WAR: What Is it Good For 7 (Patreon)

St. Jude's Hope was way bigger than most of the churches he’d ever seen in this city, way too big for a church that probably barely had anyone in it.

He’d walked and rode past this place so many times and had always wondered all about it, but honestly… it makes a lot of sense now. 

Really did, considering it was just a whole front for a vampire-hunting committee of the Lord.

Being honest, they’d have to figure out where else to hide their vampire hunting in maybe another ten years. Bludhaven had lost its religion somewhere around the time the last honest politician got voted out, so… it’s not looking good, bruh.

His eyes tracked the Sunday afternoon light as soon as he opened the church doors, weak and gray as every other day in the Blüd, all of it filtered through tall and pristine stained-glass windows that probably cost more than Ma made in six months. 

His sneakers echoed down the center aisle, sound swallowed by empty space that felt bigger than his whole house. Place is huge, but then most Catholic churches were huge. Not paying taxes must really come with a lot of benefits to afford building huge. The air was thick with the smell of old cracked wood from pews that'd probably seen more asses than a proctologist, the smell of Lemon Pledge coming off each one of them Someone's still trying to polish brass on the Titanic.

What a fucking waste of time.

The place was empty as Harry's promises to quit drinking and start working. 

No priests, no nuns, no parishioners, and certainly no three-man vampire-hunting death squad that apparently drove around in a Honda Odyssey. Soccer mom van for monster hunters. Makes perfect sense. 

A strange sense of smallness settled over him as he walked deeper and further in, a dumb kid in an old place built for monks to fight monsters. Are there Catholic monks? He frowned for a second. I feel like there gotta be, right? His frown deepened. Why am I here again? The reasons were so new, so fucked up, they didn't even have names yet. Mostly, I just want to figure out how I can schedule some vampire-hunting lessons.

Kenny found himself pulled out of his stupid thoughts by the sight of a flicker of black cloth near the altar. His brain sparked up as he spotted one of the nuns from last night, the one with hands that looked like she'd been bare-knuckle boxing since Vatican II. The severe-looking sister was polishing a silver candlestick with a rhythm as slow as it was methodical, her movements a quiet focused prayer that had nothing to do with God and everything to do with muscle memory. Bet she could crack skulls with that thing.

She was definitely big enough to crack skulls on her own.

"Hi, uh… I mean…" Kenneth flinched as his voice came out too loud as he walked up, sneakers not as silent as he’d like on stone that’d probably been here since before America figured out the whole slavery deal. “Excuse me, sister?”

She looked up with eyes flat and assessing, not a hint of warmth in that face. 

Which made sense, cause… nun.

"Yes?"

"Is…uh, is Father Keane here… today?" He held back a wince at the stupidest question to leave his mouth in the last few days. He’s a priest. Where else would he be on Sunday?

The old nun — Agatha or Agnes, one of the twins — didn’t answer with a word. Instead, she just tilted her head over to a row of dark heavy wooden booths against the far wall. For real?

He may not have said it out loud but his face said as much as he blinked over where she gestured, just taking in the sight of the confessionals. He may not have been in church since he was a little kid but his mom was Catholic enough for him to know exactly what those were. "He's... in there?" We're doing this Catholic guilt trip thing?

"The Father is always available to the flock,” her voice was flat, hard and brittle, all the qualities of week-old white bread, “no matter how wayward or wild they may be.” Without another word or a look in his direction, she went back to her polishing, the rhythmic squeak of cloth on silver the only sound he heard from her as she continued silently.

Well, ain't you just a ray of fucking sunshine.

Shaking his head, Kenneth made his way slowly over to the confessionals, dark wood looming over him smelling of old guilt and older secrets. This was weirder than magic Cheesy Poofs and an entire other life of ninja powers combined. What's next, gonna have to take communion with actual blood? 

Being completely real, he had no idea how deep this Crosscutter/Morituri shit went and he really didn’t know if any weird rituals were part of it. Actual blood communion? Vampire Ash Wednesday.  Holding back a snort, he pulled back a heavy velvet curtain, fabric musty and thick, and stepped inside.

