Who: Rorschach, a priest, and a little girl What: 1 John 4:8 Where: A small Catholic Church When: Maybe thirty minutes after they leave the National Guard Warnings: A cutesy nickname and anger management issues
“Rorschach out. On standby.” The priest was walking past, dressed in plainclothes. Though he dressed like any frugal man, his posture gave him away. He carried himself with a grace that few could reproduce, steps light and gentle as if he were sparing the earth his weight. In comparison, Rorschach was an oaf, thick fingers scratching in vain at the controls of his communicator. “Father,” he said softly, following him just as he felt the switch of his communicator flip. The other man hesitated, turning on a pivot. “Talk?”
The priest smiled, reaching up to adjust the thin glasses perched on his narrow nose. “Of course.” He glanced down at a wooden box in his hands, shaking it. Something rattled inside, and suddenly the children from the facility came running. “Just one moment.” The priest was swarmed, little hands opening and closing with excitement as bright smiles followed him like a heavy cloud. He lead them into a small room, flipping on the light. Rorschach could see their shadows cast into the hallway as the older man bent down, placing the box on a table. The lid was taken off, and its contents consumed in seconds.
As the other man left the room, the sound of fluttering paper and scrawling crayons followed him. “Crayons. It’s late but…in my experience, letting children express themselves is the best path to healing.” His smile was kindly, teasing crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Come. We can sit in my office.” The church was very small, so it was just a few steps to the aforementioned office. The door swung open and immediately brushed the nearest wall, giving them a short space to slip through. The room itself was a neat rectangle, containing a simple desk and several chairs. There was more space to sit than stand, which seemed to suit the priest well. “Please. Sit.”
Closing the door behind them, Rorschach settled in a wooden chair, dropping his hands in his lap. He glanced about the room, immediately finding any points of exit out of habit – the door and two windows. The windows were small, but he imagined that if he had to, he could squeeze both shoulders through. Pulling at the sash of his trench coat, he looked everywhere but at the other man, body as still as a stone save for his slowly moving head.
“I must say that I’m curious,” the priest said, breaking the silence. “Why you chose a church of all places to bring these people.”
Tensing, Rorschach glanced to him, white head tilted to the side. “Told find safe place,” he said matter-of-factly. “Church safe place.”
“That it is,” he said with a smile, lacing his fingers in his lap. “I’ll call one of my parishioners in the morning and ask if she can bring some breakfast over.” He hesitated. “Should I tell her ten mouths or eleven?”
“Ten,” he said without hesitation. “Leaving soon.”
The priest looked away, gaze on the window. “Of course,” he said softly. After a terse silence, the priest looked to him, raising his voice just slightly. “Why did you ask to speak with me, Rorschach?”
Hearing a man of God say his name was strangely uncomfortable. That wasn’t right. It should feel good, it should reinforce that he was doing what he was supposed to do. If a priest couldn’t remind him that he was on the right path, then where was he? “Had question,” he finally said. “Serious question. Honest answers.”
Though he wasn’t looking at the priest, he could hear the calm in his voice. That was enough. “Of course.”
“Good,” he grunted, straightening up slightly in his chair. “Having strange thoughts. Strange days. See…strange things.” Dragging a hand from his forehead to his chin, he sighed. “God shows things.”
The priest hesitated, voice careful. “God…shows you things? What kinds of things?”
Rorschach shrugged. “Many things. Blood drops. People. Materials. Guides way, bathes in light.” He extended a hand, fingers curled midair, and he just tried to focus on the brilliant gold that had spread over Corbinian’s skin. It was inhuman, ethereal, just like the glow of the needles and just like the glow of those people. He could still feel them, in the back of his mind, humming with holy light. But why? Why only after finding them were they shown to him? It raised more questions than answers.
“You see things bathed in light, and…God is showing them to you?”
“Just said,” he grunted, glancing to him. “Can show.” He dug into his pocket, pulling out one of the papers held by the victims. “127” was still written on it, but it was glowing a fierce gold – he could barely make it out. “How look?”
The priest squinted, looking at the paper carefully. “It’s a piece of paper.”
“No,” Rorschach said, shaking his head. “Light. God saying something.” He paused, tucking the paper back in his pocket. “Don’t believe.”
With a sigh, the priest shook his head. “I’m not saying that I don’t believe you. But why would God show you this? What could it mean?”
Rorschach shrugged. “Doing God’s work. Helping.”
The priest paused. “What do you mean? Your…vigilante work, that is God’s work?”
He nodded, reaching back to pull his dark hood up over his white head. “Eliminate evil. Do good. God shows, give clues, give guidance. Sometimes evidence. Sometimes people.”
The priest’s lips were pressed into a thin, straight line. “God sends messages to His people in many ways, but…rarely does He speak directly to people.” He paused, looking at Rorschach critically. “Why do you think your work is what God wants?”
“Eliminate evil,” he said. “Punish criminals.”
“So you think that God wants the guilty to be punished.”
Tense, Rorschach knotted his fingers together. “Punish guilty. Preserve innocent.”
