Chapter 91 : First Sermon
**Gotham City - The Bowery District **
Cornelius Stirk sat in the narrow alley between a boarded-up pawn shop and an old apartment building, his back against cold brick, watching the evening foot traffic pass by.
The alley smelled of rotting garbage and old urine—the perfume of Gotham's forgotten spaces.
He had nothing. No money in his pockets. No family waiting to welcome him home. No friends from before his institutionalization—they'd all moved on, aged, forgotten the strange boy who'd tried to kill his classmate in high school.
All he had were his clothes, his medication bottle (full of pills he'd never swallow), the GPS monitor around his ankle, and his powers.
His beautiful, terrible powers.
Cornelius closed his eyes and felt outward with his mind, that peculiar sense that had awakened during his first years in Arkham. The doctors had dismissed it as manifestation of his psychosis. But it was so much more than that.
His hypothalamic disorder had rewired his brain in ways the psychiatrists couldn't fully understand. The neurotransmitter deficiencies didn't just create hunger—they created connection. Psychic connection. He could reach into the fear centers of other people's brains and make them see things. Feel things. Believe things.
The mechanism was elegant: his damaged hypothalamus produced unusual electromagnetic patterns that interfaced with others' neural activity, specifically targeting the amygdala—the brain's fear center.
Once connected, he could inject hallucinations directly into their perception. Make them see him as anyone they trusted. Make them see their worst nightmares made flesh.
Cornelius pulled out the newspaper clipping, now worn soft from repeated handling. The editorial about the Architect's philosophy. He read it again, his gray eyes moving across familiar words that his fractured mind continued to reinterpret:
*"The Architect doesn't kill indiscriminately... He is a scalpel, removing only the cancers that our society refuses to excise."*
"Yes," Cornelius whispered to himself. "A scalpel. Precise. Purposeful."
His fingers traced the words as his internal monologue spiraled:
The Architect feeds on the guilty. He consumes them—absorbs their memories, their biomass and their very essence. That's what certain leaked articles implied when they described how he learned everything about Torrino's organization.
And when he's done, the guilty are gone. Removed. The cancer excised.
I feed too. I need to feed. My hypothalamus demands it.
So if the Architect can feed righteously, so can I.
Cornelius's breathing quickened slightly as the logic—twisted and wrong but perfectly sensible to his broken mind—solidified:
The Architect feeds on the obviously guilty. The rapists. The murderers. The monsters. He's taught Gotham that predators can also be prey.
But fear itself is a predator. Fear spreads. Infects. Destroys.
Those who create fear in others—even small fears, even everyday fears—they're guilty too. They're spreading the disease. Making the world more afraid, more anxious, more broken.
That's a cancer too. A quieter cancer, but still a cancer.
And if the Architect removes obvious cancers, then I can remove the subtle ones. The fear-spreaders. The anxiety-creators. Those who make others feel small and frightened.
His grip tightened on the newspaper.
When I feed on their fear, I'm curing them. Taking away their ability to spread more fear. That's balance. That's justice.
The Architect would understand. He must understand. Why else would his philosophy resonate so deeply with my nature? Why else would reading about his work make everything finally make sense?
I'm not sick. I'm not broken. I'm a tool of balance, just like him.
I just have a different kind of cancer to remove.
Cornelius carefully refolded the clipping and returned it to his pocket, right over his heart. His gray eyes refocused on the street beyond the alley, watching the people pass—each one radiating their own frequencies of anxiety, stress, and fear.
So much fear in this city. So much work to be done.
A flicker of movement caught his attention. A man and a small boy, maybe six or seven years old, walking past the alley's entrance. The child was in full meltdown mode—crying, whining, his small voice rising in pitch with each denied demand.
"I WANT IT! I WANT IT! YOU PROMISED!" The boy's face was red and tears streamed down his cheeks. He pointed frantically back toward a toy store they must have passed. "You said if I was good! You SAID!"
The man—the boy's father, based on their similar features—looked exhausted. His shoulders were slumped and his jaw tight with frustration.
"Tommy, we talked about this. Not today. Maybe next week—"
"NO! NOW! I WANT IT NOW!" Tommy planted his feet on the sidewalk, refusing to move. "I HATE YOU! YOU'RE A LIAR!"
Other pedestrians gave them wide berth, that universal urban instinct to avoid someone else's family drama.
The father's patience snapped. He grabbed Tommy's arm firmly and raised his voice: "ENOUGH! We're going home. NOW. Not another word, Thomas. Not. One. Word."
The boy's face transformed instantly. The red-faced rage crumpled into fear. His eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open in a small 'o' of shock. The tears changed from angry to frightened in a heartbeat.
"I'm sorry," Tommy whispered, his voice suddenly small and meek. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'll be good. I promise I'll be good."
The father's expression immediately softened with guilt flashing across his features. "It's okay, buddy. Just... let's go home, alright? We'll talk about it later."
Tommy nodded rapidly, obediently taking his father's hand. They continued down the street. The child was now silent and compliant, practically pressed against his father's leg.
A normal scene. A tired parent reaching his limit. A misbehaving child learning boundaries. The kind of minor conflict that played out thousands of times a day across the city.
But Cornelius Stirk's broken mind saw something else entirely.
His eyes tracked the pair as they walked away, and his thoughts spiraled:
The child was expressing himself. Being loud, yes, but he was also being honest.
And the father crushed that. He used his big size, his authority, his power to make the child afraid.
Did you see the fear in that boy's eyes? Real fear. Primal fear of the one person who should make him feel safe.