The small cramped space was basically a coffin standing on its end. Cozy. Kenneth sat on the hard bench, door swinging shut behind him and plunging everything into gloom that smelled like old wood and older sins. He looked at the screen separating him from the other side. A shadow was in there, a shape in the dark that could've been anyone.

Here goes nothing.

"Uh... hi, Father," the words felt clumsy and stupid in his mouth. Real smooth, genius.

A lot chuckle came from the other side of the screen. "I must admit, Kenneth, I was not entirely certain I would see you again."

"Yeah, well," He leaned back against the wood, fingers tapping against his thigh as the rough grain dug into his spine through his windbreaker. "...I didn’t think you’d… remember me, honestly. Now I feel like a jerk."

"And forget the voice to go with those spinning red eyes?" Callum's tone was light but the words were sharp, a pointed reminder that made Kenneth's stomach twist. “I’d be more worried if my mind was on its way out at my age.”

The sixteen-year old gave a shrug that was more hesitant than it was slow, only to remember the priest couldn't see him through the screen. Stupid. "Guess I'm just full of surprises."

"So it would seem," Callum's voice grew more serious, the professor-voice shifting from casual chat to actual lesson. "I assume you are not here for absolution, son. So, tell me. Why did you return? On the Lord's Day at that? Second thoughts about joining our little crusade?"

The question was almost an insult and Ken damn near took it as one. Do I have second thoughts? Fucking right, he did. You’d have to be an idiot or a maniac not to have second thoughts about everything he learned the other day, considering how insane it all was. Even still, the alternative… the only other option was fighting alone in a city of monsters, with a power he couldn't control.

"Obviously… I mean, yes, Father, I do. That is why I'm just here to… y’know, get some training and… because I wish to learn the… sacred art of slaying the damned." The words felt ridiculous, like a line from a B-movie starring Mila Jojovich, but he meant them. 

He had to. 

There was nothing else.

The confessional held only silence for a few seconds, Father Keane completely quiet on the other side of the wall.

Ken blinked. “Fath-”

The small wooden door to his confessional swung open, Ken’s eyes widening as Father Keane stood there, his round glasses catching the dim light, his expression patient and waiting. "Then come with me."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

His sneakers squeaked on cold stone, Kenneth following right behind the father, as they walked behind the main altar. Both of them came to a stop at a heavy oak door, the thing groaning as the father let it go.

A half-second later, Ken nearly froze in place as the path behind the door immediately dipped, the way in front him showing itself to be a narrow winding staircase that spiraled down into the church's underguts.

Great…

Ken could feel the chill on his skin the first few steps they took into the depths, the slight smell of dampness on old stone already replacing the incense and Lemon Pledge he was just getting used to. 

Creaaaaak…

The door behind them slowly shut on its own, Ken’s eye twitching as he realized the only light came from bare caged bulbs set into the stone maybe every twelve steps, their weak yellow glow not doing much against the deep darkness pushing in around them. 

"So," Calm, conversational, and completely out of place, the father’s voice sounded out as they continued down this creepy dungeon-ass stairwell. "Your… metahuman ability. When we last spoke, you mentioned it was a form of summoning, triggered by duress. Have you come to understand it any better since then?"

Kenneth kept his eyes on uneven stone steps, one hand brushing against the cold damp wall to his right for balance. He had no interest in slipping and breaking his neck here, especially when he still hadn’t yet figured out wall-walking. "Not really? Still can't summon things on command. Seems to be a 'please don't let me die' kinda thing." And honestly, I'd rather not test that theory too often. “Been messing around with the crossbow, though.”

"I see." Father Keane nodded, though Kenneth couldn't tell if he was listening or just processing his own thoughts. Probably planning how to turn me into a weapon. The priest paused at a landing, turning to face Kenneth with that thoughtful professor expression on his face. "I was not referring to the crossbow, Kenneth. I was referring to the eyes."

"I'm not… really sure how that fits with the rest of my power," he said, words careful and deliberate. A half-lie, maybe. He knew exactly what they were, but explaining the Sharingan to a priest felt like trying to explain Netflix to an eighty-year old. "I didn't mean to do it, at least."

"I assumed as much," the priest said, smile dry and faint like a forest fire on the horizon. "You caused quite the stir. Half the congregation was convinced you were one of the damned yourself, managing to somehow sneak past the sacramental wards."

