Angel of the Bat: Times of Heresy

A Fan Fiction by MJTR

[[A few words on continuity-

This is a sequel to my fic, Angel of the Bat. I think this story will be best enjoyed if you read that one first, but I don't think it will be horribly heavy on continuity lockout, so if the 48 chapter length of Angel scares you away, you can just hop on from here if you feel so inclined.

At the same time I am releasing this, I am posting material for a related side project serving as a team up between Angel Cassie and Kamala Khan as Ms. Marvel. You can check out that story, called The Angel and The Mujahid, to get more of your religious fix, if you feel so inclined.]]

...

It began as a standard night on patrol. No clowns with knives, no Napoleonic crime lords, nothing special.

It was just after eleven, a man in his mid-thirties straightening the black leather jacket he was wearing as he stepped out of the radio station he had been working at. His hair was cropped short and chestnut, his eyes hazel. His bumper wore a sticker of his station reading "107.7: WWJD".

Seven minutes into his drive home he hit a piece of shrapnel he hadn't seen in the road. He grit his teeth as the car rumbled against him before he finally brought it to a stop in a fast food parking lot.

"Well, shoot," he muttered, squatting down to look at the damage. "Flat as a board. Ugh." He pulled a cell phone out from his jacket. "Hey? Joanne? You there? Yeah, just hit something in the road and it took out one of my tires. Can you come pick me up? I'm stuck at the BK by Robinson's Park."

As he spoke to his wife, a rotund man wearing a pair of glasses walked out of the restaurant. He approached the car with a sense of wonder as the one on the phone stepped out. "That is a beautiful car," he said.

The man's response was a quick and curt, "Thanks," before he went back to talking to his wife. The larger one laid a hand on the back of the vehicle, admiring its black polish. "Hey? Do you mind?"

"Do you know what they do to make it that metallic color?" He asked with a wide smile coming across his face. "Aluminum flakes. This has to be a metallic midnight."

"I said get away from my car!" the owner shouted, shoving him.

"Eastwood would call this a 502—"

The car's owner got so far as to grab ahold of the stranger by his shirt before a voice shouted, "Enough!" Unsure of where it was coming from, he thrust the man forward, knocking him onto the ground.

Out from the darkness a shape descended, dressed in black and white. The car's owner glared at her as she stood up straight, revealing a height of only five foot five. Her medium-length black hair was push backed to reveal a face covered by a black domino mask. The under-layer of her armor was completely black, though she bore a chest plate, a protective armor on her upper and lower arms and padding above her knees, all of which was white. In the center of her chest plate was the outline of a bat, which was golden and designed to appear as if made of stained glass, a white cross in the center. Slung across her back was a dulled katana. She was the Angel of the Bat, known by her friends and family to be Cassandra Wayne, formerly Cain.

"This thick-headed fool wouldn't leave my car alone," the car's owner said.

Angel recognized him by his voice. "Cameron Gram," she said, helping the struggling, fat man to his feet. "I have heard your show."

"Then you've probably heard I'm not too keen on you people," he said. "I worked hard for this car, I don't need someone trying to damage it."

As Cassandra she had listened to Gram on his radio program for the first few nights after he had started his show. She had hoped a new, religious program would be interesting and perhaps enlightening, but Gram quickly proved his brand of salvation distastefully similar to others she had heard too much of.

"I come to Gotham because it is where I have been called upon! Because it is a city lost in its sin and vice!"

"And if you are offended by my words now, you should fear the force you will beholden to on the day of judgement."

"The problems with Batman are the problems with the rest of America. He is beholden to no one, feels he has no one to fear. That is why he has paralyzed this city with fear and no one is investigating the vile things he has those children doing. Seduction of the innocent, I tell you!"

Angel's attention returned to the man she had helped up. "Alright?"

"I think so," he said, pulling his glasses back on. "I didn't mean anything by it, Angel. I just wanted to get a better look. I just like cars so much. My therapist said I have this neurological disorder—"

"It is alright," she said. "Go home. Rest."

"Think on how you can improve yourself, young man!" Gram said. "Idle hands are the devil's playthings." Angel turned back toward him and he added, "And you should consider who you're here representing, young woman."

