Chapter Text
J'onn normally has no difficulties reading the minds of human beings. The people of earth like to think their thoughts very loudly, practically screaming them, little to the knowledge of the people around them. If anything, there is always a low level of constant effort to shield himself from the thoughts of people around him. Partially, for their privacy (he does need to or want to know all of their personal complaints about their life and the world around them), and also for his own sanity.
The Justice League is a different story. Some of them are almost too conscious of what they are thinking, and that there is a passive observer possibly overhearing their thoughts. Batman is the most difficult to read, but they both have come to the agreement that J'onn is not going to try and read his thoughts without express permission. If they are going to talk, they will do so out loud with their voices.
Robin, regardless of whoever holds the mantle, also shares a similar mental fortitude. J'onn can read their minds should he find the right motivation, but doesn't, because why would he need to do such a thing? Robin speaks his mind just fine, no external force required.
Wonder Woman and Superman occasionally think very loudly and passionately about various topics. Specifically when they find themselves in a disagreement with another League member. Everyone is an adult (whether or not they act like it all of the time is up for debate), and can for the most part talk about the issues they are having in their own neck of the words (as the humans like to say).
They all appreciate his abilities, even if they are cautious about them in casual conversation.
That's why, of all the people who would contact him outside of working with the League, Batman is the one who calls him. A text is sent first, several, short and bolded to ensure he understands the gravity of the situation he is about to stumble upon.
Urgent response needed.
Critical case updated [OPEN FILE]
SOS Batman
He already knows Batman and Superman are taking a sudden leave of absence for an unknown amount of time. Wonder Woman has briefed everyone on what to do with current missions and investigations until they return. No one knows why the two men have suddenly dropped everything and returned to civilian life, but they offered the usual human condolences of 'if you need anything, just ask'.
Batman calls his communicator, there is no greeting or pleasantries, "J'onn," he says, "Are you available for a consultation?" While the individual words might suggest a question, the tone leaves no room for anything other than a demand. Batman is a leader. He often makes orders and expect everyone else to comply, because what else are they supposed to do?
J'onn nods, "I am not otherwise occupied at the moment." It's the truth. He is currently in between missions, and is in no rush to take up another. If he didn't know any better, he would assume Batman is some kind of crisis, and whatever resources he was using are no longer beneficial. "What do you need?"
"Come to Metropolis General Hospital." Batman replies, "Be discreet."
In his mind's eye, Bruce Wayne is a well composed man with tendency to be play boy, and gets a little carried away during any of the parties he hosts or attends. Truthfully, J'onn has no interest in billionaires, let alone one singular billionaire living in Gotham, but he knows in some vauge sense Bruce Wayne spends a decent portion of his profits on other people, not himself.
He also knows Bruce Wayne has several children, most adopted, but for some reason the boy laying in the hospital bed before him looks like none of the ones he is familiar with. Odd, considering his appearance is rather unique compared to the other humans he has met over the course of living on Earth.
Bright pink hair, natural dark brown roots bleeding into the roots, cut at odd unflattering angles. Naturally tanned skin has taken an ashen tone, the color of sickness and death. Whoever this is, is on the precipice of life and death, waiting for strong gust of wind to push him one way or the other. Maybe Bruce Wayne expects him to be such a force of nature, hopefully for the better.
"Mister Wayne." He greets, not explicitly trying to read his mind, but the thoughts of worry reach him anyway. Swirls of panic and fear, a low groan of nausea, and a terrible haze of exhaustion. "What can I do for you?" Another loud cry of mental anguish rings between Bruce's mind and J'onn, before the man turns towards his son. "Who is this?"
Bruce takes a deep breath, partially choking on it as the air fills his lungs, "This is my son, Peter." His words break and then shatter as his words continue to spill out. "He's sick, and…" a sickly sound of the build up of spit audibly reverberates in the quiet of the hospital room. "And no one can figure out why." He covers the growing frown on his face, trying to muffle the sob attempting to break itself out of his throat. "He won't wake up."
