Chapter Four
The costume was simple. Close-fitting black pants and long-sleeved tunic, light shoes, thin gloves, and a ski mask. On the front and back of his tunic he had added a blood-red cross, and around his neck was a clerical collar. Working clothes.
He moved through the dark streets of the territory he ministered to in the daylight, now double-cursed by the pitchy blackness of Gotham night. He was hunting, seeking for signs of need, screams like those Angela Lopez might have sounded that night, sounds of someone struggling to get away, like his mother, fifteen years ago.
There. Two furtive shadows in the alley nearby. Waiting. Now they moved, grabbed the unfortunate working woman on her way home from a late job at the factory, holding her against the wall and a knife against her throat as they took her purse (perhaps all her worldly wealth in that small handbag) and laughed between themselves as they slapped her. Mother again. And no Batman now.
With a burning rage of righteous anger that such things could be done by fallen man, he came at the two muggers with fire in his eyes and a heavy steel cross in his hand. The first lunged clumsily with his knife, and it needed only a sharp blow from the crossbearing fist to his wrist and his hand opened, sharp steel lying on the hard ground, and a left fist met his face, feel the nose give way and the teeth loosen, and he dropped like a stone. Without compassion. Without mercy. Justice, and the wrath of the Almighty in his hands.
The second fled, purse still in his hands, and the steel cross flew spinning like a silver lightning bolt to strike against his head, and he sank to the trash-strewn pavement moaning.
The Dark Preacher who called himself John Freeman in the daylight bound the two together with the black nylon rope he had bought at the hardware store that afternoon, and left them for the police to find, with crosses marked on their brows in black chalk. The woman, fainted, was carried home, and the next day she found fifty dollars in her wallet, where only five had been last night. There was a note, which read "How much more so will our Heavenly Father care for you."
***************************
For a week the Dark Preacher made himself into a presence, and John Freeman began sleeping late, mornings. On the eighth night, he realized he wasn't alone.
"This is no city for amateurs, Reverend Freeman." Batman seemed to materialize out of, rather than emerge from, the shadows of the alley. "You're endangering yourself, and you endanger others."
"You can't be everywhere, and neither can your band of merry men. I'm doing my job, looking after the people God entrusted me with."
"You're a preacher, not a warrior."
"Is that so? 'Beat your plowshares into swords, and their pruning hooks into spears.'"
"Joel 3:10. Why you? Why now?"
"Because, Batman, I'm needed. People need to hope, and they can't hope if their lives are shattered every time some two-bit sociopath feels like a rampage. That's why we need you. But you can't save everyone, and the ones who don't have you, don't have anyone. I'm no Batman, but I plan on doing all I can to keep my people safe."
There was nothing but silence and darkness for a space. Then the darkness spoke, in a voice like rocks being crushed. "Be on the roof of the Freisner building. Eleven tomorrow."
The Preacher made no answer. He knew that no one was there to listen by now.
****************
John walked up the stairs and onto the roof at the appointed time, and found himself facing no less than three silent, black-caped figures. Batman, flanked on either side by his cohorts, tossed him something. He caught it, surprised at it's weight. It looked like some kind of bizarre miniature speargun, with various buttons on it's matte-black surface.
"That is a de-acceleration line. Robin will instruct in it's use, among other things."
"Hope you're not afraid of heights," remarked the shortest of the three, a dark-haired youth in a red-green-and-black costume, whose black cape, John saw, had a yellow lining.
"Batgirl will be your sparring partner. She will insure you possess and maintain the nessessary fighting skills." The remaining figure, a woman clad in a black costume patterned after Batman's, nodded at him.
"You will be here every night at this time to recieve instruction. They will eventually allow you to help them patrol this area, once they deem you ready." If it had been anyone but Batman, John could have sworn the ebony ghost before him was smiling. "Eventually, if you become competent, I will permit you to operate independently. Remember: My city, my rules." John could only nod in acceptance.
"Welcome to the family," said a grinning Robin.
The End (Of the beginning.)