The logic chain built itself, each link perfectly reasonable to Stirk's fractured reasoning:
That fear doesn't just disappear. It stays. What if it burrows into the child's brain? It will change how he thinks, how he responds and who he becomes.
That boy will remember this. He will remember that expressing himself leads to fear. That authority figures are to be feared. That the world is a frightening place where you must be small and quiet to be safe.
He'll grow up afraid. Anxious. And he'll pass that fear to his own children someday.
The father just infected his son with fear. Deliberately.
That's guilt. That's a crime. A crime against the balance.
Cornelius's hypothalamus sent hunger signals through his neural pathways. His pupils dilated slightly as he focused on the father and son, now about half a block away.
The father spread fear. The father is guilty. The father deserves to feel fear in same way.
And the boy... the boy needs to be cured of the fear before it takes root. Before it spreads further inside him.
This is what the Architect would do. He'd see the crime. He'd recognize the imbalance. He'd correct it.
He'd feed.
Cornelius stood up slowly.
His gray eyes never left the father and son as they continued down the increasingly empty street, heading toward the older residential district where foot traffic thinned after dark.
"For the Architect," Cornelius whispered to himself.
"For balance. For justice."
He emerged from the alley and began to follow.
His psi-sense reached out, gently probing the edges of both minds. The father's psyche was tired, guilty, worried about money and work and being a good parent. The boy's mind was simpler—still frightened.
Perfect, Cornelius thought. Both already afraid. They are already contributing to the cycle. Both guilty in their own ways.
He maintained a careful distance, not close enough to alarm but close enough to keep them in range of his powers.
The GPS monitor around his ankle felt suddenly insignificant—what did it matter if they tracked him to this location?
He was just taking a walk. Just a free man exploring his city.
The father and son turned down a side street, away from the main commercial area.
The buildings here were much more older and run-down. Fewer people. Fewer witnesses.
Opportunities, Cornelius thought. The city provides opportunities for those willing to see them.
Three blocks later, as the sun fully set, the father and son walked past another narrow alley—this one barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side, leading back to what looked like a small courtyard behind the buildings.
Cornelius smiled. He quickened his pace, timing his approach perfectly.
""Excuse me?" he called out, his voice friendly and warm.
The father turned, instinctively pulling Tommy slightly behind him—that protective parent instinct. But when he looked at Cornelius, his expression relaxed.
Because Cornelius wasn't showing him Cornelius Stirk, gaunt and pale and strange.
Through his psychic projection, the father saw his wife—Millie, Cornelius pulled the name from the surface thoughts—wearing her favorite blue jacket and smiling with that familiar warmth.
"Millie?" the father said, confused. "What are you doing here? I thought you were working late—"
"Change of plans," Cornelius said. "I got off early and thought I'd surprise you guys. Were you heading home?"
Tommy peeked out from behind his father's leg, and Cornelius extended the illusion to him as well. The boy saw his mother, safe and familiar, and his frightened expression melted into relief.
"Mommy!" Tommy said, reaching out.
"Hey, sweetheart," Cornelius said, crouching to the boy's level. "Were you good for Daddy today?"
The father—Michael, Cornelius plucked the name from his thoughts—ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. "We had a little moment outside the toy store. I might have been too harsh—"
"These things happen," Cornelius said soothingly, standing and gesturing down the alley. "Hey, I parked just back here in the courtyard. The street parking was terrible. Come on, let's all go home together."
Michael looked where Cornelius pointed—into the narrow alley leading to the courtyard. "You drove? I thought you were taking the bus from work—"
"Boss let me borrow his car," Cornelius said smoothly. "Lucky break. Come on, I'm in the blue sedan back there."
It was perfectly natural. Perfectly believable. A family reuniting, a mother offering a ride home, everyone moving together into the shadowed space between buildings.
They walked into the alley, Cornelius leading the way while maintaining the illusion. The walls closed in on either side, and the sounds of the street faded behind them.
"I don't see a car," Michael said, confusion creeping into his voice as they reached the empty courtyard.
"Oh, sweetie," Cornelius said, still in Emily's voice, turning to Tommy with a warm smile. "Why don't you go sit on that bench over there for a minute? Mommy and Daddy need to talk about something real quick, okay?"
Tommy looked uncertain, glancing between his mother and his father.
"It's okay, buddy," Michael said still in confusion. "Just wait right there where we can see you."
"Okay," Tommy said quietly, walking over to a weathered bench near the courtyard's far wall, maybe twenty feet away. He sat down, swinging his legs, watching his parents.
The moment the boy was seated and his attention drifted slightly, Cornelius stepped directly behind Michael and wrapped his arms around the man's neck in a chokehold.
"What—" Michael gasped, his hands flying up to claw at the arms around his throat.
Tommy sitting on the bench twenty feet away, saw his mother hugging his father, both of them with their backs partially turned.
Michael thrashed, trying to break free, his face reddening as oxygen was cut off from his brain. His legs kicked, his body twisting, but Cornelius held firm with surprising strength.
"Shhh," Cornelius whispered directly into his ear. "You spread fear, Michael. You infected your son. Now you pay the price."
Michael's struggles weakened. His hands dropped from Cornelius's arms with his fingers twitching. His knees then buckled.
Cornelius held on for another ten seconds, only releasing when he felt that particular limpness when Michael's consciousness faded.
He lowered the unconscious man to the ground carefully, arranging him against the alley wall where Tommy couldn't see clearly from his angle on the bench.
Cornelius straightened, breathing only slightly harder from the exertion. His gray eyes gleamed with satisfaction and hunger.
He looked toward Tommy, still sitting obediently on the bench, and waved a goodbye.
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Advanced chapters on patre*n
DC : Architect of Vengeance
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