Minister Donte didn't bother.
The tall, broad-shouldered man delivered his sermon in a booming baritone, spitting his fiery words as if they were slam-poetry stanzas. His gestures were animated, bordering on parody were it not for the conviction in his words.
"Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, old friends and new. Retribution is coming to this city. You saw the actions of one man spark a fire that the false angels of Haven Core couldn't extinguish. I saw something different: a herald. A harbinger of the true judgment that is coming. Repent of your sins and stain the blood of the Lamb on your doorposts because the Avenger is coming. An angel of Death will purge this city clean of wickedness and shine a light on the deeds done in darkness. Amen to the Most Holy."
The churchgoers stood up, applauding and raising their voices. LeBlanc stood as well, joining their applause. He nodded to himself.
It's everywhere. Look at what you started, Vigil. You've changed things. This city will never be the same. For better or worse, you gave these people something they didn't have before.
They're going to kill you for it.
Ⓥ
The Warrens.
The massive complex of over six hundred interconnected buildings took up several city blocks in the Brickland District. Despite it being the notoriously worst place to live in the city, it was still the most densely inhabited, claiming a population of over seventy-thousand in an area of barely over fifteen acres. The district grew vertically to match the increasing numbers, with hastily-constructed hi-rise buildings claiming every inch of space. The residents nicknamed the neighborhood Night City because glimpses of the sun were rare unless you were on the rooftops. And no one went to the rooftops because the syndicates claimed that space.
Until recently.
Vigil left the Stingray cloaked and strode across the rooftops, head swiveling as he checked for activity. He didn't find any, other than a few stragglers who scrambled away at the first glimpse of him. He wasn't surprised. He'd spent months after the riots teaching the Grim Reaper Posse that the rooftops no longer belonged to them. It looked like they finally got the message, at least for the moment.
The rooftops steamed from the heat even at nighttime, creating a haze that shrouded the shapes of water tanks, com antennas, AC units, venting pipes, elevator shafts, rooftop stairwell entrances, and mounds of garbage. The sounds of the city drifted up: yelling, drunken laughter, humming wires, rumbling vehicles and generators, the throbbing sounds of intermingled music. All of it combined into a fusion of sound, the pulsing heartbeat of the city.
He stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the maze of cramped, narrow streets and alleyways that reeked from open gutters, meat markets and restaurants, garbage bins, and hot cables. Condensation beaded on pipes and dripped down, creating a nonstop shower that fell on residents walking below. Some used umbrellas to shield it off; most didn't care. They were already soaked with sweat from the micro-climate of oppressive humidity.
Pyramid-shaped devices hovered around Vigil in interlocking circles. The EMCs distributed digital chaff that interfered with any cameras in the area. Depending on the model, the feed either froze or was reduced to static until he passed. He was a ghost in the system, free to move without being tracked.
Stepping off the ledge, he dropped into the darkness of the city.
The thirty-story fall was a blur of steel, brick, and mortar before his boot thrusters fired, allowing him down to land without injury. Straightening, he glanced around. A homeless man lay on a pile of trash, staring in shock. Vigil gave the man a polite nod before walking out the alley and turning the corner. The area was filthy even for the Warrens, so poor and rundown that most predators avoided it simply because there was nothing worth taking. Most of the residents were homeless squatters, taking up residence in abandoned buildings. The people he was there to see were of a different sort. Refugees driven from the safety of their former home who found shelter where they could, finding safety in numbers and their faith.
He crossed an empty lot, nearly invisible in his black ensemble and hooded cape. A pair of boys stood by a recently repaired building, posted as lookouts for intruders.
They never saw him coming.
"Hello, Mat."
One of the boys yelped and ran off, entering the building and slamming the door behind him. The other froze, looking up at Vigil with wide eyes.
"It's you."
"I told you I'd come back."
Mat swallowed. "Everyone's talking about you. The news. People on the streets. No one ever sees you, though."
"You did."
"Yeah." Mat forced a shaky smile.
"I need to talk to your leaders, Mat."
"The elders?"
"Yes. Can you take me to them?"
Mat nodded.
***
Vigil was impressed by the building's interior. The Remnant had cleaned and painted, repaired drywall and fixed leaks in the ceiling, divided sections into neat and tidy rooms and gathering halls. The people inside were clean and orderly, appearing genuinely kind and supportive of each other. Most of the populace had retired to their rooms for the night, but a few still attended to their tasks, giving Vigil wary looks as he passed by with Mat leading the way.
A group of around a dozen men met them in the hallway, apprehension on their faces. They were all ordinary, with no differentiation from anyone else in the building. Their ages ranged from the late twenties to a man who appeared past ninety, wizened but healthy. He stepped forward.
"Please—release the boy and take us in his place. There's no need to punish anyone else here."
Vigil raised his hands in a non-threatening manner. "I'm not here to hurry anyone, least of all the boy."
Confusion flickered across the elder's face. "You're not a Cleric. I can see that now."
"I don't even know what that is. I just came to talk."
The men all exhaled sighs of relief. The older one nodded. "Talk. Very well. Do you want some tea?"