The costume was simple. Close-fitting black pants and long-sleeved tunic, light shoes, thin gloves, and a ski mask. On the front and back of his tunic he had added a blood-red cross, and around his neck was a clerical collar. Working clothes.
He moved through the dark streets of the territory he ministered to in the daylight, now double-cursed by the pitchy blackness of Gotham night. He was hunting, seeking for signs of need, screams like those Angela Lopez might have sounded that night, sounds of someone struggling to get away, like his mother, fifteen years ago.
There. Two furtive shadows in the alley nearby. Waiting. Now they moved, grabbed the unfortunate working woman on her way home from a late job at the factory, holding her against the wall and a knife against her throat as they took her purse (perhaps all her worldly wealth in that small handbag) and laughed between themselves as they slapped her. Mother again. And no Batman now.
With a burning rage of righteous anger that such things could be done by fallen man, he came at the two muggers with fire in his eyes and a heavy steel cross in his hand. The first lunged clumsily with his knife, and it needed only a sharp blow from the crossbearing fist to his wrist and his hand opened, sharp steel lying on the hard ground, and a left fist met his face, feel the nose give way and the teeth loosen, and he dropped like a stone. Without compassion. Without mercy. Justice, and the wrath of the Almighty in his hands.
The second fled, purse still in his hands, and the steel cross flew spinning like a silver lightning bolt to strike against his head, and he sank to the trash-strewn pavement moaning.
The Dark Preacher who called himself John Freeman in the daylight bound the two together with the black nylon rope he had bought at the hardware store that afternoon, and left them for the police to find, with crosses marked on their brows in black chalk. The woman, fainted, was carried home, and the next day she found fifty dollars in her wallet, where only five had been last night. There was a note, which read "How much more so will our Heavenly Father care for you."
***************************
For a week the Dark Preacher made himself into a presence, and John Freeman began sleeping late, mornings. On the eighth night, he realized he wasn't alone.
"This is no city for amateurs, Reverend Freeman." Batman seemed to materialize out of, rather than emerge from, the shadows of the alley. "You're endangering yourself, and you endanger others."
"You can't be everywhere, and neither can your band of merry men. I'm doing my job, looking after the people God entrusted me with."
"You're a preacher, not a warrior."
"Is that so? 'Beat your plowshares into swords, and their pruning hooks into spears.'"
"Joel 3:10. Why you? Why now?"
"Because, Batman, I'm needed. People need to hope, and they can't hope if their lives are shattered every time some two-bit sociopath feels like a rampage. That's why we need you. But you can't save everyone, and the ones who don't have you, don't have anyone. I'm no Batman, but I plan on doing all I can to keep my people safe."
There was nothing but silence and darkness for a space. Then the darkness spoke, in a voice like rocks being crushed. "Be on the roof of the Freisner building. Eleven tomorrow."
The Preacher made no answer. He knew that no one was there to listen by now.
****************
John walked up the stairs and onto the roof at the appointed time, and found himself facing no less than three silent, black-caped figures. Batman, flanked on either side by his cohorts, tossed him something. He caught it, surprised at it's weight. It looked like some kind of bizarre miniature speargun, with various buttons on it's matte-black surface.
"That is a de-acceleration line. Robin will instruct in it's use, among other things."
"Hope you're not afraid of heights," remarked the shortest of the three, a dark-haired youth in a red-green-and-black costume, whose black cape, John saw, had a yellow lining.
"Batgirl will be your sparring partner. She will insure you possess and maintain the nessessary fighting skills." The remaining figure, a woman clad in a black costume patterned after Batman's, nodded at him.
"You will be here every night at this time to recieve instruction. They will eventually allow you to help them patrol this area, once they deem you ready." If it had been anyone but Batman, John could have sworn the ebony ghost before him was smiling. "Eventually, if you become competent, I will permit you to operate independently. Remember: My city, my rules." John could only nod in acceptance.
"Welcome to the family," said a grinning Robin.
The End (Of the beginning.)
