A/N
Hey everyone! For the first time in a long time I had a story idea for the Division! This particular one concerns an original character, but I think it has some interesting themes.
I should preface this by saying that I'm not very religious and most of my knowledge comes from my Catholic upbringing. The original character in question is Protestant, so I may flip-flop around a bit when it comes to religious titles and terms.
I was inspired by Pastor Jerome Jeffries from Far Cry 5, but I didn't want to just copy his entire character. In the original version of the story I was more inspired by Joshua Graham from New Vegas, but all the Old Testament rambling was a little too dark.
Nevertheless, here we go...
In Sheep's Clothing…
Perhaps some time ago the small church in Brooklyn could have been considered a peaceful place. Times were simpler then and the streets less tumultuous, but there was no sense dwelling on the past with rose-tinted goggles.
Pastor William Finnegan sighed to himself as he took a seat in one of the old pews, rubbing his calloused hands together. One of these hands broke free and moved up towards the aged old pastor's face, feeling the wrinkles around his mouth and the few days growth of iron-grey stubble. The hand crawled higher- high enough to slightly adjust his square framed glasses.
His dress shoe clad feet rubbed against the ground, scattering some stray leaflets and broken glass. The beautiful stained glass windows that once decorated his parish had been shattered into millions of pieces, the rioters certainly had been thorough.
Although it was undignified, Pastor Finnegan ducked into the backroom as they ransacked the place of worship. He hadn't been in the mood for confrontation, or to catch a baseball bat to the face.
How had this happened?
Brooklyn had never been perfect… but the place was in a state of bedlam now and far more violent than it used to be. Quarantine restrictions had been strict and unwavering and it seemed as if the local populace had had enough in recent weeks.
To boil it down into simpler terms… the city had been creeping towards an edge for some time. The metropolis had turned into a hornet's nest that was buzzing with malevolence; the very recent containment failure in downtown Manhattan had been the swift kick the nest had needed…
The pastor's dark blue eyes turned to once again register the damage that had been done to his church. Overturned pews, ransacked donation boxes, the incense burner shattered, entire swathes of artifacts brazenly stolen or smashed, even the Tabernacle hadn't been spared… the lockbox had been forcibly torn open and tossed onto the floor.
There was one thing that the rioters were really after though. The entire supply brought in by the most recent food drive was completely missing, not even a single can was left where it was.
If they were just coming for the food then the Pastor would have forgiven it, they were simply scared and desperate people. But ransacking the building in addition to the thieving? He just couldn't understand the motivation behind it…
But everything in the church was just a thing, they had no more material value than he was willing to apply to it. Pastor Finnegan's blue eyes flicked down to the place beside him in the pew, where a small Bible sat untouched.
A knock at the door of the church broke the aged pastor out of his musings. The sounds were rhythmic, loud and constant… almost desperate in a way.
The pastor smoothed back his neatly cropped head of grey hair and adjusted his dog collar. He stood up and strolled to the heavy wood doors of the church, moving with the speed and agility of a man far younger than he actually was.
"Pastor!" Cried a familiar voice from behind the wooden door. "Let us in! Please!"
The old pastor narrowed his eyes and gripped the iron rung of the door. He cracked it open and peered through the opening, spying the wild eyes of a person he was familiar with.
"Pastor!" Cried Shawn Miller, his dark eyes wild. "It's me! I have my family, you must let us in!"
"Shawn?" The pastor raised an eyebrow. The Miller family had been regulars in his congregation for years and ran a nearby butcher shop; they were one of the many local families he was familiar with. "Are you alright?"
"Please Pastor!" Shawn pleaded. "They were right behind us! We have nowhere else to hide!"
Pastor Finnegan frowned and nodded, undoing the chain on the door and swinging it open to allow the newcomers entry. Shawn Miller surged inside with a quick "thank you", tugging along his oldest daughter by her wrist. His wife Amoya filed in right after him, balancing her toddler in one arm and her backpack in the other.
"Thank you!" Amoya called out to the pastor as she passed. Pastor Finnegan offered the darker skinned woman a quiet smile and promptly closed the door behind them, ensuring that the locks were in place.
"Come…" Pastor Finnegan held up his hand, leading the young family down the central aisle of the ransacked holy site.
"Pastor," Shawn breathed as he observed the wreckage. "What happened?"
"Unfortunately, it seems as if the local youths have become desperate in recent times," Pastor William adjusted his square glasses again. "They came for the supplies in the food drive… but took it upon themselves to ransack the parish."