"No, thank you. I won't be here long."
***
A few minutes later, he sat with the elders in a storage area that had been refurbished as a conference room. The old man sipped tea from a tin mug, steam fogging his spectacles.
"It's not often that we entertain outsiders. Even less so those that come here geared and armed for combat."
"My apologies. It wasn't my intention to offend you."
The elders glanced at one another. The old man leaned forward, taking a long look at Vigil. "What exactly are your intentions? We know who you are, Vigil. If you're looking for criminals, we don't harbor any here."
"I'm not here for that. I just wanted to tell you that the Underbelly is safe now. I took care of the Beasts that were abducting children. You can return there if that's your intention."
The elders conferred among themselves in low voices. The oldest turned to Vigil again. "We are appreciative of your efforts, but we will not be returning to the Deep Hall. There are worse things besides the Beasts that hunt in the tunnels."
"What kinds of things?"
"Predators. Strangers that hide their evil behind civilized masks, smiles on their faces but ravens in their eyes. They dress in silk and satin but can only hold their unholy banquets underground. They wear the skin of men and women, but they are devils, bent on arcane acts and animalistic urges."
"I don't care who or what they are. If they're all that you say, I'll take care of them too."
"I'm curious, Vigil. What you expect to accomplish with this crusade of yours?"
Vigil folded his arms. "Rid the city of predators. Make sure that people like you and yours can go about their business without fear."
"Rid the city?" The elder shook his head. "You believe that you can eradicate wickedness through violence, but it is written that he who lives by the sword will die by the sword. Violence only begets more of the same."
"Maybe so, but what's the alternative—sit still and watch while innocent p
eople suffer?"
"Wait for righteous judgment. Vengeance belongs to God, not imperfect humans."
"Seems like you've been waiting a long time. I think I'll take my chances."
"I know you will. And we can't tell you what to do. But I don't need to be a prophet to know that your noble actions will amount to futility and frustration in the end. Evil is a condition of the heart, an abandonment of spiritual values for bestial appetites and violence. What can your efforts do to change that?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I won't know unless I try. And I made a promise a while back when I saw your people fleeing the violence in the Underbelly. I told myself that I'd do what I could to help. In the end, that's all any of us can do."
The old man nodded. "You have faith, Vigil. That can take you far if placed on the right hope. I pray that you find it. Because I fear that hope is a dying concept, especially in places like this, where reason and intellect are perverted by those who prefer to indulge in heinous acts. But I fear for you."
"No need. I'll be fine."
"Perhaps. But my fear is that in the end, your battle will change you for the worse. I fear the cost will be too great on your soul."
Vigil stood, giving them a respectful nod. "Thanks for your advice. I have to go."
"Of course." The elder smiled sadly. "You have work to do."
Chapter 4: Moneta
Ken Wu strode along the streets of Chinatown in Manhaven, mingling with the thick, sweat-beaded crowds. His long t-shirt was more of a tunic, his loose-fitting trousers secured at the bottoms by cloth wrappings. A messenger bag was slung over his shoulder, with a modified baseball bag secured through the straps. On his way to work as usual. Alert for any kind of threat as usual.
Shadowy flickers of movement from the nearby alley caught his eyes. Slowing his stride, he paused for a better look. Multiple silhouettes. They looked to be dragging someone deeper into the darkness. His jaw tightened.
Stay Vigilant.
Cutting through the crowd, he entered the alley and slipped a domino mask over the top portion of his face. The three men didn't see him, occupied with pinning a struggling young woman to the concrete. Drunken giggles and threats spilled from their lips. Drunk, even in the early hour. They reeked of cheap liquor and sour sweat.
Ken assumed a fighting stance and took a deep breath. "Let her go."
The men looked up, inebriated realization slowly dawning. "Get the hell out, shorty. Not your business."
"I'm making it my business. So walk, or get your wig split."
"Yeah?" The nearest one pulled a knife from his pocket, barely managing not to cut himself in the process. "The hell you think you is?"
Ken reached over his shoulder, extracted the baseball bat, and twisted the knob on the bottom. It emitted an electric whine as the barrel glowed with blue light. He grinned, feeling the adrenaline surge.
"I'm Batty."
With a roar, he rushed them, swinging with athletic proficiency. The sounds of heads cracking and painful shrieks echoed off the building walls.
Ⓥ
Good morning, Neo-Yorkers. You're with Cam Danvers on another NYN Fast Break. Just in: a woman in Chinatown claims she was rescued from a trio of would-be rapists by a masked man wielding some kind of cyber-enhanced baseball bat. What should we call this one? Baseball Boy? Bat-Mandarin? I don't know, I haven't had my coffee yet. The guy should paint his name on walls like Spitfire does. But we do know three drunken men were checked into a nearby hospital with injures that included bruises, broken bones, concussions, and one fractured skull.
We have the pleasure of interviewing the Mayor about the rise of both heat and violence. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule, Mayor Harrington.
Not a problem, Ms. Danvers. Thanks for having me.
It's certainly been a hot few weeks, hasn't it?
In more ways than one. Temperatures and tempers, it seems.
