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After experiencing the agonizing cycle of death and resurrection over and over again, whatever mental fortitude Bruce and Andor had left was completely shattered.
So—
The moment Hawk's ultimatum hung in the air, they broke. They tripped over each other's words, desperately spilling everything that had happened all those years ago.
The gist of it matched Giorno's story almost perfectly.
Andor had been the patrolman who chased after the two "birdmen" that night.
He had caught up to them, but then they showed him a 'miracle.' As a devout Catholic, the moment he saw the glowing 'stigmata' on the backs of those two winged figures, his faith blinded him. He believed every word they said without question.
The two 'angels' told him they had come from the future, following the Lord's divine decree. Their mission was to change the fate of a believer who was destined to stray from the righteous path.
As to who this believer was, the 'angels' never said.
All Andor knew was that Andrew—the man they had just murdered—was the key to bringing that lost lamb back into the Lord's flock.
And so...
They needed to take Andrew.
Not just his soul.
But his body, too.
Andor had still been hesitating, torn between his duty as a cop and his religious fervor. Right then, Bruce and Giorno, who had been tailing him, arrived on the scene.
When the 'angels' promised them eternal life, offering them the chance to bathe in the Lord's eternal glory, Bruce was the first to agree.
Andor quickly followed suit.
Giorno hesitated for a moment, but ultimately caved to the temptation.
A year later, Bruce faked his own death. He stole Andrew's body from the morgue and smuggled it to Paris. There, he met the two 'angels' again—only this time, they had rebranded themselves as emissaries of the Blood God.
"Wait."
Hawk rubbed his chin, interrupting Bruce's frantic retelling. "Are you saying they were vampires by then?"
Bruce nodded vehemently. "Yes. The emissaries said they had to sever their own wings to remain in the mortal realm. To prepare for the Lord's descent, they had to convert themselves into vampires temporarily. They claimed that once the Lord arrived, He would restore them as Blood Angels."
Makes sense.
Once an angel loses its wings, its physical body ages rapidly.
If those two birdmen hadn't turned themselves into vampires, they never would have survived to the present day. They would have died of old age decades ago.
Hawk thought to himself.
The next second.
He raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting between Bruce and Andor.
"But they aren't the ones who turned you, are they?"
"No," Andor nodded, his voice trembling. "The emissaries said their blood was too potent, too pure for mortals to handle. So they had a vampire named Carter turn us instead."
Hawk stared at Andor, his face a mask of absolute calm.
"And you just bought that?"
"...Yes."
Hearing this, Andor and Bruce exchanged a pathetic glance. Seeing the look of utter disbelief and amusement creeping onto Hawk's face, they fell into a mortified silence.
Hawk let out a dry laugh.
After all that buildup, he'd thought those two winged freaks had offered them some unimaginable cosmic blessing.
In the end, they were just turned into bottom-feeding mutt vampires.
They weren't even purebloods.
Hawk shook his head internally, then looked back at the two pathetic souls. "And at no point during this entire process did either of you stop and think, 'Hey, maybe this is a scam?'"
Bruce shook his head frantically.
"The emissaries... they had a pair of blood-red wings."
"Blood wings?"
"Yes. Wings made entirely of crimson blood."
"...Right."
Hawk mentally pictured an angel sporting a pair of gory, blood-soaked wings. He shook the image away and refocused on Bruce. "Let's get back to Andrew. You brought his body to Paris. Then what?"
Bruce shook his head again.
"I don't know."
"Excuse me?" Hawk's tone sharpened dangerously.
"I swear, I really don't know! The emissaries handed me over to Carter to be turned, and then they left with Andrew's body. We never saw them again after that."
Seeing the lethal chill returning to Hawk's eyes, Bruce hurried to explain, his voice shrill with panic. "Wait! We didn't see them again until recently. Just before we came back to New York!"
Hawk's brow arched.
"Go on."
"The emissaries told us Andrew had escaped. They ordered Andor and me to come to New York City to track him down and bring him back."
"Andrew escaped?"
Hawk's frown deepened at the absurdity of the statement.
The fact that Andrew was still 'alive' wasn't exactly a shock.
Those winged zealots served Yahweh; it was a given they had some access to the mystic arts. Not to mention, they had Andrew's soul in their possession.
But—
What Hawk couldn't figure out was their endgame. Why resurrect Andrew in the first place?
To use the father as leverage against the son?
Please.
When faced with Mephisto's threats, Hawk had been fully prepared to walk away and never see his beloved sister, Anya, ever again if it meant compromising his core.
Did they really think some biological donor he barely knew would be enough to manipulate him?
They were dreaming!
If Yahweh or his angels tried to use Andrew as a hostage, Hawk wouldn't hesitate to tell them to go ahead and kill him—and then he'd ask for a piece of the pie.
Wait.
Bloodline?
A thought struck Hawk like a bolt of lightning.
The next second.
He let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle.
That trick might have worked before he collapsed his timeline. But now? He had reeled in his past, present, and future, condensing his entire existence into a singular, absolute point. He had taken the first step toward true godhood. He was only one threshold away. A bloodline curse or ritual was utterly useless against a being whose timeline was perfectly sealed.
His time was his own.
As long as he didn't give in to the temptation of looking into the future—a temptation that constantly whispered to him from the edges of his own timeline—no one in this universe or any other could ever harm him through temporal manipulation or bloodline magic.
