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A few days later.
Queens. St. Paul's Community Church.
A black Audi A8 glided down the street before pulling to a stop along the curb across from the church.
Hawk engaged the parking brake and peered through the passenger window at the church across the street. He made no move to get out.
Today was Saturday.
Believers from the surrounding neighborhood would gather at St. Paul's on this day, joining Father John in communal prayer.
Deep down, Hawk didn't believe in God.
Especially not after discovering God's complexion didn't quite match his expectations. That had pretty much sealed the deal.
But...
He respected other people's faith. Even if he had no respect for Father John's God, he still respected the ordinary people of this community and what they believed in.
After all, regular folks were innocent.
Still, Hawk had timed his arrival perfectly.
After waiting in the car for a short while, the congregation's group prayer session wrapped up on schedule. Residents began trickling out of the church one by one.
Hawk stepped out of the car.
Some of the older residents who lived nearby spotted him and called out warm greetings.
Hawk smiled and responded in kind.
He'd been a member of St. Paul's choir until he was twelve, after all. He'd appeared at countless baptisms and weddings for people in this neighborhood.
The longtime residents weren't surprised to see him.
Even after turning twelve, Hawk had made it a habit to visit roughly once a month. Sometimes he'd even join the congregation for Sunday service.
Ask why, and he'd say he was grateful for his upbringing here.
Ask again, and the real answer was that he was laying groundwork for future votes.
After exchanging smiles and greetings with the churchgoers filing out, Hawk stepped through the doors. By then, the building had emptied of everyone except its pastor.
From across the nave, he could see Father John—gray-haired, dressed in his priestly vestments—gazing up at the statue of Jesus. A wooden cross rested in his hands as he sat quietly in the front pew.
Hawk walked over and took a seat beside him, as naturally as if he'd done it a thousand times. His gaze drifted to the same statue of Christ.
After a moment.
Father John spoke, his eyes still fixed on the statue, his voice distant and tinged with something like confirmation.
"So... it was our past that created your past."
"Yes."
Hawk leaned back in the pew beside him, a faint smile on his face as he regarded the statue.
"Father John, there's something I've been curious about. Mind helping me understand?"
"...Of course."
"You met the current me twenty years ago. So when you watched me grow up—didn't you ever think about killing me?"
After all, Father John had arrived at this church when Hawk and his sister Anya were only four years old. By then, they'd already left the church for foster care.
But...
It was Father John who'd gotten him the choir gig. Maybe a five or six-year-old's features were hard to place, but what about seven or eight? Eleven or twelve?
Hawk refused to believe that Father John—watching eleven-year-old Hawk—couldn't recognize him as the same person who'd ripped out his wings and stranded him on Earth, forever cut off from Heaven.
The reason Hawk hadn't killed Father John back then was simple. He'd just tossed him in a dumpster and left.
That was his past now.
Even if he'd killed the angel, it would only have created a branching timeline. Nothing would truly change.
But Father John was different...
He was someone who had actually lived through that past. For Father John, there had been both opportunity and capability to kill Hawk.
Because young Hawk—thanks to Father John's recommendation to join the choir—had trusted the priest completely.
Father John heard the question. He pulled his gaze from the statue of Jesus and turned to look at Hawk.
His expression remained exactly as Hawk remembered—benevolent and serene.
"Would it have mattered?"
"Before you grew up, I believed I could guide you into the Lord's embrace."
"And in truth, I succeeded."
"Your faith was devout. More devout than anyone else in the choir."
"Every examination, you scored at the top."
"Every scripture verse, you could recite from memory."
"My mission was to alter your destiny—to let you grow up bathed in the Lord's light."
"The Lord wanted your conversion, and you did convert. I had no reason to kill you."
Father John's voice carried that same gentle, ethereal quality as he spoke. Then he shook his head with a small laugh and shifted direction, turning back toward the statue.
"Do you know how old you were when I realized I hadn't actually changed your destiny?"
"No idea."
"Twelve."
"To be precise—on your and Anya's birthday. The day Anya was rushed to the hospital for her heart condition. When you knelt outside the emergency room, praying with all your heart."
"This is what you said."
"'Almighty Lord, Buddha above, Odin on high, King Zeus of the Gods... please, any of you, show yourselves and save my sister.'"
"That was the moment I knew. Your destiny hadn't changed because of us at all."
"You pushed the Lord to try altering the future through the past. But all we did was create your past."