He turns around to face Peter's unconscious form, shoulders hunched with the inescapable chokehold of grief. Tender is the word J'onn would use to describe the way Bruce's large palms hold Peter's limp hand and card through his hair. More desperate thoughts, wretched thoughts, hopeless thoughts reach his mind.
Again. Again. It's happening again.
Please don't take him. Don't take him. I won't survive another one.
Wake up, Peter. Please, I need you to wake up. I need you to be alright. Be angry with me. Yell at me. Hate me. Just don't be dead. Please, Peter, anything but this.
Anything but this.
Why couldn't it be me? Why wasn't it me? It should've been me.
"I can attempt to reach him ." J'onn offers, because Batman sent him here to help. Bruce wants to know if his son is still alive, or some other entity is preventing him from fully recovering. In essence, Bruce Wayne wants there to be a reason for his son's condition that isn't him being dead and wasting away. J'onn understands the feeling all too well. It is no easy task burying the people you love.
Six feet under and in a wooden box is a place too far and cold for a child to rest. To lose one child is punishment enough for whatever Bruce Wayne has done or failed to do. To bury another might as well be damnation from whatever higher authority is determining his fate.
Bruce can barely turn his head enough to see him out of the corner of his eye, the word that comes out his mouth is almost silent, but his thoughts scream it from center of his soul, "Please."
Entering another being's mind is a complicated affair for a person who doesn't know what they are doing. Living creatures are complicated. Brains are labyrinths of stray thoughts and contradicting feelings. It's easier to get lost than it is to do anything interesting. Good thing J'onn has a lot of practice. If he can navigate Shazam's chaotic mind, then certainly he can find Peter determine the root cause of his affliction.
Then maybe at the end of all of this he can give Bruce good news rather than the expected news.
First, J'onn has to enter the palace of the mind. Everyone has one. It take different forms for everyone, usually it's a familiar place, or something that retains a feeling of safety regardless of whether or not it exists in reality.
Diana's mind palace is her home island of Themyscira. He still recalls the calming feelings of salty air and stinging iron. Shazam's mind palace is an arcade, each game represents memories, and no J'onn prefers not to discuss how many he needed to play before finding the boy. Superman's mind palace is a farm with a two story house next to a field of wheat and corn.
Peter's mind palace is grand mansion, but the distant thought of 'Wayne Manor' enters J'onn's mind. This must be his home. 'Must' feels kind of stupid to say. It's Wayne Manor. Of course it's Peter Grayson-Wayne's home. What else would be his home? New York?
He sends out a thought rather than trying to speak. This is a mental construction of an imaginary place to better understand a person's mind. There really isn't any particular need to shout. This is Peter's mind after all, he should be able to hear him regardless of whether or not he is speaking or thinking.
Peter?
He roams the halls. Old wall paper as red as blood, wood paneling stained a deep brown, paintings evenly hung between each door and dusted by a careful hand. A stinging loneliness that isn't his own buries itself in J'onn's heart as he studies each piece. Desperation cloys at his logic, the desperation to escape, the eagerness to be anywhere but here, but J'onn ignores it the best he can without fully separating his mind from Peter's.
Peter, where are you?
Nothing.
Strange. Normally the mind palace responds in some way, as minuscule as the reactions can be, it still helps. This time nothing happens, not even the flickering of a light. It's like Peter can't even hear him. Which is impossible. This is Peter's mind, even if he is somehow locked away in a corner of it, he should be able to hear or sense J'onn's presence.
"Peter." He says out loud, a growing sense of urgency and worry burns in his chest. It shouldn't be like this, a mind palace. The human mind has so many different facets going on at any given time. There should be people here, friends, family, teachers, pets, fears, hopes, dreams—and there's nothing. "Peter!" He shouts, the sound echoes, "Peter, where are y—"
A soft hissing emanates from behind him, cold hands, burning vines twist around his arms, legs, and throat, "You aren't supposed to be in here." The voice tangles in J'onn's mind, it's words equally spoken as they are thought in his direction. Is it one voice, or is it hundreds (thousands, millions)? A cacophony of chaos and venom sings (screams, wails, laughs) as it continues, "You're distracting me. Leave."
