Pairings/Characters (this chapter): The Angel Of Death (Bruce)/Jim (See Author’s Notes)
Genres: AU, Drama
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Warnings: Not sure if warnings are necessary, but it’s quasi-religious imagery.
General Summary: The Angel Of Death is charged with a Quest to save Gotham.
Chapter Summary: Has the Dark Angel found the city’s savior?
Date Of Completion: September 28, 2008
Date Of Posting: February 22, 2009
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC and Warner Brothers do, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 698
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Notes: Yes, this is a Bruce/Jim series, though it will be pretty unusual ;) Bruce-as-The Angel Of Death is a character I created in The Better Angels, a Clark/Bruce story I wrote last year. You need not have read that story to understand this one. And if ever a ‘verse fit…! ;)
As you can see by the chapter (first draft) completion date, I’ve had this one on the back burner for awhile. I finally worked out what I needed to (it was an Eureka! moment) so it’s time to post. :)
The entire series can be found here.
TO FIND AN HONEST MAN
Of the city
Unto the heavens
Day of Reckoning
Was to come,
One honest man
"City Of Darkness"
The Light hurt his eyes, but the whispers hurt his heart more.
Standing before his Lord, surrounded by the shining host, he listened to his charge, his Quest.
“The city of Gotham has fallen into a great Darkness, my son. Corruption and callousness have become the order of the day, the people grown hard and depraved. It has become a sinkhole of sin and decay, and I grow weary of it. It is close to time to wipe the offense that is Gotham off the face of the earth, but I am merciful.
“If you can find even one honest man, my Dark Angel, I will spare Gotham.”
The Angel of Death bowed, hood concealing all, then turned and flew down to Earth, great black wings spread wide.
Gotham was truly what his Lord said: a festering, violent sinkhole of corruption laced with madness.
He flew across the face of the moon, watching the city below. Gotham was draped in Darkness, as if it never saw the sun. The buildings were made of stone and despair, generations of blood and injustice marking them. Gargoyles, the stone depictions of the demons from the underworld, were mounted on nearly every edifice. The wails of the damned drifted upward, innocence on the run.
The Angel of Death touched down on a tarpapered roof, folding his wings. His cape fluttered out behind him, hood showing naught of face.
The smell of blood was strong here. His gloved fingers twitched over the hilt of his ebony Sword, the only splash of color the amethysts encrusting the hilt.
The Darkness enfolded him like an old friend, this alley familiar…? The whispers from those of the Light said he was a Fallen Angel, the favorite of Hell’s Prince.
He did his job well. He had served as Judge, Jury, and Executioner for his Lord, and held no qualms when it came time to use his Sword.
But his Quest this time was to observe and seek, not smite.
There were so many candidates.
He was one with the shadows, observing as the denizens of the city went about their business.
The moneychangers laughed, their ill-gotten gains piled high in heaps of shining coin, their usury bleeding the desperate dry, their great stone monuments to Mammon smug and solid, the poverty-stricken’s noses pressed against the window glass, hungry for freedom from want and worry.
There were the politicians, hands out as they sold their influence for the pleasures of re-decorated offices done in rich and lavish furnishings or a free ride to places where the sun was warm, mouthing empty platitudes as they hoodwinked a wary populace, or the downtrodden simply didn’t care.
There were the CEOs, grinding their workers down as they granted themselves mountains of gold for the price of shower curtains of gold or doghouses of marble while their workers shivered in slovenly hovels, barely scraping by on their meager wages.
There were the purveyors of pills, fleecing the sick and the elderly while greed shone from their eyes.
There were the petty swindlers, robbers, and vandals, preying on the weak.
There were the violent, violating helpless bodies and murdering with blood in their howling voices.
Debauchery, exploitation, rage, and revenge and everything else plopped into a simmering stew of unsavory ingredients.
How was he to find an honest man in this fetid mess?
The Angel of Death bided his time, waiting, watching...
And then, lo, one day, he saw a shining avatar of justice in this benighted city: the Police Commissioner. He shadowed this mortal, observing his drive, his competence, and most of all, his compassion.
Despite his world-weariness, Jim Gordon still cared. Despite the venality of his own officers, he still believed in the work he was doing. Despite the corruption steeped all around him, he was incorruptible.
This might be the honest man who could save Gotham.
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