Still…
Andrew being resurrected was one thing. But Andrew managing to escape his angelic captors? That was a plot twist Hawk hadn't seen coming.
Hawk snapped back to the present, his cold gaze locking onto Bruce and Andor.
"So? Did you find him?"
"No."
"The emissaries warned us that Andrew had been converted into a Blood Angel as well. That's why we've been turning over every rock and shaking down every vampire nest in the city," Andor stammered, looking up at Hawk with terror in his eyes. "We were looking for him tonight, but before we could find anything, you..."
Hawk frowned. "And did these 'emissaries' tell you what to do once you found him?"
Bruce shook his head.
"No. They just ordered us to keep eyes on him and secure the perimeter. They said they would be arriving in New York shortly, because the Lord's descent was imminent."
"Heh. Isn't that exactly what they told you twenty years ago?"
Hawk scoffed, a look of pure disdain on his face.
If he remembered correctly, that was the exact same pitch those winged con artists had used to rope these two idiots in two decades ago. 'The Lord is coming.'
And the result?
Twenty years had passed.
And the so-called 'Lord' was still just 'about to arrive.'
No, wait!
Their 'Lord' actually had descended recently. Just a few months ago. And the second that giant, glowing eyeball had popped into his universe, Hawk had effortlessly sliced it to pieces without a second thought.
Hawk's mind raced as he processed the intel. He looked down at Bruce and Andor, who had outlived their usefulness.
He pondered for a moment.
With a mere thought.
Instantly.
The two battered souls were yanked from the Prison of Acid Rain and dropped directly onto the massive, grinding wheels of the Stone Mill Prison.
The next second.
Hawk pulled his consciousness back to the mortal realm. He opened his eyes, saw Gwen watching him anxiously, and offered a reassuring smile.
"They were looking for Andrew," he said plainly.
"Hiss!"
Gwen drew in a sharp breath.
"Mr. Chloe is still alive?"
"Yeah."
Hawk nodded. "They stole his body so they could resurrect him. They wanted to turn him into a weapon to use against me."
Gwen's pupils contracted, her face immediately clouding with genuine concern.
"A weapon? Against you?"
"Some kind of bloodline curse, most likely. Bottom-feeder magic," Hawk replied with a dismissive smile, his tone completely casual. "It might have worked before I went to Kamar-Taj and studied time, but now? It's completely useless."
Before he had awakened the Seventh Sense, no matter how physically powerful he was, his fundamental state of existence had still been anchored to the mortal plane.
Superhuman was still, ultimately, human.
But the moment he ignited the Seventh Sense, he underwent a total, qualitative evolution.
To put it simply:
Before, he was a mortal.
Now—
He was a God.
If Mephisto were to meet him today for the very first time, even the Lord of Hell would have to bow his head and formally address him as a 'Chief God.'
Gwen searched his eyes. Seeing the absolute, unshakeable confidence in his gaze, she knew he wasn't just putting on a brave face. He really didn't care. She let out a long sigh of relief.
"Okay. That's good."
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"Home, obviously."
"..."
Gwen blinked at Hawk, who was casually stifling a yawn. "But... we still haven't found Mr. Chloe."
Hawk just smiled.
"Do you know where he is?"
"No."
"Exactly."
Hawk spread his hands in a 'what can you do' gesture. "You don't know. I don't know. And the guys I came here to kill are already dead. So, we're going home. No point hanging around here and making more work for Sharon."
There were still two winged freaks—sorry, 'Blood Angels'—running around out there somewhere.
But it didn't matter.
His policy remained the same.
If they were smart, they'd pull a Baron Strucker and hide in a bunker for the rest of their miserable lives. But the second they popped their heads out, they'd end up exactly like Strucker.
One-shot.
Hawk thought to himself.
Sharon, who had been quietly listening, couldn't help but chuckle at Hawk's 'not making more work' comment. She turned to Gwen with a reassuring smile. "He's right, Gwen. You two head home. I've got the cleanup crew handling this. If we catch wind of Andrew Chloe or these 'emissaries,' you'll be the first to know."
Hearing this, Gwen didn't argue. She nodded in agreement.
And just like that—
Two months passed in the blink of an eye. It was now November of 2015.
Inside Palm Street, the air rippled with a flash of golden light.
Hawk, returning from a quick jaunt to Kamar-Taj, stepped seamlessly out of thin air. He looked at Gwen, who was busy prepping dinner in the kitchen. "Got that special blend of tea you asked for."
Gwen turned around, her eyes lighting up as she saw the ornate tin in his hand.
"I thought the Ancient One was supposed to be retiring and going on a world tour. Why is she still there?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Hawk replied with a shrug.
According to the original timeline of events, the Ancient One should have officially passed the torch and retired by now.
In fact, the last time he'd visited, she'd basically packed her bags.
But…
When he'd dropped in today, he found her sipping tea in the courtyard. When he asked her about it, she just smiled cryptically and said she felt like she 'had a few good years left in her.'
Hawk hadn't pressed the issue. If the Sorcerer Supreme wanted to stick around, that was her business.
Gwen took the tin of tea from him, blinking thoughtfully. "Oh, by the way. Did you use the Time Stone? Did you find out where Mr. Chloe is hiding?"
Hawk shook his head.
The next second.
Just as he opened his mouth to explain.
His phone rang.
Hawk pulled the device from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
Wanda Maximoff!
...
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