The priest leaned forward slightly, eyes wide behind his spectacles. “That isn’t what you said at first, Rorschach.” He hesitated, gaze dropping to his hands, before slowly reaching forward. His right hand rested atop Rorschach’s, fingers gentle. “You started with hate. Hate in God’s name is not what He wants.”
Though Rorschach wanted to pull away, he sat still, gulping. “Not hate. Necessity.”
His smile was sad, light softly by the dim lamp on his desk. “Is that what they call it now?” he asked smoothly.
“Do what’s necessary. Do what’s needed. Do what police can’t. Do what vigilantes won’t.”
“Do you think that maybe they can’t or won’t because…it isn’t right?”
Bolting to his feet, Rorschach didn’t flinch as his chair fell on its side. “Do what’s right!” he barked, no longer controlling his volume. “Follow God’s path, see God’s light!” Arms wild, he clenched his fingers in the air as if he could squeeze it. “Saw memories, left. Saw Corbinian, return. See evidence, collect. Told protect, listen. Take church, protect.”
The priest stayed in his seat, shoulders back. “Rorschach,” he said softly. “You need to calm down.”
“Calm?” he asked, voice on the rise. “Calm? People in danger, Oracle compromised, Bat missing, see clues and no one-”
His tirade was stopped by two hands on his shoulders, gentle like birds. The priest had stood, towering over him, and looked down with a peculiar expression. “First John,” he whispered, giving Rorschach a light shake. “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.” They both stood stock still, staring at one another. “Walk with love, Rorschach. Whatever happened, whatever is wrong, you won’t solve it if you mire yourself in hate.”
Silence followed, a long silence that shook him to the bone. Head dropping, Rorschach stared at the floor, shoulders relaxed. “Love,” he said quietly, the word strange on his tongue. It had a sarcastic tone, almost bitter. But he had said it. “Walk with love.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he pulled back, looking up at the priest. “Thank you, father.”
Lips pursed, the priest watched him right the chair he had tipped over, gaze following him as he moved to the door. As Rorschach laid a hand on the door handle, the other man spoke up. “Do you pray for them?” he asked.
He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “Who,” he said, not asking a question.
“The others you mentioned, ah…Oracle. Bat. Corbinian. Do you pray for them?”
Flinching at the thought, he looked down. “Sometimes.”
The priest smiled, though it was a sad smile. “When my parishioners say that, it’s a kind way of saying “no.” I will pray for them tonight. I hope that you will do the same.”
As he reached for a rosary on his desk, Rorschach turned away from the door, hand extended. “More,” he said, catching the priest’s attention. “Others.” He paused, clenching his jaw beneath his mask. “Sentinel. Robin. Nobody. Nightwing.” After another pause that tightened his chest, he exhaled through clenched teeth. “Cipher.”
The priest picked up his rosary, twisting the cord around his thin fingers. “Colorful names your friends have.”
Rorschach paused, giving a slight shrug. “Colorful people. Good night, father.” The door closed softly behind him, plunging him into the darkness of the small church. He could see the glow of the activity room where the children still played, all giggles and rustling papers. He moved as quietly as he could, walking to the exit when the pitter-patter of feet and a shriek of sound caught his attention.
“Inky! Inky wait!” He stopped dead, turning in surprise. Who was Inky? The little girl ran towards him, holding a piece of paper at her side. Her hair was a mess, fingers covered in smudges of color, though the smile on her face seemed to cancel all that. “I drew you something.” She held up the piece of paper, smiling proudly. “Of you and your friend. And me. See?”
They were little more than stick figures, fleshed out by blobs of color. Three people stood in a line, two tall and one short. A small girl with sticks for hair and a red smile on her pink face stood between two men in masks, holding their hands. Even though each man had a mask instead of a face, each had a red smile. Rorschach stared at the picture a moment, gaze dropping to the scrawled signature on the bottom – Ashley, written in green. “Ashley,” he said quietly, taking the picture from her and looking down. “Thank you.”
With a small squeal of delight, she clapped her hands together. “Make sure your friend sees it too!”
He hesitated. “I will.” Before he could move, she had thrown herself against his legs, holding them tightly.
“Thank you, Inky. I’ll never forget you.” Frozen, he reached down to pat her head awkwardly. As he stood there, little Ashley curled around his legs, he began to wonder if this was what it meant. If praying for souls and punishing the guilty wasn’t the entire equation. Pressing his lips together thinly, he folded the picture and slipped it carefully into his pocket.
He gently detached the girl from his shins, both hands on her shoulders. “Stay safe,” he said quietly, giving her a pat on the shoulder. “Protect family.” She nodded, still smiling. At a loss for anything more to say, he stood, clearing his throat. “Good bye.”
“Bye Inky!” He flinched slightly at the name but kept walking, reaching the door of the church and resting his hand on the handle. Once again, he began to think, the picture burning a hole in his pocket. With a shake of his head, he pushed the door open, stepping out into the world. Perhaps love in God’s name was what He wanted. But there was something to be said for the efficiency of hate.