Iwaku: Dark Reign

[Hydronine]

White hot burning pain, healing and breaking me apart.

I scream, over and over again, louder and louder.

Don't forsake me.... please... oh dear god... there's so much more I want to do! Don't stop me! Please! Let me be something! I need my reason to live before I can die!

Are you really surprised that you're forgotten within the folds of a book that others have overlooked? You're content to be looked over, to be in the shadows. How could anyone pity someone like you? You're not who I used to be.

At the ends of your life, I don't think anyone would blame me for having inner monologues with myself.

I knew this voice, the one that had forsaken me the day I gave up... the day I gave in. Only now I realized how easily I let myself be used and abused. I could sit back and look through my life with a hand over my mouth, wanting to warn myself for every mistake that led me here. It was useless... everything I did was wrong... I had been no help to anyone...

I killed a part of myself to endure this.

Redemption, I wanted redemption, a second try.... another chance...

"What makes you think you're even worthy of that!? You're nothing but a nameless mention on a page! Just die!" She spoke, and her words were truth... she was the one with the power... she was the one who held my abilities... I wasn't even a fraction of her, of what I used to be....

Why was Acquariana's singing hurting me so much? Why was it destroying me like this? Was I nothing but a cancer to be eradicated? I tried to help! I tried to help.... I.... I did... didn't I? I can't make out words... I can't tell her to stop...

The sheathe.... if... if I could just get to it... one last time... some how...

He's here.

My vision is darkening and clouded with tears and nearing death, I can not see the man... the angel... the purger.... But I hear him... the feathers of his wings are the sound of my salvation... my last wish. He came.... he came back for me...

I hear him speak... I think I see him.... We're on a rooftop... I see a blurry Jack Shade and the sky above....

He speaks to me... concern and anguish... It is obvious that my fears have been revealed as true.... I'm dying....

What is my reason.... I need to know.... I need to know... Please... please, PLEASE!

I try to speak... The effort it takes is more than I have ever worked with before... have my muscles forgotten how to move so that I may speak?

"Ja....ck... It's.... It's ok...." I cough, trying to clear my throat and blood from my mouth. "You're the only one I wanted to be here..." This is the final call for me... the curtain call... and with that peace... I realize what it is that I need to do...

"Jack... Change this.... please... No one else needs to die... please... tell them to stop... I've watched from the shadows... I've watched your stories all unfold... all with violence within each one... each time, I never was much help... this time.... this time I hope... I hope I can make a difference... Jack... Take the Sheathe... Surprise us all... I'm giving my chance for redemption up to you... please... stop the fighting somehow...." Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, pain was leaving my body, and a numb warmth was blanketing my skin in its wake.

This isn't my story... this isn't my chance...

I moved as much as I could, kissing his cheek, much like a younger sibling. Blood smeared where my lips touched his skin, and that was it for me... the full realization of my end... I realized it was ok to grieve. I cried and coughed, my body shook from the force of my sobs. I pulled myself together quickly, frightened by the sleepiness that was making my eyes so heavy.

"Please... Please Jack.... Fix this... and... tell Tegan that I'm sorry I failed her.... I'm so sorry... I thought I could do so much better... I wanted so hard to be powerful... like you and Tegan... and Kitti and.... and Rory..." I stop again, my voice cracking. "But I couldn't... I was so disgusted with my own needless sacrifice this time... that I became useless to you... to everyone.... I'm sorry I couldn't do more... I'm so sorry..." I bite my lower lip gently, but even that brought a fresh trickle of blood. Breathing was a struggle now...

"Use the Sheathe and the Sword to help... please... please Jack... don't hurt anyone... no more pain.... no more fear..... Fix this... please... change the outcome..." I whimpered shaking again, then felt my body start to shut down...

I struggled to look into his eyes... to find his face in my darkening vision....

"Jack.... take me with you.... I don't want to be alone anymore... I'm so tired of being alone..." I whispered out those last words, a shaky breath leaving my body as I let go.... I did one last thing with my last moment of power... the mask of my true form replaced my damaged and useless body... an orange and white mask with large orange ears... smaller than it was... What he now held was the token of what I had striven to be at my heart... and what I had given up out of fear and ignorance.