Kenneth frowned. Great. Now I'm the scary one. "Yeah, I could tell. One of your nuns almost staked me from behind when you were all leaving."

"Ah, young Sister Lucy," Father Keane nodded slowly, already walking down again. "The girl is a sweetheart. Trigger-happy to a fault, but a sweetheart nonetheless."

Kenneth rolled his eyes. Right. A sweetheart nun ninja. A nunja. 

He hadn't even known she was in the basement with them the whole time until she almost tried to get the jump on him. How many of these people are actually trained killers? "But yeah," he continued, changing the subject before they got too deep into nun assassination attempts, "the eyes are kinda part of the rest of my power. I'm a bit stronger, a bit faster, and I have way better reflexes."

Way better. Like, scary better.

"How much stronger, would you say?"

They were near a thick wooden door at the bottom now, heavy iron bands looking like they belonged on some medieval castle. This place keeps getting weirder. Kenneth shrugged. "I dunno, I can't really tell. A bit?" 

He knew he felt about three times stronger when his chakra was flowing hard but normally… maybe he was about half again as strong and fast?

"Then, we will just have to see," Father Keane said, an almost-excited glint in his eyes behind those round glasses. That look never means anything good. Said look vanished from his sight as the father turned around and pushed the heavy doors open with effort that made his cassock strain across his shoulders.

Kenneth found himself back in the same stone basement from two nights ago. Only this time, the place was packed with about half a dozen men and women, half of them burlier than Kenneth had ever seen outside of WWE and the other half just as mean-looking. Oh. Oh shit. 

Their collective gaze turned to him as he entered, measuring him like a piece of meat.

This is gonna hurt.

"Young Kenneth," Father Keane gently gestured with a single hand to the wannabe wrestlers he was looking at right now. "Meet the more dedicated of our laymembers, the heart and soul of the Crosscutters."

Kenneth blinked as a large man swaggered over, the guy already shirtless and glazed with sweat despite the fact the basement had to be like fifty whole degrees. How the hell is he sweating? More than that, the guy had a five o'clock shadow that was definitely past midnight, and muscles that meant he definitely wasn’t a priest.

"Welcome to hell, meat," the man's voice came out a bear-like growl that made Kenneth's teeth itch. "You can call me the devil."

Kenneth blinked, slowly turning his head to face the priest with one eyebrow raised. Really? We're doing wrestling personas now?

Father Keane looked his way, face a mask of serene academic calm. "Ah, don't worry. He's not really the Devil. This church is far too warded for any demons to enter."

Kenneth blinked again. That... that wasn't even my question.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

I kinda miss the smell of the stairs. 

Say what you will about it, but damp stone and probably moss somewhere was a lot better than the thick animal stink of sweat and effort. Especially when the second came from over-muscled meatheads in love with torture. Kenneth dodged back, eyes going a little bit wider as he spotted the heavy fist cutting through air where his head had just been.

Two hours. Two fucking hours of this shit.

His integration into the Cross Cutters had started not with weapons or holy water, but with pure unadulterated hell. After their little chat about demons not being able to enter the church (which still wasn't his goddamn question), Father Keane had given him some academic-sounding speech about "testing the vessel" and then just... left him. Thanks, Padre. Real supportive.

At the hands of these sadists.

Two hundred pushups, two hundred situps, and absolutely endless laps around this cavernous creepy church basement while two over-muscled lunatics screamed at him as they did their best to keep up behind him. Said I wanted to join, not enlist. I'm not a fucking Marine.

He was already winded, not yet gassed, but being slick with sweat to the point his t-shirt was sticking to his back like saran wrap was not feeling like a fun time.

More than that, he could tell these guys weren't happy just for the fact he was still somehow standing. Surprise, assholes. 

Hell, he was more than a little surprised too. The him of a few days ago could never have done all this without throwing up and passing out. He knew what to thank for that, though. The humming energy in his gut  felt like a deep quiet reservoir feeding his muscles, pushing back against exhaustion in ways that felt like cheating. Which it probably is.

They didn't know that, though. Just saw a skinny kid who refused to break, and it was clearly pissing them off. Good. Stay mad.

Thankfully, they gave up on trying to make him break with a workout pretty quick.

Un-thankfully, they tried to make him break by actually breaking him.

