"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?
Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.
A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.
Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.
Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.
Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works? And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.
Matthew 7:15-25."
— [HELLBRED] —
Rowan lunged toward the Deacon, only to receive a face full of wind and light that sent him on his back. He rolled up onto his knees, shielding his eyes as the Deacon's staff burst into flames that were way too bright, way too beautiful, and felt way too much like the Faith that had burned him again and again yet still compelled him to kneel like the Demon in him got off on getting hurt.
'You sure God ain't on his side?' The Holy Crusaders roared their offense at the mere suggestion, but Rowan knew that light. Few things burned quite like it did.
'I find your lack of Faith disturbing…'
He wove beside a holy laser that he only dodged because the recoil slowed the Deacon's aim, then rolled, leaped, and booked it toward safety as the roof started bubbling and coming down around them.
Diving behind the AC unit bought him maybe two seconds before the beam began to melt it too.
'Well, excuse me if I'm having doubts when God's literally lending the guy his BFG!'
'… BFG?'
'Short for BIG! FUCKING! GUN!' Thankfully, the 'BIG FUCKING GUN' seemed to need a cooldown, which gave him just enough time to try for another attempt at takedown. Sadly, though the Deacon wasn't a professional fighter your average Gotham thug or a Meta like Croc, Rowan soon learned even a clumsy preacher swinging around a lightsaber could ruin your night pretty quickly.
'This is not the Lord's work.'
Rowan already had about five snarky replies ready to go, but he figured actually taking down the manic preacher was the better use of his time. Still looked like the Lord's work to him, though.
'You're wearing one of the greatest holy artifacts in existence save the nails, the Longinus, Christ's cross and the very rare few artifacts God himself granted humans, and you're not burning, are you?'
Now that was a big fat lie if he'd ever heard one. The Suit of Sorrow wasn't exactly mainstream knowledge for casual fans, but as someone who genuinely appreciated Saint Batman's design, Rowan had already done his homework. The thing was made by the Order's occultists, which made it about as 'holy' as the Crusaders of the past were 'pure,' which was to say: Not at all.
'What you feel is Faith…'
'Is there a fucking difference?!'
He landed several blows to the Deacon's abdomen, face darkening as signs of pain on Blackfire's features faded even quicker than they appeared.
'Indeed there is. The Lord's symbols permit mankind to channel our Faith as shields and swords against the forces of the Infernal. It is Faith itself that weakens thy kind… Faith that thee can be defeated. Faith that the Lord's on your side; Faith which you have none.'
'And let me guess.'
His gaze flicked toward the roaring crowd gathered below.
'That's his energy source?' Backhanding the flaming staff out of the way, Rowan met the fiery spheres with a burst of lightning that knocked both him and Blackfire off the GCPD's roof, not that there was much of one left at this point.
While Rowan scrambled up the crumbling ledge, Blackfire simply rose up with the Light of Providence. "Do you see?! The Lord is with me!"
Rowan pulled a handful of Fear pellets from his belt and eyed the crowd below.
Fear was Faith's biggest enemy the same way Despair gutted Hope.
Dose the crowd with this stuff and the preacher would lose his battery pack real quick. It definitely would not win him any popularity contests with Gotham's citizens, but that ship had sailed a while ago… Then again, did he even have enough fear toxin for the mob below?
Dropping through to the floor beneath, Rowan dove through a glass window as fireballs painted the path behind him orange and thumbed the button connected to his earpiece. "—Imp? Are you guys fighting upstairs?!"
"Heller, I need a favor!" The brief pause lasted for only a second; three, tops before the reformed robber responded. "—What do you need?"
"Tear gas! Get your people to gas the whole crowd out front!"
The audible swallow told Rowan that Heller was baffled by his request, but to his credit, the guy didn't ask questions."—On it!"
Good man.
"Can you not see I'm doing this for Gotham?!" Blackfire roared behind him, floating awkwardly in pursuit. "Have you seen the city this united?! Kneel before me, and your sins will be washed away with the light of the Lord! Kneel, and together we can rid Gotham of all sins!"
'Great.'