My final moments were shared with someone that needed redemption far more than I did.... I only hoped that in my death, I would finally be useful once more...

As my life came to a close, I had a memory of Rory and I... the Prince carrying me around... laughing with me... Kitti smiling...

I was dead until the cycle rose me once again... I was finally free again...

 

[Asmodeus]

There was one hope Natalie Verortus clung to - that she had always clung to. She had seen it as the Inquisition stormed her childhood home and black-bagged her parents. She had seen it in her bloody climb through the ranks of the Dark Reign. She had seen it in the eyes of her victims as the Fear Garden choked them.

The truth that even the greatest mystery - even the greatest game - could be ended by blunt, unappeasable violence.

In Tegan, in Asmodeus, in Jack and Pirogeth she saw the dance of her parents - that infuriating web of mysteries self-created. The lies and double-plays that breed dystopia. So to her truth she would hold - her only recourse as the walls came crumbling.

The Grandmaster's hand found a pistol, claimed from a fallen viking. She dragged her weaker leg - the ankle sprained from where Jack had dropped her. Around her civilians were recovering, rubbing eyes and bloodstained hands, confused, bewildered, trying to remember. Without TK the virus was dissipating, and Acqua's song had done the rest. They were cured. They were free. And they were in shock at the things they had done.

But Natalie could not know this. Her pistol barked, sending bullets into the stunned crowd, shattering bones and ripping flesh. There were screams. She took them for snarls. She had nothing left but violence. As they scattered she pushed ahead, gunning down any who came too close. She was following the street, tracing the path Jack must have taken.

She fired again. The crowd parted. On the rain-soaked streets a body lay, clutching her chest where the bullet had entered her. Natalie recognised the white robes and stooped to one knee, grabbing the back of Acquariana's head, hoisting her up. "WHERE IS HE? WHERE DID JACK GO!"

The Soulmate was wide-eyed, breath short as blood leaked from the bullet wound. She could not speak... could not find words... Natalie pressed the pistol to her wound. "TELL ME AND I'LL MAKE IT QUICK."

Acqua had no scream to give. Shuddering, she lifted one hand, pale and slender, to point at the rooftops. Natalie looked. Her eyes narrowed and Acqua's body became still in her arms. She laid the woman down, looking in her eyes. There was a shimmer of something... recognition perhaps... as if in death some book had been opened. Natalie felt the ache of knowing... the sense that she had shared something with this woman, in a time long before...

Natalie shook her head and reloaded her pistol.

"If there could be words, Jack, as I climb this stairwell, what could I say? My speech would hold the weight of all I've seen, from that first body I discovered in the park, with the dotted circle of its gunshot wound. I would tell you why I took Asmodeus from you and gave him to the Bread Cult - the orders I received to do so, the ends to which the Cult would use him. I would tell you of my predecessor, how Karsikan followed an agenda for powers far greater than either of us. I would tell you what I learned from Louis Cyphre - more than what you witnessed in that room with me. And the testimony of the Legacy heretics. All these things, these pieces of the puzzle box - proclaiming one truth... how wrong you are... how subtly Asmodeus has been painted, for all of us. This is the Cycle's plan, the will of the city that devours us. And you, with all your power, will don the executioner's hood and complete the merry dance, as Void and others did before you, the Cycle ever-spinning. I must stop you, Jack... burdened as I am to know... I must stop you..."​

Natalie gripped the stairwell railing, vaulting onto the rooftop, pistol outstretched. She saw Jack. His back was to her and he was huddled over TK, one hand reaching for the Sheath. Natalie strode forward, pistol levelled. And like the day when she sold out her father, as daughters are destined to do, she put all other thought aside.

The bullet was cleaved in two. Jack had not moved. Natalie screamed, pulled the trigger a second time. The barrel of her pistol was sliced clean away. Her hamstring was cut. She put her weight on her other leg, her stride unbroken. She lifted the stump of the pistol to bring it down on the Purger's head.

She came to a stop.

The Sword of Iwaku had impaled her.

Jack was right about one thing: Natalie would never have understood. He had driven the sword backwards as he crouched. His shoulders trembled, his grief for TK mixed with the grief for what Natalie had forced him to do. From the Grandmaster's lips dripped blood, black with Fear Garden poison, and she released one strangled gasp before dropping.