J'onn feels himself being violently launched out of Peter's mind, his vision and head spinning. What is he supposed to do with the knowledge some entity is not just powerful enough to hide Peter in his own mind, but launch him out of it without any effort.
It feels like a physical shove against his mind and body as he thrown back into his physical form in the hospital room. An incredulous feeling burns across the back of his neck and chest, how did he let some unnamed entity push him out of Peter's mind without a fight? He is The Martian Manhunter. A Justice League member. Yet, somehow he has just as much information, if not less, than when he arrived.
Bruce looks up, eyes red, fights tight as they clutch each other. J'onn doesn't know if Bruce Wayne subscribes to any particular religious ideology, but he knows what praying looks like. Better yet, he knows when a man is desperate and at his last resort for answers. There is a question in the back of his mind as to how he knows the Batman, if there are other strings attached to such a relationship, but right now is not the time for such inquiries.
"Did you find anything?" He asks, voice gravel as he wipes away tears, "Were you able to speak with him?"
J'onn grimaces, not excited to admit the next few words, "I will have to contact a few more of my colleagues. There's a…" how does one describe a faceless thing in the mind of a young man, "…an anomaly I need assistance with deciphering." He doesn't want to cause any undue worry or any further distress to the poor man. His son is lying in a coma with no apparent cure to his ailment, there is already enough unknowns to battle against.
His words don't console Bruce, instead they cause his blue eyes to widen, "An anomaly?" He stands up, marching straight towards J'onn, wearing a face with an emotion beyond fury and grief. "What do you mean an 'anomaly'? What's wrong with my son?" His thoughts speak far louder than his words. They scream, howling at not just J'onn, but the universe as well.
Tell me the truth! What is going on? Why is this happening? Who did this to Peter? When I find them I — I will make them regret ever even laying eyes on my son. Was it Luthor? Clark made me promise I wouldn't hurt him, but I — Peter is — what else am I supposed to do? I'm just sitting here!
Useless. Useless. Useless.
I couldn't protect him.
My poor baby boy — a brilliant flash of a young child, dark curly hair spilling in front of brilliant cerulean eyes with a smile missing two teeth. He is holding a toy, a small wooden train talking about how Batman and Robin are going to save the day. A child's giggle, the soft warm glow of nostalgia paired with a tinge of regret.
Not enough. I should have done more. Why didn't I do more? Guilt as sharp as a kitchen knife stuck itself in between J'onn's ribs, but the feeling doesn't belong to him. I missed so much. Too much. Watching a car drive away and feeling a piece of himself go with it, fighting the urge to run to his own car and chase it down. It was safer. It was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be safe. Why didn't I keep him safe?
"We will find out soon." J'onn says as calmly as possible, thumbing at the communicator on his wrist. A courtesy of Batman to ensure all active League members could contact each other, but primary a clever way to avoid any external authorities from having any form of control of the League's activities. It's difficult to save the world if you have to ask for permission and then wait for congressional approval.
John Constantine arrives first, smelling of cheap booze and cigarette smoke. He uses the door, in a sense of likely exiting a door from whatever bar he was at prior to getting J'onn's call. "Better have a good reason for pulling me from happy hour, Manhunter," he mutters under his breath as he closes the portal behind him. "A hosptial?" Good to know he eyes work and can notice the hosptial bed, "I ain't a healer, Manhunter. What do you need me for?"
"I need your expertise." J'onn replies, fighting the urge to reaction to Constantine's flippant reaction. Why would he bothering calling him if he knew there was nothing he could do? "Zatanna is on her way as well."
Constantine tilts his head in confusion, "Why'd you call both of us?"
"To cover all of our bases," J'onn points out, but he doesn't mention the fact that while he knows both of the magic users operate in the same area, they both have two vastly different approaches to their work. Constantine will do anything to get to the finish line, even it means tripping or killing the rest of his competition. He might argue it isn't entirely his fault, and it was to save everyone else not racing, but the result is the same either way.