Marcus, the Cross Cutters' tactical lead, was built tall and bulky the way his stepdad could only dream of, and apparently they were both cops too. A human Smokey the Bear, the guy was a wall of tanned skin and scarred angry muscle that looked like it'd been through a meat grinder and came out tougher. The guy’s knuckles were a busted-up landscape of old fights and the rest of him looked like a human riot shield, twice as heavy and three times meaner.

And for the last ten minutes, he'd been hard at work trying to use Kenny’s face like a speed bag.

Marcus moved a lot more smoothly than someone his size should; boxing skills way too brutal to have come from ring training.Heavy bone-jarring punches, each one meant to end the conversation permanently. 

But Kenneth was faster. Way faster than I should be. The chakra made his limbs feel light, reflexes sharp enough to cut glass.

Kenneth was avoiding most of the hits, turning bone-breakers into grazing blows, slipping punches that should've rearranged his entire face. I'm a ghost. A really pissed off ghost. Dancing around Marcus like he was moving through molasses while Kenneth operated at normal speed.

Growing frustration was building in Marcus's hard eyes. Yeah, that's right. Getting tired, old man?

"Stand still, you little shit!" Marcus growled, voice a low smoke-rough rumble that probably scared the hell out of perps back when he was still pretending to be a good cop.

Kenneth just smirked back as he danced back on the cold stone. Flexing on niggas is my ninja way, fuck you. Feet light, heart hammering but not from fear. From pure hype.

"What's the matter, old man? Can't keep up?"

The other man almost froze for a split second as his eyes went hard and cold. A split second later, that melted and the look turned his way could have given him a third degree. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit.

A jab flew right for his jaw, the man not even bothering with a scream as he threw the hit full-force. Ken’s eyes widened as he just barely avoided a blow that would have sent his jaw spinning, only for the cop's other hand to shoot out fast and fierce, drumming his stomach and sending spit flying free from his mouth. 

Ken stumbled back, the first hit he took making it hard for him to focus as his stomach screamed, but Marcus wasn’t done. A blur of fists flew with force, fueled by frustration, each blow designed to put the smart-mouth kid down.

F- Chakra in his gut surged upward, a warm current that rushed past his heart, vision flickering into crystal-clear slow motion.

Kenneth's eyes met the cop's, red Sharingan reflected clear and bright in shaky brown, and his own fists flew out. 1-2-3-4, each and everyone to the chest aimed exactly where Marcus had targeted him. 

Hunter became the hunted as Marcus’s eyes widened, his own momentum used against him as the human mountain hit the mat with a sound like a gunshot echoing off stone walls.

The other Cross Cutters who'd been watching from the sidelines just stared. Holy shit. I just threw a cop. A really big cop. Kenneth stood there, chest heaving, red in his vision slowly receding back to normal. The world snapped back to muted colors that belonged in this basement instead of some fever dream.

He looked at Marcus on the floor, then at his own hands. What the fuck did I just do?

Slow deliberate clapping echoed from the far end of the basement. Great. Here comes the teacher.

Kenneth turned, head feeling light as helium. Father Keane was back, standing at the bottom of stairs with his hands coming together in that measured academic rhythm; a look on his face Kenneth couldn't quite read. Pride? Fear? Planning my funeral?

"...all that," the father’s voice was still the same, a calm curious river in the stunned silence, "and you didn't summon a single thing."

Kenneth blinked, opening his mouth to explain the impossible thing that'd just happened, when sudden cold weight materialized around his neck. The teenager flinched, hand flying to his throat. Now what?

A silver chain stared back from it, the thing made perfectly even his Sharingan unable to see a trace of imperfection in the make of it. Hanging from it and resting against his collarbone, was a pendant shaped like a paper fan. Red crescent moon sitting on white lower piece. The Uchiha clan crest. 

Kenneth looked from the pendant to the priest, holding it up so the weak basement light caught the silver. …huh. I guess flexing is my ninja way.

"I don't know about that."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Eyes Open - 150 NP

First combat application of the Sharingan.

Roll: Pendant – Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them – 300 NP

A pendant with a design of your choice. No matter where it is you will always know the direction and distance of the pendant as well as who is currently in possession of it. 

Nexus Points: 100