A/N: Again, apologies for the delay. Just a heads-up, I'll be on another business trip from December 1st to the 8th. I'll try to get chapters out during that time, but please be understanding if there are any delays.
Rowan stirred, consciousness dragging him up through layers of feverish delirium.
The left side of his face pulsed with searing heat while the rest of his body had been colonized by a bone-deep cold that forced him into a fetal curl.
His eyelids reluctantly peeled apart, slowly taking in flickering candlelight dancing across stone and a broad back encased in a gray vest that had clearly seen better days. "Ah, you're finally awake."
"W… Who—"
"I'm Jean-Paul."
"Az-Azrael?"
Speech died in his throat as he fell back, his gaze catching on crosses suspended from the ceiling above.
The sight triggered something deep in his Shade, and suddenly he wasn't in his own head anymore, but spread across the city fighting monsters and saving lives.
All of it blurred together in a mess he could hardly make sense of, until one particular Shade found a blonde woman among the False Facers' captives. Nothing distinguished her from the others. In fact, she was… Average in every conceivable way.
Their encounter should have ended with her freedom and Ichor's departure, except the religious blonde valued her principles over her survival. She'd rather remain a hostage than accept salvation from the 'Devil,' and she made her stance clear by attacking the moment Ichor reached to help her up the ledge, dragging her cross down its face.
The damage, obviously, reflected back to him, otherwise he wouldn't be in this mess and the Shades across Gotham would not be suffering alongside him. "T-Tha-That's the last time I help religious nutjobs."
"The Lord tests His servants in many ways. Through adversity, we are forged into instruments capable of bearing greater burdens."
"Oh, fuck. Not another one." The groan escaped before Rowan could stop it. He hurriedly rolled to the side and immediately jerked back as wetness seeped through his suit and seared his arm.
'Holy water. Of course.'
Rowan dropped back to the stone with a thud, his vision swimming just long enough to register the carved edges and the ceremonial grooves… An altar.
He was lying on a goddamn altar.
'Fuck my life.'
"You need not fear. The Lord brought me to you for a reason, and if He wanted you vanquished, I'd have struck you down where you lay." So the man claimed, but when he smeared wine across Rowan's forehead in the sign of the cross, the liquid searing into his skin nearly as badly as the gash on his face, the only thought Rowan could muster was: 'Get it over with already.'
He'd been cut, stabbed, jabbed, and beaten to a pulp, but never had he felt Death of the Endless this close… Never had Rowan been so depleted that he couldn't even muster rage, much less the will to fight.
"You'll feel better soon. The Lord will absolve you of your sins, just as He absolved us of ours."
Rowan followed the man's gaze to a full tub of what was undoubtedly holy water and sighed. "I'm not Catholic."
"Of course you are. All Demons are Catholic by their very nature, and all Catholics must be baptized."
"What, you gonna tell me I've gotta get circumcized next?"
"… You haven't?"
"That's none of your business." Very slowly, Rowan reached down to cover his crotch while simultaneously checking whether his absent utility belt was still there.
"Looking for this? We never had such fancy toys back in the day." The utility belt swung from the man's fingers, close enough to see but impossibly far from reach. That was it… His Shades were wounded. His body was broken. And now the only thing that might have given him an edge was dangling in the fanatic's hand mockingly. "Well then, let's get this over with, shall we?"
Instinct screamed at him to move, to do literally anything but lay still and take it, yet when he tried to, the wine smeared all over his forehead instantly reacted, pressing him flat until his eyeballs and tongue were the only thing that'd respond.
"Relax. It will be over before you know it."
Suspended over the tub, Rowan grunted through clenched teeth, eyes bloodshot and wild as Jean-Paul's voice took on a ceremonial cadence. "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. May the Lord cleanse you of sin and welcome you into His grace. Surrender to His will, and you will be made whole."
"S-Screw you!"
"Anything else you'd like to add?"
"Your God's an asshole. If I had to choose between Him and a dog, I'd choose the dog." Granted, he'd choose dogs over most people anyway, but that did not make the sentiment any less genuine.