Constantine saunters over to Peter's bedside, blue eyes squinting as he tries to identify what could possibly be so horrible they needed to call him. Vaguely, he can sense something is wrong, a tiny shift in the energy of the room centering around Peter, but whether or not it's malicious has yet to be determined.
After a few seconds a wave of shock emits from his thoughts, no words, just a feeling akin to jumping into cold water, "Wait—is this that kid that took on Lex Luthor?" Constantine wide eyes peer over at Bruce, still huddled in a corner, barely wake, refusing to collapse into his exhaustion until answers are provided. "He's your kid? When did ya get another one?"
Bruce releases a low growl, "He's been my son." Mine. Mine. Mine. How dare he. How dare he. Stupid warlock. Stupid world. Possession. Pride. Salty like the tears running down his face. "He's a private person." Secretive. I never asked. I never wondered. I wasn't there. I'm never there. Why wasn't I there? Misery. Cold. The kind of cold that seeps into bones and weight them down to watery depths.
"Alright, alright, Mr. Wayne, figured you'd have some butlers to worry about this kind of thing for you." The warlock grins, a purposeful kind of malice in his tone as he says the worlds in almost sing song voice, "Wouldn't want the Prince of Gotham going grey early over a little misunderstanding, would we?"
Red. The only thing J'onn can feel, see, taste, think is red. A dreadfully thin string of control barely holds Bruce back from throwing fists, his chair, or any other object he can get his hands on. Not limited to possibly throwing Constantine out the window into oncoming traffic for the audacity to say such a thing to his face.
The only tell of his frustration is a small twitch of the eyebrows, a deepening of an every growing grimace in his face, and a small indents of his dull nails on his knuckles.
"Enough, Constantine," J'onn hisses, already regretting the decision of asking for his assistance. Perhaps he should have just asked Zatanna, she is far more reasonable person, and even is somewhat friends with Bruce Wayne. She wouldn't be egging on a man in the middle of the anticipatory grief of losing his son. "Do you sense anything?"
Constantine rolls his eyes, "Sure, let me just activate the Force and instantly know what's wrong. That's totally how magic works." He takes a longer look at Peter, watching his chest rise and lower, gaze narrowing as he holds a hand out. A small circle of orange arcana appears, twisting around, sparking while the spell continues. Obviously, the spell doesn't give the information he wants, given by the sour look on his face as he drops his hand back to his side. "That's…weird."
"Weird?" Bruce echoes, "weird how?" Desperation fueled by uncertainty. A low level of panic makes its home in his heart, coagulated fear settles in his lungs. He needs answers. He needs them now. Why is his greatest mystery his greatest weakness? He needs to pull himself together, but the more he tries, the more he falls apart.
Constantine turns to J'onn, "What exactly did you see in his head?" He knows. He knows exactly what the Manhuntsr saw. He knows while Peter's body is here, doing its best to heal from his injuries and sickness, he is somewhere else. "Anything you want to share with the class?"
Nothing. J'onn says in the warlock's mind. His mind palace was empty. No memories. No dreams. No fears. Just an empty manor. Humans are anything but quiet or empty, even when they lack the capacity of speech. To see one so silent is terrifying, and almost always means interference from another entity, or death. Something or someone else was in there. It forced me out, said was 'being a distraction'.
It takes a second for Constantine to absorb the information and then figure out exactly what he wants to do with it. "There are a couple of demons that like to feed on nightmares. Keeping their victims in a coma would practically be feast for them." He locks eyes of J'onn, making sure he knows to hear his thoughts, It's not a demon. Kid's soul—his mind, whatever makes him him is gone. "I can put a couple of wards around him to make sure nothing else can try to play any games."
"You think it's a demon?" Bruce says, hope tasting bitter at the back of his throat. It's never that easy. Nothing can ever be straight forward when it comes to my kids. Something has to be wrong. Why can't I fix this? Why do I just have to sit here? Useless. Useless. I'm so useless.