She came onto her side, hollow eyes fixing Jack. Her lips tried to move, to form words, but she was as mute as Acquariana now. Her whisper was lost in the mounting rain.

What TK had asked of Jack was already in vain. There would always be more pain... more fear... as long as the Dark Reign held.

TK and Natalie - two women consumed by the city's corruption. Two women full of poison, rage and hopelessness. They each grew still in the presence of the half angel.

A half-angel now become a god with the Sword and Sheath in his hands.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

[size=+1] [size=+3]SOON…[/size]

The barrel of the pistol I hold in my hands remains unflinching, as steady as it would be were it held in stone as I stride towards him. He's lying in a crumpled heap on the roof of the building, the rain washing over us both running off him with a painful crimson hue, slowly trying to crawl away from the bearded sociopath in a longcoat who's just murdered his way to him.

Here I am at the end of all things once more, about to execute some unfortunate fuck who's only mistake was getting in my way.

I guess I've become what they needed me to be. A terrorist. A murderer. Some villain to scare the masses into obedience, someone to demonise, ostracise and flee from in the streets. A dimestore dealer of death.

Say what you will about the remnants of the Knights, but we understand death on a level none of you can ever hope to match. We've seen it on an apocalyptic scale, witnessed the deaths of countless trillions, the erosion of all things. The devastation unleashed by the Rift Storms was until recently incomparable for me, because it's not merely the destruction that we mortals can unleash; it was the complete and utter end of everything. The full stop at the end of the novel.

But now we have something to compare it to, I suppose.

The Medusa.

That's a bridge we're soon to cross. I look out to the hazy skyline of the city and realise that the only way we're going to save these people is if we destroy this place before she reaches them all. We're tearing down the Dark Reign, brick by fucking brick, antagonist by antagonist, unfortunate fuck who gets in my way by unfortunate fuck who gets in my way.

And if that makes us terrorists, then so be it.

I come to a stop over the crumpled figure, a silhouette looming above him with the light of the city catching on the dark steel of my pistol. Time to add another name to the list of people I have killed. How many is it now? I can remember a time when it meant to much to me, when I would sleep at night and see their faces staring back at me. Something's changed now. Were you to ask I wouldn't even be able to tell you how many lives I've claimed now, and such a fact terrifies me.

Don't pity me. I chose this.

This is how it was always going to end for me.

[size=+3]NOW…[/size]

Bullets burst through the metal shell of the van like hornets whistling past my head. I duck down as low as I can, barely managing to keep ahold of the wheel, as Aimi curses and does the same. Not RazBots, this time, this is something new. Sure enough I bring my head up just in time to see us driving alongside a jet-black cruiser with an all too familiar symbol on it's right door. Inquisition forces; I guess we've really stirred the nest this time.

"Warmaster, contact at nine o'clock!" I roar back through the van as I swerve to put some distance between us and our new rivals on the freeway. Over the sound of bolter-fire in the back I hear the Warmaster bark back,
"I am aware!" With a glance in the mirror I understand what he means; another cruiser is coming right up on our ass, barely held in check by the salvo of explosive rounds our friend in the back is unleashing upon them.

Looks like they're moving to swarm us from all sides. And succeeding.

Over the radio I hear the others in similar engagements; there's little we can do for each other at the moment, caught up as we are in our own conflicts, our own little narratives. Such is the way of the Cycle, I guess; you can rely on help from on far, you've got to deal with situations as they come to you.
"Aimi, keep them off us!" I shout, continuing to try and manoeuvre around the increasingly debris-strewn freeway. She doesn't say anything in response. She doesn't need to; the sound of the assault rifle she's carrying pumping round after round into our attacker's vehicle is a response in itself.

Then the sound of a different engine reaches my ears above the din of our engines and our guns. A familiar one, for once.

Asmodeus is back.

In seconds he's closed the distance to our van, running the Inquisition off the road left and right. Even with my opinions on the angel tempered as they are, I cannot help but admire his handiwork; if killing is an art then Asmodeus is surely a master. He's painted many a masterpiece in red over the years and maybe lately he's been slacking, but goddamn if the madman doesn't still have it. "Nice of you to join us, angel," I say into the radio as he peels off to assist the rest.