Rowan had expected anger… Glaring, screaming, maybe even a fist to the face for his Blasphemy, but he hadn't anticipated the Templar Knight to simply chuckle.
"Forgive him, Lord, for he knows not what he speaks."
"I-I know perfectly well what I'm saying and meant every word."
"No, you don't." With that said, Jean-Paul started to lower him toward the tub, completely unbothered by the panic in his eyes.
"Let-Let's talk about this! Look, you and I, we both want order restored to Gotham, right? We both want criminals to pay, don't we? We're on the same fucking side here!"
Really, the only difference between them was allegiance. One knelt before the Presence, while the other would sooner die than kneel before anyone. "So why don't you put me down and we can figure somethin' out together?"
"Trust in the Lord's plan."
The fanatic was lowering him into the tub when the door burst open. Objectively, Ted's skin-tight suit complete with cat nose and fake whiskers seemed utterly ridiculous, especially compared to Bruce's, but from where he was dangling over holy water, the old man might as well have had a halo on his head and wings on his back.
"Jean! Put the kid down!"
"Theodore… Rumors have it you'd hung up the gloves."
"Yeah, well, I heard you'd stopped dunking unwilling participants in bathtubs. Guess we're both full of shit."
"The Lord commands that I purify this one."
"The Lord, huh? He fax that to you?" The retired boxer circled the scene, just looking for an opening.
"Who still uses fax?" Barbara muttered from the sideline.
"He speaks to those willing to listen."
"Oh, fuck me…" Rowan groaned.
A fanatic was bad enough.
A schizophrenic could still be medicated.
Put the two into one psycho trained to hear voices since childhood and you got Azrael, the self-proclaimed Archangel of the Order of St. Dumas.
"Even you must realize Gotham's better off with him than without, Jean."
"Which is precisely why God delivered me here."
"God? Or the Order?"
"I already slew most of them."
"That's not an answer."
Staring into the eyes of his once nemesis, the Templar Knight spoke slowly.
"God, for I do only the Lord's bidding." His aged fingers traced the angry, inflamed wound that looked pinker than red. "Do you think he'll be of help to anyone as he is?"
"That's why we're here to begin with."
"You believe a normal doctor will be able to heal him? To heal this?" Jean-Paul gestured at the cross-shaped burns that continued to boil beneath the skin.
"And you can?"
"No, but He can."
Rendered speechless by the sincerity in his voice, Ted could only clench his fists before shifting topics. "Speaking of which… Where's Eddie? What have you done to him?!"
"Rest assured, no harm has befallen the doctor. He's merely asleep in the other room."
"Then you won't mind if I check on him." Ted moved toward the doorway Jean-Paul had indicated, while the Templar Knight shifted his grip on Rowan, angling the boy toward the full tub. Next, he turned to Barbara, who'd been slowly inching toward his blind spot. "Stay still. If my grip slips, the intent behind the Ritual changes. Baptism cleanses. Purification burns. He won't survive the latter."
"S-Stop pretending you're trying to help!" Rowan snarled. "If you were, you'd give me blood, not baptize me in the one substance that can fuck me up permanently!"
"The False Prophet's power grows by the minute. You could beat him, certainly… His Faith is weak, but what about the masses he's turned to his cause? Can you fight an army of Believers? Can you survive thousands praying for your annihilation?"
Again, Azrael brushed the wound on his face. "This won't heal properly. Not even with blood."
"Then ask your God to make it heal."
"I am, but it won't happen while you still rely on the Power of the Unclean… One cannot drink from the cup of the Lord and the cup of the Devil."
Rowan searched his face for signs of deception, only to find none. 'If he'd wanted to kill me...' Couldn't Azrael have done it while he was unconscious? Couldn't he do it now?
"Do you remember the first time you used His power? Do you remember how it healed your burns?"
Rowan went still, recalling the Constantine incident. The rosary. The White Dire that had burned through both him and the possessed Mage, reducing them to charred meat before remaking them whole.
"How do you know about that?" There were only four people who were aware of that incident: Him, the Hedge Mage, Bruce and possibly Alfred.