Constantine shrugs, "I'll know more once I get in there. Hopefully Zee gets here soon, the quicker we act, the better." A list begins to form in his mind, maybe a series of potential actions is a better description? J'onn can't help to listen to the mental rambling of the warlock, sometimes his thoughts are far more bearable than the words that actually find their way out of his mouth.
Bodies can live without a soul for a while, but it's pretty dangerous to leave an empty shell for any wandering spirit or demon. Better question is where is his soul right now? Who wanted it? Higher demons might sell their dirty work to low level magician. This kind of magic doesn't really support long distance casting, might be worth it to poke around and see if anyone strange has been sneaking about.
"Has anyone aside from the staff been in here?" Constantine wonders, "Was he ever left alone?" Do hospitals keep their security camera footage for more than a couple days? Could ask Zee to work her magic. Demons love to prey on the weak and lonely. Besides, hospitals have visiting hours right? Rounds and all that shit. There has to be a couple of hours no one was here to look after him.
Bruce shakes his head as a large sigh escapes his chest, "No…I—we've been taking shifts." Eyes full of melancholy look at Peter, "He doesn't do well by himself." A nervous hand waves in the air, trying to grab on to some sense of security and understanding. The sound of a sickening beep haunts J'onn's mind, quick beeps, each meaning something different, followed by a flood of nausea rolling around his abdomen
"How so?" Constantine presses. More. There has to be more than just whatever the hell this is. Come on, Bruce, give me something useful.
"His vitals make the doctors worried." Memories, vicious reminders of a heart failing to beat in rhythm, blood pressure either dangerous low or inconveniently high, or respiration too unstable to provide any oxygen to Peter's body. Each time Bruce can feel his body sinking slowly into the ground. He might as well be buried. Peter is laying in coma and the only thing he can do that is half helpful for anyone is sit here and wait. "They drop or get worse when no one else is in here."
What? Constantine's thoughts ring out. That isn't helpful at all Mr. Rich Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist. Give me something I can use. What am I supposed to do about — wait a second. "He's vitals get worse when no one is here?" He says, voice a little to interested in the fact. Could be good, means he's aware of where his body is, and knows it shouldn't be alone. Maybe his soul isn't too far away. "That's a good sign. Means he's still kicking."
"He's unconscious." Bruce points out dryly, "Nobody knows what to do."
"Yeah, but now ya got us." Constantine retorts, "Zee and I are gonna—"
Another portal opens open, this time in a swirl of sparkling blues and deep purples, like fireworks in the midnight sky. "esolC latroP." J'onn will never cease to be impressed with the magician's ability to speak backwards. How one is able to do such a thing and cast spells is beyond his expertise and understanding of the world. "Martain Manhunter, you called?" She looks at John and her thoughts sour, "Constantine."
"Oh don't look at me like that, Zee." The warlock groans, "We're here to help this kid. You're not gonna let him die just because we broke up." She broke up with him. No particular reason this time. Not the drinking. Not the smoking. Not his general less than sunny disposition. It just happened, and this time neither of them are sure the 'break' will have an end. It's bitter more than sweet on Constantine's end. He loves her enough to save the world and burn it for her in the same day, but not enough to be able change.
Zatanna frowns, the temptation to continue their fight is great, but there is business to attend to right now. Her eyes soften the sight of Bruce, quietly disassociating as he stares off into the distance. How strange it is for a mind to be equally empty and full of static, while also whirling around in a hurricane of chaos. There are half formed thoughts, each one more incomprehensible than the other, but J'onn can't make any sense of them.
"Bruce ." She says gently, "I'm sorry about Peter." Mild confusion riddles her thoughts. How did I not know about him? Why did Bruce never think to tell her about him? It's not betrayal souring her thoughts this time, but doubt about their friendship and the honest words spoken between them. "We'll do our best to help him."
Any ideas? Zatanna thinks aloud, and J'onn is already on the same page, linking their minds in a small feedback loop to prevent any sensitive information falling on nervous ears.
Constantine shrugs, The Sandman owes me a couple of favors. I can probably ask him if he knows anything. If Peter is dreaming, he'll be able to find him.