"I am representing myself," Angel said.

"You think that cross printed on your chest is all about you then?"

"It is my costume and my faith, I will wear what I like."

"Christianity has enough false prophets mucking its name these days," Gram said. "A violent vigilante is hardly the kind of representation any of us are looking for."

Angel turned from him, drawing her grappling hook from her belt and zipping off onto a nearby office building. Part of her wanted to argue with Gram further, but she knew she had more work to do. And she probably lacked the vocabulary necessary for a proper debate. Maybe if Stephanie had been with her.

Gram's negativity was washed away within the hour. She'd been patrolling atop an apartment building in the slums when there came a momentary cry for help on the ground. A woman, probably in her fifties, was clutching a leash attached to a barking Dalmatian puppy as a young man commanded her to keep quiet through grit teeth. He apparently hadn't considered that a little old woman in a robe just taking her dog out wouldn't be carrying her purse or wallet. Angel descended as he was in the midst of saying, "Listen… you're going to go back inside, open your purse and give me—"

He let out a cry of pain as Angel's feet crashed into his shoulders, knocking him to the ground. His knife landed a few feet away and it didn't take much for Angel to deliver a few well-placed strikes to his chest and legs. The thug couldn't even get back to his feet as Angel set him against the building and put a call into the police from her headset. "Thank you so much," the woman said, clutching her dog close. "I was so terrified."

Angel pulled one of her gloves off and offered her hand to the Dalmatian, who sniffed it briefly before licking it. "You are welcome."

"Can I offer you anything? You must be exhausted from all that you do every night."

"I am fine, but thank you," Angel said, pulling her glove back on. "I will be here, make sure he is handled properly.

"God bless you!"

That one made her smile a little. Angel returned her attention to the injured thug and asked, "Should I call a hospital?"

"I can't feel anything!" he shouted. "Did you paralyze me?!"

"Pressure points. Nothing permanent."

"And what, you're just waiting here with me?" he asked through gnashing teeth. "Slow night or something?"

"Yes. But that does not matter." She dropped to one knee next to him. "I do not like to hurt people. I do not want to hurt you again."

"Most of us aren't out here for the fun of it," he said, gritting his teeth. "I got laid off last month. If I can't pay my rent, I'm going to be stuck on the streets, and Gotham winters can kill you."

"It is not right that you may lose your protection. But it is not right to steal either."

"The difference is you aren't going to do that pressure point thing to my landlord."

The two remained silent until the police arrived to pick him up, Angel just softly saying, "I will pray for you," before departing back for the rooftops.

An hour passed uneventfully before she sat down atop a closed warehouse and pressed one of the buttons on her headset, shifting it from "work mode" to "personal use", altering the callback number's identity to that of her cell phone. "You have… one, missed call, from Sadie," the computerized voice in her earpiece said. "2:13 AM. Would you like to return?"

Cassandra pressed another button as she leaned back. She heard a few rings before the person on the other line answered, "Hey Cassie," with a whisper.

"I saw I missed a call. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. You know, just insomnia, as usual. Guess it's the same for you?"

"Yes," Cassandra said. She'd lied to Sadie about having insomnia for nearly as long as they'd been dating.

"I've been trying to count those pieces of popcorn on the ceiling, but not even boredom can knock me out every night. I've tried just watching whatever the hell they put on TV at this hour, but everything wakes Patrick up. It's a pain."

Patrick was Sadie's second cousin, who she'd been living with for the last year. He was easily frustrated and too pushy for his own good, but he and his wife, Charlene, loved Sadie nonetheless. And thankfully, they liked Cassandra as well.

"Does your dad have you doing anything this weekend?"

"I do not think so."

"Any movies you want to see or anything?"

"I never know what to think. You can pick."

"I'll read some reviews and stuff… I miss you."

"I saw you yesterday."

"I know you did, I was there. I still miss you."

Cassandra sighed but then smiled. "I miss you too."

"I'm going to get back to counting popcorn on the ceiling, I didn't mean to wake you up or anything."

"You should try praying," Cassandra said. "Some nights it helps me."

"Maybe I will. Or maybe I'll be able to tell you how many kernels I sleep under. I'll let you know which."

"I love you."