Cultists were bad enough, but a cultist who'd drunk his own Kool-Aid?
Those were always the fucking worst.
Rowan glanced at the flickering lights overhead before aiming his wrist at the bulbs. "You can keep your fucking light." The Wisp slithered out from his gauntlet, short-circuiting the whole floor with a burst of lightning while the Mark of Chaos pulsed hotly on his shoulder blade. "I'll stay in the dark."
Since the night started, Rowan had burned through a lot of Demonic Power and managed to save up seven stacks as a result. He had a few Fire Spells he could fall back on, but those were either too destructive or too damaging to himself to use against Faith-powered Spells.
'Guess I'm gambling then!'
[Spectral Shield]
And like that, he was gone, pulled into a literal Ivory Tower where some Wizard was experimenting with his Magic. Mathematical formulas covered the walls, equations Rowan found himself comprehending without much effort and tried his best to memorize even though he knew he'd forget them the moment the vision ended.
Then he walked up the narrow corridor and found a lanky old man furiously scribbling something in a spellbook clutched tight to his chest.
Then the Wizard cast, and a translucent Shield shimmered into existence around him.
Rowan watched as the old man jumped and danced and howled with joy before promptly dropping dead… Heart attack, presumably… And as expected, he found the Coin in his palm again, beckoning like an old friend whose face he couldn't quite remember, and just like the first time, Rowan tossed it... Right next to the fallen Wizard's stiff corpse.
Worst case, he whiffed the flip and had to settle for his current Surge…
Not exactly high stakes.
'Heads.'
But Heads it wasn't, and he was ejected from the vision surrounded by a Shield he really wished he didn't have. Nothing said 'Here I am! Shoot me!' quite like a glowing, obnoxiously purple Spectral Shield in pitch-black darkness, after all.
The good news was the Shield actually could block the Deacon's Fireballs, albeit not perfectly. Better yet, the spherical barrier wasn't so massive that he couldn't squeeze under cover, and the floor had plenty of that to work with. Ducking under a desk, Rowan tossed the Fear pellets beneath Blackfire's feet before tanking several Fireballs that slowly ate through the Shield.
Unlike the Deacon, Rowan had an abundant Power Source to draw from and recast the Spell.
He couldn't have done a better job if he'd invented it himself, but Wizardry was formulaic and rules-driven, unlike the more instinctual Sorcery. No matter how hard he tried, Rowan could not stack [Spectral Shield], only renew the weakening Spell while the Suit of Sorrow took care of the rest.
Gauntlets wreathed in flames, Rowan hammered the preacher, driving him back with each blow. But just as he thought he had the bastard by the neck, blinding golden light sent him flying sideways as the butt of the staff touched the floor.
Blood sprayed from the Deacon's mouth, staining the pristine white of his clerical collar before he retaliated with a wide sweep.
Heat rippled outward, reducing the surrounding cubicles to molten, sticky plastic that pooled beneath their feet.
Fighting to keep his balance, the Deacon growled in frustration. "You and I, we want the same thing, my son! We both want Gotham rid of filth! Why can't you see that?!"
"Because you're not doing this for Gotham. You just want to turn it into your own personal theocracy." Rowan wasn't faring much better, grimacing as he lifted one boot and watched strings of liquefied plastic stretch between the sole and the floor.
"Just between us boys, are you doing this for Gotham?" Blackfire's laugh was as contemptuous as it was bitter. "Cause I've seen you at work, Imp. I've watched you operate, and I saw no hero out there. Just a wounded child lashing out at crime, ineffectually at that. But with the Lord as our guide, me as His voice, and you as His Sword and Shield, we could build the Promised Land right here."
The truth came easily because Rowan had nothing to hide behind. "I'm not doing this for Gotham."
He'd never pretended otherwise, not to himself; not to Gotham; not even to Bruce or Alfted. "But at least I haven't deluded myself into believing otherwise. You have. You have wrapped yourself in scripture and convinced yourself that God's blessing makes everything permissible, even when it spits in the face of everything you claim to preach!"
The Mark of Chaos flared to life across his back as Rowan fired the grappling hook at the opposite wall.