J'onn is vaguely aware of the human myth called 'Sandman', many cultures have different names and appearances of him. The Green Martian had their own belief of something along the lines of a person ruling the land of dreams, except he was made up of star dust and consumed matter from black holes.
How does one summon the Lord of Dreams? J'onn wonders.
The warlock smirks, Taking a little cat nap, of course.
A cold hand taps his face, "Oi, J'onn, get up. We've got work to do." Constantine? What happened? The last thing he remembers is asking the warlock about how he plans on getting in contact with the Lord of Dreams, and then…nothing. Not even darkness to a gap in his memory, there is just a whole lot of nothing.
"John," Zatanna reprimands, slapping his shoulder, "stop it, you didn't give anybody any warning about the spell you were casting." She walks over to J'onn, offering him a hand with a sympathetic smile, "Sorry about that, the only way to talk to Morpheus is to meet him in his domain. He hasn't left since…"
"Since his died." Constantine finishes, a complicated look flashes over his face, grief, longing, regret, an ambiguous hatred lingers. There is no answers as to why, just the thought ringing out in his empty mind: Fate is a fucking bitch. A man (is it a man, or just the projection of such an image), haunting in his beauty, dark hair wild and hanging over his dark eyes. Not him. Not anymore. "Don't touch anything. Might be a dream, but getting killed still fucking hurts."
J'onn looks out into the vast kingdom before him, full of wonder, full of horror, the duality of dreams and nightmares. Is it always day here? Some people out there are always dreaming, right? How does that even work? Does the Lord of Dreams ever take a day to rest? Does he even need rest?
"Dream—Daniel—is still a little bit new to this." Constantine points out as he leads them down cobbled streets and castle walls. "So, don't get your hopes up." If he can't find him, we're back at square one, and then we might have to use the poor kid's mind as a battle ground. Mind are not as fragile as some people like to think, but they can sustain damage just like any other part of the body. J'onn would prefer to keep Peter's mind in tact, no internal battle required.
"Is that a dragon?" Zatanna gasps with a wide smile on her face, as if she hasn't created one for one of her illusions before, or fought literal gods. In the land of dreams and nightmares, and a dragon is the thing she is the most impressed with. J'onn shouldn't be too judgemental, it is a very pretty dragon, large too. In the real world, biologically speaking it could never exist. The Flash has to drink four or five of those drinks with thousands of calories to keep himself from passing out. Imagine how much a dragon has to eat to keep it's body moving.
Constantine nods, "Yeah, he's got a couple of those flying around. Unicorns, trolls, fairies too. I think he finally made up with the fae, haven't seen any of those in this place for a long while." The man is barely over forty five years old, but J'onn lets him have his point. He knows this world far better than any of them do. "Quite ferocious things, trust me. We'll have to convince one to let us see Dre—Daniel."
J'onn is tempted to ask why he keeps insisting on the name 'Daniel', but the answer comes to him before he can even open his mouth. Not my Dream. Not anymore. Dead. Dead. Dead. Like everyone else.
"Well," Zatanna sighs, "I hope he's in the mood for some guests."
For Peter's sake, the Dream Lord better be.
They are taken to library, but it might as well be a labyrinth of neatly ordered bookshelves, study tables, and wooden chairs. Maybe there is an end somewhere, in the vast distance, but J'onn notices as the shelves shift themselves, books disappear and reappear in different areas, and attendants quickly rush to place them back in their respective shelves.
How anyone navigates this library is beyond him, but thankfully J'onn is simply a guest if a foreign yet somehow familiar land. An unconscious piece of him knows these lands, this kingdom, not intimately, but he knows this isn't the first time he has been here.
Dream—Daniel, is not how J'onn pictured him in his head, nor is he similar to the man Constantine viewed in his mind. The severe look and dark wild hair have been replaced with a mild mannered looking young man. His skin and hair as pale as the clouds, almost glowing in the dim light of his castle. A nervous, tentative smile grows on his face, "Constantine, it's been a while since you have visited my domain. What do I owe the visit?"