"The Lord reveals what must be revealed." Jean-Paul lectured. "Your doubt is what prevents Him from healing you now. Surrender to His will, and He will again make you whole."
"Wait." Rowan's started hoarsely, his voice barely audible over his own labored breathing. "What happens if you baptize me?"
"This sacrament shall scour the Demonic Corruption from your flesh, and you will rise as a man once more."
"Will it really?" He had tested his luck on the waitress's car and got nothing but a burn. On the bright side, Rowan now knew he smelled delicious burnt.
"You have permitted the evil to burrow too far. A cross is insufficient. Only the sacrament of baptism can scour you clean."
"Jacques! You cannot actually be considering this!"
Interrupted, they... Well, Azrael turned while angling the boy toward the redhead currently cosplaying as a catgirl in honor of her mentor.
Clear, crystal blue met tired orange before the latter returned to the Knight. Still, Rowan cycled through the pros and cons in his mind once, twice, thrice, then four times for good measure before demanding, "Swear it. Swear on your God that you mean me no harm."
Rowan would never have trusted this method with another Supe, but Azrael was different.
He was a true fanatic! A fanatic who'd already severed his leash and slaughtered his false masters to serve God directly, if his words were true. If anyone would honor such a promise, it was Azrael.
"I swear… In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I swear you will not perish in these waters."
Rowan's eyes closed. "Do it."
"Jacques! Ted, do something!"
"Kid. You sure about this?"
"Ted!"
"It's not up to me, Barb."
"Jacques!"
"It's the only way." Gotham had plenty of weirder-looking Metas running around, sure, but Rowan couldn't exactly build a life looking like Satan's bastard, even if he technically were. Furthermore, the city itself would turn hostile. Every church he passed would feel like walking into a blast furnace.
Every street preacher would be a migraine waiting to happen.
Every cross, prayer, or even a polite 'bless you' would cause him headaches.
That was no way to live.
"But..."
"Barb, you remember pushing to become a vigilante? How I got Ted to train you? I supported you; it's time you return the favor."
"But what if he's lying?"
"I don't think he is." Despite the paralysis, he managed something close to his usual smirk. "But if he is, you two are right here… Beat his ass for me."
Rowan then looked at Azrael, who asked with the same serenity one might use to discuss the weather, "Are you ready?"
"No," Rowan admitted. "But let's do it anyway."
On the sideline, Barbara could only watch as the person who'd introduced her to her mentor was lowered toward the undisturbed tub, inch by excruciating inch.
If he died, wouldn't it be partially her fault? Finally, Barbara Gordon lunged forward, only to be caught around the waist by an arm nearly as thick as her torso. "Ted, let go!" He didn't, of course.
Instead, he lifted her off the ground while she kicked uselessly at the air.
"Listen to me, Barb."
Voice steady even as she thrashed, Ted soothed. "You don't trust Azrael, fine. But trust the kid. Whatever he is, he's trying to do right. That's gotta count for something."
At last, her struggling slowed, then stopped altogether, until the screaming started.
.
.
.
Miles away from No Man's Land, a tiny fishing vessel rocked with each crashing wave as it made its way through the choppy water toward a looming Gotham ahead, where the skyline had been punctured by pillars of smoke that climbed into the gray morning sky. And on this very vessel, two people sat.
The woman shifted on the bench seat, her gaze moving from the burning city to the man piloting the boat. "So... What did you tell the dock worker to get him to lend you this thing?"
"I cut him a check for double what the boat's worth."
He didn't look away from the horizon.
"Perks of being a billionaire."
She lounged back against the bench, tilting her head to study his profile in the dim light. "You know, you're looking more and more attractive by the second, Mr. Wayne."
If the situation weren't so dire, Selina would've crawled over to him right then and there.
The boat reeked of diesel and old fish, sure, but there was the ocean, the apocalyptic skyline painting the horizon, and just the two of them.
What more could a girl ask for?
She doubted he'd refuse under normal circumstance, but with Gotham's situation still unclear, Selina settled for lying back against the bench. The motor continued to rumble until the shores below the destroyed bridge finally came into sight, along with silhouettes clustered around brightly-lit dumpster fire.
"Put on your suit."