The line went taut and yanked him free of the sticky trap while below, Blackfire started melting the floor into an ever-widening pool, revealing officers who immediately opened fire upon the Deacon.
Outside, the roaring cheers turned into pained shrieks as Heller and his men flooded the courtyard with tear gas. And as the crowd scattered and dispersed, Blackfire's borrowed Power began to wane, but there was still a lot left, enough for him to give chase. "I gave you a choice!" The window exploded outward as they tumbled through, greeted by sunlight creeping over the Eastern horizon.
They hit the roof of the adjacent building hard, tumbling across the structure that housed temporary holding cells for prisoners awaiting transfer to Black Gate or Arkham.
"But I understand now that everything was wasted on you! My words. Your gifts, all of it! You're unworthy!"
"And you are?"
Blackfire's beam collided with crackling electricity, the opposing energies building pressure at the point of contact until they detonated with force enough to hurl both fighters off the roof. This time though, Rowan had secured his grappling hook around the preacher's shoulder, keeping them tethered together.
The grappling hook reeled Rowan in close enough to loop the cable around Blackfire's throat and yank it tight. Even with a melting point of 2000°C, the line couldn't withstand the supernatural flames that erupted from the preacher's skin, the same fire that was melting through portions of the Suit of Sorrow into the flesh underneath.
The grappling cable gave way with a metallic snap, molten pieces dropping feet away where they struggled.
Rowan pivoted mid-struggle, catching Blackfire's arm and threading his legs around it, then wrenched them both down while locking the Deacon's arm between his thighs.
Blackfire's wings flared as he rocketed them both upward, trying to shake Rowan's armbar loose.
They shot fifteen feet into the air before Blackfire cut his flight and let gravity do the work while Rowan fumbled for Batarangs that suddenly felt far too secure. Then not secure enough, as the impact jarred the weapon loose from his usually dead-grip along with all the Batarangs in his belt.
The good news was Blackfire's staff had been ripped from his grip during the fall, its weight carrying it over the roof's edge and out of play.
The bad news? Rowan had bear the brunt of the impact, and for the first time since the night began, he couldn't find the strength to stand.
A weak smile tugged at his lips behind the helmet.
People only ever saw heroes standing tall, saw their determination and iron will.
Few got to see the effort it took to rise between beatdowns, and even fewer got to watch them at their lowest, struggling just to get back on their feet.
Rowan had been part of that majority once, consuming heroism like entertainment.
The struggle had seemed almost exciting when confined to a screen, but there was little glamorous about feeling his ribs crack against gravel and nothing heroic about choking on dust while his body ached all over.
The worst part wasn't even the pain or exhaustion.
It was knowing this cycle would never stop;
That even if he crawled up now, his triumph would be a smidgen compared to the horrors waiting in the wings.
Rowan had been wrestling with the decision for hours, but nothing clarified it quite like Blackfire's boot crushing his throat and the consecrated blade gleaming in the preacher's hand.
'Yeah, I'm done.'
The Crusaders' chanting rose again, filling his ears as his vision flickered between darkness and hazy dawn light.
He blinked, each time taking longer to come back, while his hands scrabbled weakly at Blackfire's leg. "You see this knife? It'll take what is yours and make it mine." The blade caught the sunlight as the preacher raised the ritualistic weapon. "You could've been great, Imp. You could have been a soldier of the Lor—"
A gunshot cracked through the air, jerking Blackfire off him mid-speech.
Through his fading vision, Rowan caught a glimpse of Heller rushing from the stairwell, then of Blackfire collapsed beside him, body spasming while blood and brain leaked from the hole in his skull. 'Should have talked less,' He thought distantly, finding that the absurdity of the situation somewhat detracted from his pain while the morning sun warmed his face.
'It's over.'
He felt hands lifting him, carrying him down the stairs in urgent movements.
Relief washed through him despite the pain at the realization.
'It's finally over.'
Darkness swallowed him whole, peaceful and merciful.
But the relief was short-lived even in unconsciousness as laughter cut through the void, shrill and gleeful and utterly insane. Perhaps it wasn't quite over after all…
— — — — —
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