2014.02.10 - The Long Road to Emmaus Part 1

Midtown Center - St. Patrick's Cathedral

On the outside, one is met with rising twin spires that reach heavenward in echo of cathedrals built in the largest cities of Europe in centuries past. And within, it is an architectural masterpiece in its layout; from the stone vaulting of the roof, the portals, the stained glass... all held in the floorplan of the cross, with the Nave as it's long piece, and the arms are the church's transepts. The Vestibule comes off of Fifth Avenue, and the other entrances are on Fiftieth and Fifty-First Streets.

For the faithful, it is a place of beauty and peace. Upon entering, on either side are the altars to pray to the saints for intercession behind great columns that support the magnificent structure. Each has a familiar name to those that come: St. Anthony, St. Elizabeth, St. John... and the list goes on. Up the center, darkwood bench pews are set facing the high altar; the statue of St. Patrick stands opposite the pulpit, and the crucifix. Behind that are the stairs that lead to the crypts below.

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St. Patrick's Cathedral

Midtown, New York

It's sleeting now, as night has come to the Big Apple. Boots squictch against wet pavement and crunch the bits of salt that prevent the whole damn stairwell heading down to the basement of the church from becoming a mini ice rink.

Inside it is as it is every Wednesday night here. It's youth night.

Children ages 13-18 come every week to enjoy a little food, a little sports, and some sort of moral lesson.

Tonight, Father John and Matt Murdock have come in to lead the proceedings. And for the main event, an old acquaintance, Kwabena Odame, has been asked to lead the talk before the basketball begins.

In all there are probably 15-20 boys, and as they presently devour their dinners, Father John is speaking at the makeshift podium out in front of the cafeteria style tables.

"Boys, as we talked about last week, tonight's topic is about redemption. I know a lot of you have been faced with some very difficult circumstances in your short lives, and I know that some of you have not always made the best decisions. But Christ taught us in his life that there is redemption through him and that we can make the world a better place, and ultimately, be saved. Our God is a loving, forgiving God, and when we're at our lowest it's important to remember that."

The kids are halfway listening to Father John as teenagers are wont to do.

"Please welcome, my friend, Kwabena Odame" But when the kids notice the bald Ghanian who has just been announced to speak, they all start paying attention. Where Father John is a tall, white, balding man with grey hair, Kwabena Odame looks like them. He looks like them if they looked a lot more badass. They clap and the church basement is filled with applause.

It's a bit unclear exactly why Kwabena agreed to do this. Perhaps a bit of penance was due, after what happened in Gemworld. Perhaps he was struggling with the idea of his counterpart being in restraints at the Xavier Institute. Or, perhaps he felt like just doing something that was good for a change. Something good, without politics or moral gray areas involved.

Still, it felt awkward as hell, taking the podium in a church before so many impressionable young minds. Kwabena has fought villains of impossible scale, been to the hearts of Latveria, Genosha, and countless other war zones.

Right now, he's feeling more nervous than he's ever been.

He decidedly grabs the mic and pulls a seat over, plopping down. He wasn't about to stand here and waltz around like some kind of motivational speaker. "You guys want to know some few things about me. Dere's not much to tell. I've been homeless. Been addicted to... you name it. I've beaten peopah, ruined families, and yeah. I'm a murderah. Reason Fathah John asked me to come here? Cause I can tell you how to avoid walking de same line. It's not something any of you want to do, no mattah how tempting it is. So." He eyes the microphone, then decidedly sets it aside, instead opting to speak up. It gives him a bit more strength where he didn't expect to be lacking.

"So. I'm here. Ask me anything."

Father John walks over towards Matt over on the sidebar and begins assisting the lawyer with cleaning up from the dinner. As the talk goes on, kids will get up to put their paper plates, sporks, and napkins in the trash.

For as 'disrespectful' as they might look and seem, deep down these kids from the rough end of town seem to really value St. Patrick's. It's unclear if that's because they have a reverence for the opportunities it's given them: A safe place to shoot hoops, a free meal, a closer relationship with God. Or perhaps they're not quite as uncivilized as the cozy middle class would like to think.

A young Hispanic boy near the front raises his hand as Kwabena puts the floor open to questions. When called on, in a heavy Puerto Rican accent, the boy asks, "How did you first get involved with drugs?"

"Good question," answers Kwabena. "Same as most peopah. I was young, probably your age, and I thought I was invincible." The story goes on, reliving the ugly details of a life in San Diego, where he first landed after leaving Ghana. As the tale goes on, he seems to grow more comfortable with sharing his dirty secrets. However, it's notable that he hasn't mentioned his status as a mutant. Maybe some of them would wonder, given the unnatural nature of his silver eye, glowing as it does in the harsh lighting of the old sanctuary.

Funny thing is, no one seems to mention it. Though he's not here tonight, Vinny Carbese, one of the regulars is a mutant. For some reason no one in this generation, or at least in this room, seems to think that being a mutant is all that big of a deal.

"When you was sellin, did you end up making a lot of bread?" asks another youth. "I mean, was you poor before and then got rich? Nice ride? Girls?"

Kwabena smirks ruefully. "Girls everywhere. Every shape and color. Had all de money in de world. Also had de eyes of every narc, rival dealah and kingpin on me. No sleep. Always wondering when someone was gonna cut you. Always wondering when your bosses might think you're too much of a risk."

"That's when it all dries up. Dey come at you, taking everything. Too many of dem to fight off, so you run. No cars, no money, no girls, and worst of all, no fix. You go down dat road? You think it's all crystal, Franklins and pussy, til you're layin' in a guttah somewhere, and all you need is a get well. A needle and just something to fix it up. But dere's nothing, nothing til you get on some bangah's chain. Fresh meat. It ain't what it seems when you're watching de music videos, and it sure as hell doesn't end up like it does dat first night you get high."