"Way ahead of you."
Selina was already pulling the familiar black material from her bag while Bruce rummaged through the captain's storage compartment for binoculars.
"What do you see?"
"Men."
"Bad men?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
Bruce lowered the binoculars, his jaw tight. "At least a dozen. Armed and beating someone."
Humming, Selina pulled the zipper up before adjusting her breasts in the snug leathery material. "Probably refugees trying to find a way out of the city."
"Most likely. You drive, I'll change."
His eyes lingered on Selina for just a moment before he moved to the duffel bag left in the open. The Batsuit lay inside, far from its former pristine condition.
The cape was torn in half, while the underside of the breastplate was gone completely, courtesy of the jagged rocks he'd met on his way down the cliff with Croc.
Like the suit, Bruce knew he shouldn't have survived.
Even Selina had admitted she was horrified when she found him, certain he wouldn't make it.
He supposed he had It to thank for that… At the thought, black tendrils wept from his pores, lashing out to seize the armor plating scattered across the deck. The shadows quietly dragged each piece onto his frame, locking them into place with a series of heavy clicks while the ocean waves churned beneath them. In an instant, the man was buried under the cowl, leaving only the Batman.
"I'm not sure if I prefer you in or out of the Suit."
Her claw dragged silently across the inky weave, only to be snapped up by a gauntleted hand. Selina froze, staring up at his eyes, or where she expected them to be, but there were no white lenses tonight, no opening for his jaw.
The suit had sealed completely, a featureless expanse of black that hid everything but the sharp, unnerving contours of his jaw. "… I dig it."
"Take the cabin,"
He ordered, his voice muffled distorted by the featureless mask. "Keep them busy. I'll clear the hostage."
"Aye, aye, Captain." Selina threw a lazy, mocking salute and sauntered toward the wheel, hips swaying with every intention to distract. She spun on her heel to check if it was working, only to find the deck empty. It was not surprising, but disappointing all the same. "Urgh..."
She let the current drift the vessel in, flattening herself behind the console.
Selina didn't have to wait long before a gruff voice barked over the wind. "Who's there?! Name yourself!" She felt the keel bite into the sand, the sudden lurch signaling they'd made landfall. Flattening herself against the siding, she unhooked her whip while the anticipation of the fight began to prickle at her skin.
"Get out, or we'll shoot!"
"Such hostility," Selina purred, rising from with her hands raised in mock surrender.
The moonlight caught the curves of her suit, freezing the three men on the shore in confused lust. "And here I thought sailors were supposed to be romantic."
"That's Catwoman!" One of them muttered, lowering his rifle. He stepped forward, his eyes raking over her leather suit with a hungry, confident grin while the others fanned out to cut off her escape. They were too busy staring to notice the man they'd been beating vanish from the ground behind them, whisked into the brush by a silhouette that was now clinging effortlessly to the smooth concrete underside of the bridge.
"Well, what wind blew a beauty like you to our shores?"
"Just checking on the real estate," Selina drawled, popping a hip. "You boys wouldn't mind, would you?"
"Sorry, sweetheart. Boss ordered a full lockdown. Nothing in, nothing out."
"Surely you can look the other way?"
"Oh, we can. But you gotta pay the toll first." The thug grinned, hitching his belt with a lewd, suggestive jerk. "It's only fair, right?"
"C'monnn... There are bigger fish to fry."
"Yeah? Well, we're all pretty happy with the catch we got right here." They shared a wet, rasping laugh, closing the circle.
"I was referring to something... Bigger." She breathed, her voice dropping an octave, effectively stealing the air from their lungs. "Scarier..."
"Honey, we are the scary ones."
"And a little more..."
"More what?"
"Bat-shaped?" Selina smiled, pointing a clawed finger straight up.
"Like that'll work!" The leader howled, keeping his rifle trained on her chest.
But the youngest among them couldn't resist the urge.
He flicked his gaze upward, his flashlight beam cutting a cone through the darkness to the smooth concrete arch of the bridge, and there, wedged in the corner where the pillar met the deck, a massive shape clung to the concrete.
"Oh, what the fuc—"