Speaking of, what's your view on the rise of violence right now?
Well, Ms. Danvers, there's historical proof that violent crime tends to rise when the heat does. Not that it's an excuse. But I've spoken with Commissioner Miller, and he assures me the RCE are doing all they can to deal with the problem. It's important for frustrated citizens to realize that these efforts can take some time to coordinate properly. We ask that you continue to be patient and definitely not take the law into your hands, as some have unfortunately been doing.
So, you don't think vigilante activity is a good idea?
It's definitely not. In fact, more people have been injured or killed since such actions have become more popular. Any competent officer can tell you how much training it takes to combat violent offenders and make the split-second decisions that can save a life or, God forbid, take one. For anyone thinking about taking up arms and dealing with crime in your area, I strongly admonish you to reconsider and allow the proper authorities to do their jobs.
Mayor, you campaigned under the slogan A Man of Vision. What's your honest estimate of how well you're implementing that vision right now?
I'm glad you asked that question, Ms. Danvers. The short answer is: not well. Obviously, the skyrocketing crime is not something I'm proud of and flies in the face of promises I made on my campaign. But the long answer is: change takes time. And I promise the voters that the wait will be worth it. My vision for this city is highly ambitious, something not very popular with my colleagues in City Hall at the moment.
Ah, the shoe drops! So, you believe a clash of ideologies threatens your ability to implement your agenda?
Let's just say there are many people with deep pockets who prefer to keep things at the status quo. But rest assured, I strongly believe that we will come to an accord and do what's best for the people. I'm still a man of vision, and if the people are patient for just a little longer, they'll enjoy the benefits.
We'll take you at your word, Mayor. Thanks again for your time.
Thank you, Ms. Danvers.
In other news: your local forecast is in. And if you guessed more blistering heat, you're betting with house money. Wonder why the hellish temperatures have an effect on the rising crime wave? Expert psychoanalyst Wesley Bearden answers that question right after the commercial break.
Ronnie Banks smiled as she exited from her RCE aerodyne into the sweltering heat. The Youth Haven was one of the few places that didn't have a disaster waiting for her to sort through. It was one of the few projects that had gone through without a hitch. The situation with the disgraced Denizens and the damaged children that needed immediate care got the attention of the media and City Hall, allowing for the renovation of an old hospital wing into a safe place for children. From there it only grew, taking on more wings and improving the existing facilities. She was proud of the work that had been accomplished in just a few short months. She enjoyed hearing the laughter of the children, seeing the smiles on their faces.
And she didn't mind seeing Jett either.
She hated to admit it. After swearing off relationships and burying herself in work, she figured she wouldn't have to bother sorting out her feelings until she was too old and cranky to care. But with Jett, things were different. He was different.
It started with his visits to the hospital when she was mending from her injuries. He didn't have to bother, but he did. Dropped by, made her smile with a corny joke or two, then left. It was enough to make a difference, enough to make her think about him afterward. So after healing up, she returned the act by dropping by the YH occasionally. Not often, but enough. She sensed he was fumbling his way along just like she was. Hesitant but sure. Slow but steady.
She paused by the entrance, watching him work with a group of children in the newly-installed basketball court. He towered over them like a mountain of chiseled muscle, but none of the kids were intimidated. They laughed, jumping at the ball he held out of their reach while patiently trying to teach them the game. All the running and shrieking should have been taxing on his patience, but
he was inexhaustible. Arranging them into teams, he finally got them to play a chaotic form of the game, looking on with a satisfied smile.
She walked onto the court, giving him an appraising look. "Gotta say, you have a way with kids."
He turned around, sweat sliding down his square-jawed face, plastering his shirt to his muscular chest. "Hey, Ronnie. Snuck up on me."
"Well, with all the noise, it's no wonder. You have more patience than I do, I think."
"No, I think you'd do great. It's just a matter of putting yourself in their shoes. Not forgetting what it was like to be their age."
"Their age." She looked at the children as they ran back and forth across the court, not seeming to mind the heat that baked the concrete so fiercely that the air rippled. "Seems like a long time ago. Wish I had a place like this when I was growing up. Would have made things a lot easier."
"Yeah, I remember you saying you were an orphan. Pretty rough, I bet."
"Yeah. Pretty rough." She caught his empathetic gaze and quickly changed the subject. "So—why basketball? Wearing them out in the heat so they'll be tired later?"
He laughed. "Not so much. Sports are a good way for them to develop teamwork and sportsman skills. Things that can bleed over to other aspects of their life."
"Oh, really? And here I thought it was all about making heaps of money, fame, and adoring fans."
"Someone's been watching the archives."
"Yeah. That kind of stuff fascinates me. The amount of wealth something like that generated…" She shook her head. "It's mind-boggling to think of. You know—you were there."
"Yeah, but that was different. We just considered it the way of things. Hundreds of billions were spent on entertainment while the education system languished and health care skyrocketed. To say we had our priorities twisted would be an understatement. The age of Imperials changed all of that, though. What was an athlete compared to a superhuman? The entire spectrum of celebrity culture transformed."
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