"We're looking for someone." He answers, unable to look Daniel in the eyes, instead he scans the room, trying to look as disinterested as possible. "His body and mind aren't in the same space, but he's unconscious. We were hoping he might be here, in the dreaming. Peter Grayson-Wayne."
Daniel's thoughts are too vast to comprehend. Loud isn't the word he feels in correct. Large? Vast? Any wisp of emotions or thought is lost in what sounds like wind and static. Maybe it's for the better, whatever the Lord of Dreams is thinking should not be privy to those not of him realm, as mildly inconvenient as it might be.
Eyes full of night and stars look past him, pale lips pursing at the name. "Peter Grayson-Wayne." A woman with pointed ears, circular glasses, and well made suit places in his hand, thick pages threaten to bulging out of their binding, she nods at the the visitors but does not formally greet them yet. "Thank you, Lucienne." He opens the book, curiously reading the pages, "I understand why you are worried about him. He is…strange."
Constantine's eagerness to read whatever the Dream Lord is looking at picks at J'onn's patience. Annoyance, curiosity, whatever is in that book is important. Peter's dreams have answers in them, and Dream—Daniel isn't sharing with them. Dream, much like his realm, was not always as direct as people liked. He was as honest as he knew how to be, and that is why John liked him.
"Strange how?" Zatanna asks, beating Constantine to the point before he can say something capable of embarrassing the entire Justice League. Someone has to keep this train from going off the tracks and certainly isn't going to be him.
"His dream book is…" Daniel sighs, thumbing the pages, "…chaotic? There are dreams I know did not create. Nightmares neither myself nor my predecessor forged. Dreams of dreams, nightmares of memories, dreams of daydreams." He flips to the most recent nightmare, one about a wizard saying goodbye, "All dreams have elements of reality, but these have more reality than most."
Every lie has a kernel of truth. Constantine thinks to himself. Dreams are weird like that. Dream magic is finicky, up to interpretation, but dreams are a somewhat permeable medium. It's the reason why some people see the dead and other claim to travel realities. Anything can be true, true enough anyways. Why am I monolouging in my own mind? Are you listening to this Manhunter? Are you entertained?
J'onn isn't so much entertained as he is being indirectly educated on Constantine's specialty. The warlock has a worrying tendency to do whatever benefits him the most, and rather than explain, he prefers to let people wonder and then suffer from the consequences of his action or in action. 'I got the job done, what else do you want', is what he would say. 'For people to not die because your recklessness', is what everyone else would reply with.
"That's a problem for another day," Constantine waves off, because there are bigger fish to fry than worrying about some weird dreams and nightmares. All dreams are weird, regardless of their outcome. He doesn't want to think or talk about his own. "Is he here in the Dreaming? Can you take us to him?"
A moment of silence passes between them as one of the Endless decides whether or not this mortal problem is worth the trouble. Eventually he smiles, albeit small, graceful, a hint of anxiety as he says, "I can take you to him, but it will be a journey. Lucienne," he says, a hand out reached before it is placed on her shoulder, "I will be back soon."
"Matthew," she says, and a crow hops on onto the hand placed on his shoulder, "Keep our Lord safe."
He chirps — the bird chirps, not in a cute little way birds on Earth do when they are speaking to each other. Instead real words come out, "I guess I'll allow it." Black wings flitter, judgemental dark eyes stare up at Daniel, "You're not leaving the Dreaming, so at least you'll be safe." J'onn had no idea a raven could be so expressive, the exasperation in his voice matches the frown formed by his beak. "I'm not losing another Lord of the Dreaming."
Daniel chuckles as he lifts Matthew to his shoulder, "I assure you, Matthew, I have no plans on an early retirement." He looks back at the visitors in his domain, Constantine specifically with dark eyes full of…something J'onn has way of describing. Wishful? Longing? A silent grief of a past relationship, the one Constantine doesn't like thinking about, should it lead to consuming him. "I suggest you stick close to me. The Dreaming will not hurt me, but I cannot guarantee all of the nightmares will not sense mortal."