"I'm so sorry, pastor," Amoya quivered, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears as she bounced her whimpering toddler on her knee. "It's like everyone's gone mad the last few days…"
"They destroyed the shop," Shawn breathed out, his voice also raw with emotion. "Ten years of honest work lost to a molotov cocktail… we had to flee our home with nothing but the clothes on our back and whatever supplies we could take."
"They were animals!" Amoya added, now fully sobbing. "Why would they do this?"
Pastor William sighed, turning his eyes down to his feet for a moment. "We must remember that we live in uncertain times… and that the people who did this are just as scared as you. Some react to adversity with strength, others resort to cowardice in their own self-interest… do not hate them."
"I know pastor," Shawn Miller squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. He gently pet the head of his oldest daughter, the ten year old girl clinging to her father as if her life depended on it.
Several more knocks at the door interrupted the discourse. The sounds were harsher and louder and spelled trouble.
"Oh no," Amoya Miller whispered, clenching her youngest daughter tightly to her. "They followed us!"
"Why!" Shawn hissed. "What more can they take!"
"I put water and food in the bag," Amoya heatedly explained, shifting the backpack on her shoulder. "That's what they're here for!"
"COME OUT! WE KNOW YOU'RE HIDING IN THERE!" Roared a voice from behind the heavy wooden doors. Pastor William watched as the young family cringed in fear.
"Go!" William spoke heatedly, pointing his finger to the rooms behind the altar. "Hide in the back and stay hidden!"
"What about you, pastor!?" Amoya pleaded. "Wh-"
"EITHER OPEN THE DOOR OR WE'LL BUST IN! EITHER WAY WERE GETTING IN HERE!"
William clenched his jaw hard enough to grind his teeth to dust. "Hide in the backrooms and I will hopefully talk some sense into them. Do not come out… you must protect the children."
"Father-" Shawn began, but he was silenced by a raised hand.
"You must think of the needs of your children!" Pastor William quietly pleaded, the harsh knocking and slamming at the door getting louder and louder. "Please Shawn… do not worry for me…"
"We'll say a prayer!" Amoya interjected, gripping Pastor Williams hand affectionately before pulling her daughters into the back rooms as instructed. Shawn shot a worried look in the aged priests direction but disappeared into the back rooms to protect his family.
"YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR BEFORE WE BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!"
"That will not be necessary," Pastor William hissed under his breath. Several long strides from his long legs closed the gap between him and the door in a matter of seconds. The older man undid the chain lock and pulled the door slightly ajar. "Come in then… let's not be violent…"
The pastor took several cautionary steps back as the heavy doors swung open and three strangers sauntered in. They were dressed in expensive looking clothes, most likely looted from homes or stores. Each man carried some form of weapon, but the stranger in front held an oak wood baseball bat that he twirled around with reckless abandon.
"Good evening gentlemen," the pastor swallowed nervously. "Is there something you need that I can help you with?"
"Something like that…" The lead man spoke, tapping the tip of his bat against an overturned pew. "Tell me father… no ones been here in a while? Hey?"
"I am alone," the pastor held up his hands as he lied. "I do not know what you are seeking, but I assure you it is not here."
"Don't bullshit us!" One of the men in the back snarled. "We saw them come in here! You let them in!"
"I do not know of who you speak-"
"I thought lying was a sin or something!?" The third man piped up, his beady eyes filled with malice. "Why're you lyin' Father?"
Pastor William clenched his jaw. "Gentlemen… please think about what you're doing. There is nothing for you here… leave in peace and let there be no unnecessary violence."
"Unnecessary?" The lead man chuckled, hoisting up his bat to rest it on his shoulder. "Have you been watching the news? Have you been outside lately? We gotta take what we need…"
"You said it yourself," the pastor reasoned. "You must take what you need… you will find nothing of value here…"
"Ah, don't bullshit us!" The lead man grinned. "I know that little family is here… I know they're carrying a backpack full of water bottles. I'm pretty sure my friends and I need some water…"
"I'm parched," added one of the men in the back, his face adorned with a sinister grin.
"Please-"
"Tell you what, Father," the lead man snarled under his breath, his baseball bat once again tapping a nearby pew. "Why don't you move out of the way while we take what we need? I promise I won't bash your skull in… hell, I'll even spare the family if they just hand over the bag."
"You don't want to do this my son," the pastor shook his head. "This is out of desperation… try to think morally…"
"Oh shut the fuck up!" One of the men in the back yelled. "I can't stand you assholes! Always preaching about right and wrong and sticking your nose up in the air!"