By this point, he's drug the chair off the stage, if only so that he might sit closer to the kids gathered.

One particularly young kid, the son of Russian immigrants, raises his hand, not getting the whole thing. "I mean, if all you're doing is selling drugs, how come people end up dying and there's fights and people come after you? I mean, why doesn't everyone just get along and make money?"

"Wouldn't it be nice?" asks Kwabena, perhaps a bit ironically. "For one thing, de cops want to put a bullet in you. Dere's plenty of 'em out dere who will, just because you're doing what you're doing. Den? Dere's competition. You start slinging green for what, three hundred a week? Den you see dese cats pulling three thousand a day selling coke, and you wondah, how hard can it be?"

He looks right at that kid, looking him right in the eye. "There's always anodah cat trying to best you. He's making three thousand a day, but if he clears you out? He's making six thousand a day."

He smirks and even goes far enough to laugh a bit. "Dey don't put dis stuff in story problems, do dey?"

Matt chuckles as his face turns towards Kwabena just before he takes a seat, "No, I imagine they don't."

For the next hour and a half, students of all the ages ask questions about why Kwabena got into it, his experiences in it, and how he chose to get out of it. By the end, no one really wants to stop, but John knows that the exercise helps the students, both with their aggression and their focus on school the next day.

Eventually, after John thanks Kwabena, and after a thunderous applause, the kids are shuffled off towards the gym, leaving Matt and the guest of honor alone.

"Thanks a lot for doing this, Kwa. I really appreciate it. I can't imagine it's very easy, but I know the kids appreciate it and that they love talking to you."

Matt reaches for his warm outer coat and shrugs it on over his black turtleneck. "And I know Father appreciates it too."

"I left some few details out, you know." Kwabena looks between the two, hesitantly for a moment. "But, if any of dem take my advice? When de time comes? Hopefully they'll end up on de right side."

He eyes the leather jacket. It's got a few fresh holes from a recent encounter in Brooklyn. "Keep a close eye on dem, Fathah. I've been out of de game and clean for almost two years, but my name's still pretty dangerous to throw around." He glances between the priest and Murdock. "If you need someone to keep some few eyes on dem." He lifts a hand, making a phone gesture and placing it against his face.

"Of course," Matt says with a smile as he reaches his cane. "I imagine you left quite a few details out." Father John nods, "We always do keep a close eye on them. I'll be sure that no one mentions you by name, we wouldn't want any undesired attention for these boys. Thank you so much for coming, Kwabena. We really appreciate having you here and what you've done."

There are handshakes all around and as Kwabena and Matt both exit the building, Matt heads north toward Hell's Kitchen and Kwabena heads towards the parking lot behind the church.

It isn't too long after he's left the church when Kwabena produces a pack of smokes. He's got nothing to hide here. One addiction favors another, as it were, but at least this wasn't one that would have destroyed his life.

Plus? He needs that goddamn cigarette.

After lighting up, he casts a look about the grounds. It's ingrained in him by now, to always remain vigilant. Eventually, he tosses a leg over the bike, kicks the stand, and tosses the smoke away before firing the engine.

But a funny thing happens.

The engine simply will not start.

After a few times of kicking and pushing, Kwa will likely take a closer look at his bike. He'll find several important lines: Brake lines, fuel lines, and wires for electric have all been sliced through.

A gentle wind between the spires of the Church and school building makes a whistle and the moon sits very high and bright in the night sky.

Kwabena comes up from the engine with a hard look in his eyes and a mouth drawn into a thinly pressed line. He glances one way to the other without moving his head, and he's barely even breathing.

The only sound one might hear is the silent cocking of a pistol, concealed within his leather jacket.

When Ricky Johnson had asked if he still packed heat? He'd told a little white lie.

Leaving the bike behind, Kwabena makes a beeline for the shadows northward, toward Hell's Kitchen. His boot falls make little noise, though with the mixture of salt and ice about, it's impossible to be completely silent. However, if he was targeted... there's a chance Matt was, as well.

He's half a block away when something crosses his mind. With a sharp breath through the nose, he spins about and looks back toward St. Patricks.

What if Father John...

Neither Matt nor John are in immediate danger, though there's no way for Kwabena to know that.

John is well protected with a two groups of 10 boys playing heated basketball against each other in the gym on each of the two courts.

Matt, well, Matt is nowhere to be found, oddly enough.

But neither were the target. The target is a lot closer to home.

There's a sudden shift in the shadows, and before Kwabena can even move, he is struck and struck hard with some sort of metallic weapon right across his chin, nearly breaking it. The pain is severe and the surprise is intense. But where did it come from? There doesn't seem to be anyone here!

There's a glint of light coming from the shadows. A knife!

"Look out!" a voice yells from above as a scarlet figure from up high leaps from above down towards the ground.

Whoooosh! A billy club soars through the air and seems to connect with nothing, but a knife drops and clangs to the ground.

Within a moment, Daredevil is in a defensive pose. But against what?

There's simply nothing there.

Non lethal blows. Had he been ready for it, Kwabena might have been able to fend against it. Instead, there's pain, and a blinding flash across his eyes.

Kwabena leaps blindly backwards until his hand catches the brick wall behind that he knew was there. It's only then that he transforms with a --poof-- into a cloud of smoke, clothing falling in a pile beneath him. He reforms just in time to catch a glint of something red.

Dropping to a knee, Shift grabs the pistol from within the pile of clothing, holding it near his face while looking left and right.

Silence.

Daredevil straightens, looking over his shoulder where Kwabena is standing.

"He's still here."

TO BE CONTINUED....