"..."
As Father John spoke, Hawk's thoughts drifted back to that birthday when he was twelve.
His sister, critically ill.
Him kneeling outside the emergency room, hands clasped, begging every God he could name.
Everyone knew the truth.
His faith in God had always been about the money. He'd figured out early on that once he and his sister turned eighteen, they'd be kicked out of the foster system. He needed to save every penny he could, or they'd end up homeless.
And in America, once you became homeless, your life expectancy entered a countdown.
In short.
Believing in God was about making Father John think his devotion was real. But when his sister's life hung in the balance, his true faith had revealed itself.
Pragmatism. Pure and simple.
And yet...
Hawk's mind turned. He remembered Father John standing beside him outside that emergency room while he prayed. A smile tugged at his lips as he met the priest's gaze.
"If you knew the truth, why didn't you find a way to kill me?"
"You had the chance back then."
"You know how much I trusted you. A glass of juice with something slipped into it—you could have killed me without anyone ever knowing."
But Father John hadn't chosen to kill him.
Father John heard this and nodded with a smile.
"Yes. I could have killed you then."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
"Perhaps..."
Father John met Hawk's gaze. That same benevolent smile remained on his face as he opened his hands, which had been clutching the wooden cross.
Hawk's eyes dropped.
As Father John's palms spread open, wisps of darkness began to manifest. A moment later, a cross formed entirely of shadow materialized in his hands.
But...
It wasn't a cross.
It was an inverted cross.
Hawk's eyebrow rose.
Father John's voice grew distant.
"My faith... wasn't as unshakeable as I'd believed."
"Once an angel loses their wings, they can never return to Heaven."
"And after living among humans for so many years, I'm no longer the angel Apollyon. I'm just... John. A human."
"My divinity has gradually been replaced by humanity. My thoughts and desires are no different from any mortal's now."
"Everyone fears death."
"But I fear it more than most."
"So..."
Father John's right hand traced over the dark inverted cross resting in his left palm—the source of power keeping him alive. Then he looked at Hawk. "Samael helped me."
Samael?
A spark of recognition flashed through Hawk's mind.
"Lucifer?"
"Yes."
Father John nodded. "When Samael left, the Lord lost an archangel. And you... you were meant to be the second Samael the Lord hoped to create."
Hawk frowned slightly.
"Is Lucifer in this universe too?"
"No."
Father John shook his head. "But Samael's power shares the same origin as Heaven's. That's why I was able to borrow enough of his strength to survive until now. However... it's time for me to go."
Hawk laughed softly, looking at the priest. "I haven't decided whether I'm going to kill you yet, Father John."
Father John shook his head.
"Even if you don't kill me, I still have to leave."
"Where to?"
"To Samael."
A trace of wry amusement crossed Father John's face. "Samael said he wants to take a vacation for a while. He asked me to manage Hell in his absence. I agreed. But I knew you'd come looking for me eventually, so Samael and I made an arrangement—once you found me, I'd go to him."
Hawk's thoughts churned.
Lucifer.
A vacation?
Where would he vacation—Los Angeles? And instead of running Hell properly, he'd partner up with some female detective to solve crimes?
Wait a minute—
That was DC Universe stuff.
Hawk processed this internally, then refocused on Father John, who had risen from his seat.
Whoosh.
Four wings unfurled from Father John's back.
But they were black.
Pitch black.
Father John's expression remained warm and benevolent as he faced Hawk.
"You can choose to kill me now. Or you can let me go."
"Heh."
Hawk studied the priest before him. After a moment's thought, he shook his head with a smile. "When I was twelve, you didn't kill me. Now, I won't kill you either."
As he spoke, Hawk rose from his seat as well. Hands in his pockets, he regarded Father John—whose kind expression made him look more like Yahweh—and let a small smile cross his face.
"Safe travels, Father."
"Thank you."
Hearing Hawk's farewell, something in Father John's expression seemed to release. He murmured his thanks, then slowly closed his eyes.
The next instant.
Black flames engulfed his entire form. In the span of a heartbeat, Father John—wreathed in dark fire—twisted into a single black point, then vanished from Hawk's sight with a soft whoosh.
Once the dark point disappeared, Father John was gone.
Hawk stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the statue of Jesus.
Just then.
His phone rang.
Sharon.
"Hawk, we've got a lead on Amy Chloe."
"..."
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