"We won't die." Constantine mutters, tired of this conversation. He wants to get back to the real world, away from this, away from all of this. Reminders. Echoes. Constant deja vu making his head spin in circles. "We're dreaming."
Daniel nods, "Yes…but not all nightmares need to be relived now, do they?" His black eyes know and see far too much into the depths of Constantine's soul. The man gulps, adjusts his red tie, and readies himself for what is about to begin. "Peter is on the edge of the dreaming. Hidden by something, but not fully separate. I can take you there, but I anticipate it is not going answer all of your questions."
"Anything is better than nothing," Zatanna points out, bracing herself, preparing to use her magic. Can I even use my magic here? She flexes her hand, willing the arcane to swirl in her palm. It's the land of dreams after all, almost anything should be possible.
Anything is better than nothing, but what is anything is exactly what you don't want to hear. J'onn prefers not to think about it as the sand drops to the ground and he allows himself to be consumed by oblivion.
They appear at the entrance of a circus. A sign with red lighters and flashing white light bulbs calls to them. Haley's Circus. The scent of buttered popcorn, kicked up dirt, and cotton candy fills the air. Even the sound of carnival music playing slowly echoes through the air, but no one is on the grounds. No a single person, a dream, a nightmare, just a field of empty rides and food stalls.
"Boss," Matthew chirps, his small head tilts at he stares the circus, "This is weird. We aren't going in there, right?"
The Dream Lord tries to take a step further, but something stops him. "This is far as I can take you." Daniel says, frowning at he stares at the sign, "Whatever has put Peter in such a state made preparations to ensure beings like myself could not interfere." He has other responsibilities too, and considering he has already spent over a hundred years away from his kingdom, and then followed it up with a rather dramatic death — he shouldn't be risking his life once again. "Please, take care. I will try to ensure you wake up without any…" Daniel thinks for a moment, "side effects."
Constantine nods, "Thanks a bunch, Daniel. We'll take it from here." Although he doesn't sound all that thankful in J'onn's opinion. Flippant. Frustrated. The grief leans on his patience and understanding, it fractures his already depleted ability to be grateful for any help that is given to him. "Come on, Peter's was a circus person, right? They'd be in the employee section. They have one of those, right?"
Zatanna grimaces at his wording, "His parents were murdered during one of their acrobatic performances." Dick told her once, at a Halloween themed Gala when Bruce allowed her visit and use her spells for purely entertainment purposes. "He wasn't apart of their act. If he's hiding, he's probably be somewhere he felt safe."
"Why not the manor then?" John wonders, "He's been there for over a decade, now." Why would his home still be at the circus, of all places. He probably barely even remembers this place, given from the way it's decorated, this memory is more than likely a combination of movie sets and fantasy, rather than the real thing.
J'onn shrugs, "Home can be what is and what was, and sometimes what it never will be. The subconscious help create dreams. This is simply what Peter' mind desired at this moment." Human beings are complicated, contradictory creatures. They do not always say what they mean. Sometimes they go directly against what they want. Whatever this place means to Peter can mean anything, or nothing at all. "Let's just find Peter, and we can discuss the matter of the circus later."
Constantine quiets down, scanning the area for any forms of life, magical or not.
Zatanna does the same, quietly murmuring to herself. enyaW-nosyarG reteP dniF. Blue and white tendrils of arcane power swirls delicately around her fingers and wrists. A dull white glow infiltrates her pupils, the spell does it is told, finding Peter Grayson-Wayne. She releases a small gasp, "Found him. Follow me."
A dime sized dimond shaped arrow points to the right of them, shining with anxiously with anticipation. Found him. Found him. He's over here. Over here. Follow me. Follow. Follow. Follow. The magic cries in Zatanna's mind.
"Well, lead the way then," Constantine grins, his thoughts make J'onn's eyes roll.
And we're off to see the Wizard.
Follow the yellow brick road, as they say, but I guess the big glowing dot will do.
If only everything could be that easy, but then, there would be no reason to be here at all.
"What's the worst that could happen? A little nightmare appears?" Constantine grins.
J'onn sighs in mind, Coming from you, Constantine, I fear only the worst.