."

He plopped himself down at the bar, grabbed an extra glass, and poured himself a

drink. Then, without missing a beat, he glanced at Liam and Constantine. "A drink for

all, to ease the mood, but leave me out of this foolish feud."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think you'd drag Etrigan into this mess. I was half-

expecting King Shark, considering, y'know… you two are dating."

Constantine paused, narrowing his eyes.

Etrigan snorted into his drink.

John took a slow drag of his cigarette, his smirk returning. "I don't think I've officially

announced that yet. But you seem to know me damn well… which makes me

wonder—who the fuck are you, exactly?"

Liam chuckled. "That's a question for another day, mate." He threw Constantine's

British accent right back at him.

John's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes sharpened. He casually flicked his cigarette into

an ashtray and took a step closer. "Alright, smartass. Let's talk about the elephant in the

room—the absolute shitshow you pulled in Metropolis."

Liam tensed slightly.

"And," Constantine continued, "I suggest you stay in check, 'cause Raven's still looking

for you. Now, if you listen and do exactly as I say, you just might live to see another

day."

Etrigan sighed and raised his glass. "To the fool who runs from fate, yet drinks with

demons to change his state." Then he downed his drink.