Dark blue eyes burrowed into the man who just spoke. "Don't be daft… I'm far from perfect, but it does not take a pastor such as myself to discern right from wrong in this situation. I will not allow you to touch my flock with a violent hand."
"Now, Father," the lead man chuckled, rearing up his bat behind his head. "I gave you a choice… last chance…"
"As did I," Pastor William shook his head and tensed his muscles. "Just leave… I will not allow you to harm my flock."
The lead man surged forwards, his baseball flying in a downwards arc to mash the head of the aged pastor. Pastor William reacted with impressive speed, sidestepping the swing and catching one of the man's arms.
The lead man gulped in shock as Pastor William extended his arm with brute force. The gulp turned into a howl of pure agony when Pastor William surged his brawny fist down on the man's elbow joint, cracking the sensitive flesh and breaking the arm with a crack.
The baseball bat clattered to the floor…
"What the f-" One of the men in back started, but he was too shocked to finish.
"Get him!" The other man roared, and they both surged forwards.
Pastor William Finnegan dropped the weeping lead man onto the floor. In a smooth and practiced motion he reached into the folds of his black blazer and withdrew a freshly polished 1911 handgun.
Two quick gunshots dropped the charging men like sacks of bricks. One of them stumbled back with a face of pure shock and fell against the rear wall of the church. He left a long and grisly smear of blood as he finally slumped over dead.
"Terrible," Pastor Finnegan hissed under his breath. "I'm sorry, Lord…"
"You asshole…" The lead man seethed, still clutching his broken arm. "Who are you?"
"I am Pastor William Finnegan."
"I mean… what?"
"I assume you are quite done?" The pastor chided. "You left me no choice but to take the route of violence, even after I offered you a peaceful alternative."
"My arm… my friends…"
"You have made poor choices my son," the pastor sighed. "Perhaps you may learn from this… now go…"
"I can leave?" The lead man pleaded, his eyes full of tears.
"Yes," the pastor nodded. "But allow me to share this…"
The aged pastor concealed his handgun and then knelt down, forcefully grabbing the man's head. He made direct eye contact, his blue eyes shining with authority. "I do not know what you have done… but God does… do you understand?"
The man nodded fearfully.
"Even you are not past atonement… go now and learn from what has happened here."
The lead man, once filled with swagger and bluster, now fled the church like a frightened animal; he tripped over the body of his friend as he passed, whimpering in fear.
Pastor William stood up, patting his blazer to feel that his handgun was secured snugly. He adjusted his dog collar and spun away to face the altar, finding the fearful eyes of the Miller family.
"Pastor," Shawn whispered, his eyes filled with horror. Amoya seemed no better, her hand clenched over her mouth in pure shock.
"I hope you did not see that in its entirety…" The aged pastor spoke, carefully approaching the young family. "The children?"
"Still in the back…" Shawn whispered. "We heard yelling and…"
"I told you to stay in the room," William frowned. "I did not want you involved…"
"You- you killed them, pastor!" Amoya cried in disbelief.
"A terrible act of evil," William agreed quietly. "But if I had not interfered another act of evil would have transpired. Do not let this weigh on either of your consciousness, this act was committed by my hand alone, not yours."
Pastor Finnegan retrieved his Bible from the pew and gently brushed past the family into the backroom, gently greeting the petrified children of the Miller family. "Follow me…"
The pastor found the correct floorboard and dug his fingers into the seams. With a few quick tugs the boards were torn away and the pastor reached into the hole.
A go-bag was withdrawn, already laden with supplies… followed by a long rifle.
"You four must come with me, I will find a safe place for you," the pastor explained, shrugging on the pack and the rifle. "We cannot stay here…"
"Thank you, Pastor!" Shawn Miller spoke, his voice weighed down with confusion. "I don't understand what's going on…"
"Best not to pry!" The aged pastor chuckled as he adjusted his glasses one more time. In a deft motion he pulled up the sleeve of his blazer; on his wrist sat a metal watch, it's face glowing with concentric orange rings.
In the next few months he would be known as "Agent" rather than "Pastor", his call-sign "Shephard" being rather appropriate for his new line of work. He was known for being a wicked shot with his rifle and an accomplished field medic. Other agents would tell long tales about the shepherd who always carried a Bible with him.
The people Pastor William rescued were his flock, whether they knew it or not. But if it meant protecting the young and innocent, he was perfectly willing to be the wolf.