"Love you too, Cassie. Get a good night's sleep."

"If only," Cassandra said after ending the transmission. Maybe Bruce would call in the next hour and said he and Damian could handle things moving forward, but she doubted it. She could rest a few minutes longer, there wasn't much going on—

That train of thought was interrupted as she caught sight of a throwing knife just quick enough to jump from her spot as it collided with the rooftop. Her eyes darted in the direction it had come from, barely catching sight on a figure standing a floor up in the parking garage next to the warehouse. The figure stepped into the garage, daring her to come after him.

Angel only needed a few moments to respond, drawing her grapple and gliding into the garage to face her opponent. The building only had lights in the central vestibule that held the elevator, otherwise she couldn't make anything out clearly. A few barely distinguishable cars sat spread across the end furthest from her, but she didn't see any sign of whoever had thrown the knife. Her right hand went for her katana as the rest of her body held a battle stance. All seemed still and silent until she could make out the increasing volume of the figure running at her.

Angel turned in face to feel another blade meet hers. The faint glow given off by the vestibule did only the bare minimum in giving her attacker an identity. His uniform was almost pure black and clung to him tight, likely making it latex. The black ended at his elbows, though his lower arms and hands were covered with white bandages. His face, too, was consumed with the darkness, though some crude stitching line was visible around his mouth. The only bit of his body actually visible were his eyes, which were an unsettling, icy blue.

He jumped backwards and raised his own katana, unlike Angel's, razor sharp.

"Who are you?" Angel asked. The one in black said nothing, just maintaining his stance. "What do you want?" And with that question, rushed at her and took an overhead swing.

Thankfully, his blade wasn't nearly as dark as he was. Thanks to the glint reflecting off of it from the elevator room, Angel could parry his strikes. She didn't take her eyes off the blade once, its sheen guiding each clash and each attempted counter. But whoever the one in black was, he was capable of following her movements as well. None of Angel's attempted counterattacks made any contact, he either locked blades against her or jumped backwards.

Whenever one reached for another throwing knife or batarang, the other mimicked the action, their projectiles clashing in midair between the struggles for any kind of advantage. His reactions, his reflexes, they were all masterful. He was as fast and observant as she was.

Again in a clash of blades, Angel demanded, "Who are you?" and still he said nothing. In the space of a few moments, Angel struck his blade with enough force to knock it from his hands, but the man jumped and kicked hers, causing her to relinquish hers. Every punch and kick that followed only met cement or a blocking forearm. Despite neither landing a single, real hit, both stepped backwards, both exhaling labored, tired breaths. Casting the weariness aside, both rushed at one another, the one in black landing a hook into Angel's face at the same time she delivered a kick. Both fell over, the hits having knocked them off balance.

Only when they both returned to their feet was there a shout from the elevator room. "Odmience! To je dosť!"

Standing in the doorway was a tall man, similarly dressed all in black, a few blonde hairs slicked back on his head. He was dressed in a black trench coat, and three scars ran down his left cheek. His accent was unmistakably Russian.

Her oponent made a run for his sword and Angel did the same, but again the man in the elevator shouted, "Odmience!" With some reluctance, the warrior ran to his side as an elevator behind them arrived. "You're as good as they say," he said with a smirk. "But that means so is he."

"Who are you?" Angel demanded again. "And what do you want?"

"I have a score to settle," the man said, stepping backwards into his waiting car. Angel ran at the both of them, grabbing ahold of the sides of the elevator to keep them from escaping. The one she had not fought reached into his coat and produced a handgun. "And if you see your father before I do, tell him Lipov sends his regards." Angel could only take a few steps back before he pulled the trigger, the blast digging into the white and golden symbol on her chest, knocking her onto the ground backwards as they disappeared behind the closing doors.

Angel needed some time to push back afterwards. Her costume was designed to draw fire to the most heavily armored sections, so the bullet wouldn't do any permanent damage, but it still hurt badly and stole most of her remaining energy.

"Angel? Angel!" Batman called through her headset. "You haven't been responding. Is everything alright?"

"Someone is looking for David. And they are making me a part of it."

"No one seeking your father is ever anything good. Are you alright?"

She clutched the damaged symbol. "God was looking out for me tonight."