That still leaves the two cruisers we're engaged with, however.

We should be covered from the back; the Warmaster is spitting death in solid form back there. Which just leaves the cruiser on our left. Aimi's gunfire has got them keeping their distance somewhat, but they're easily matching our speed. Outrunning them isn't an option. We need to try a different approach. If running won't help, perhaps something a little more… aggressive will.

From my shoulder holster I draw the Colt. Time for something drastic, but first I best warn my fellow passengers. "Warmaster, hold on to something solid back there and brace yourself! Aimi, get your seatbelt on and stay down!" Aimi snaps the belt into position and turns to me.
"What are ye'--" she begins.

She never gets the chance to finish the sentence.

I bring the pistol up, pointing it past her and towards the Inquisition cruiser, and she ducks down to get out the way. Catches on quickly, this girl. Without warning I begin emptying the clip into the side of the cruiser. Keep them guessing, keep them suppressed. Then with a jerk of the steering wheel I bring the paths of our two vehicles into a fatal collision.

We're driving a heavy-set Bread Cult van with an eight-foot tall armoured superhuman in the back. The poor bastards in the cruiser don't stand a chance.

We collide with a horrible crunch of steel and glass. The sound of shattering windows and metal scraping against metal, Aimi's scream and the yells from the cruiser, so close now I can hear every decibel, all combining into a cacophony of noise. The soundtrack to a car crash. The force of us ramming into it is too much for the cruiser to stand against; the impact drives it up into the air, rolling and flipping, before sending it bouncing over the edge of the freeway and down into the dying city.

Grinning now, I right the van and bring it back to the centre of the road. Aimi's staring at me with a look of incredulity on her face.
"Yer a fuckin' madman, Grant!" she snaps at me. My only response is a chuckle. "Dammit, next time warn meh' before ye' pull somethin' like tha'!" I'm about to respond when the radio begins to blare with the angel's voice.

"Take the next exit, people. We're approaching the Council and Inquisition buildings. This is the home straight."

No time for responding to Aimi's justifiable irritation; it's time to bring this chase sequence to an end. Next stop, storming the inner sanctum of the antagonists. I pull the van across the road and towards the exit Asmodeus told us about.
"Not long now," I mutter.
"Before wha'?"

"Before this all comes to an end."[/size]

 

[Porg]

The pain is unbearable, unimaginable. My mind is reeling trying to comprehend the surges of lucid agony washing through me. I'm thrashing in the car, though I can't say I'm aware of the fact. My legs kicking at the seat they are on as I curl and twist in the footwell. My instinctual defences kick in, my body releasing pulses of soul energy, they radiate and pulse violently from me, cracking the plastic of the dashboard above me and denting the metal of the door and the wheel-arch.


Despite the damage to the car the violent energies were having an effect, I feel the effect weaken a little, feel some of the strings break. The voice is so familiar, I would soon realise why.


They say the best Defence is a good Offence, and I just dented the offence.


In that moment our minds touched.


[DASH=Green]I am in a clearing, beside me are a hulking figure, rotten wings and hunched back, the form of a de-powered god. An old man stands there too, along with a younger one, wearing what could only be described as a 'shit-eating' grin. She is sat on my shoulder, the little blue fairy, the one called Obskeree, I one I am doing this for. Across the clearing stands another friend, Myrnodyn.


Behind us is what appears to be half a cottage, the building bisected by what appears to be half of an old stone temple, it's dark grey walls towering over the little thatch house. There is a small, well kept vegetable garden, and a path leading from nothing up to the front door of the cottage.


"I still have a connection to the other half of my temple, I should be able to use that to pull us out of this world" The god says. Pressing his hands together, a glyph surrounding the five of us, encompassing most of the clearing, including the buildings. Myrnodyn stands just on the edge of the arcane symbol, waving solemnly. He does not agree fully with my leaving.


As light rises from the ground I shout to him "Hey, it's not like the war's really happening! And i'll be back, you know that! I'll find a way" Then light engulfs the clearing and us.[/DASH]


I know what happens next, but that is not what I see.


[DASH=Green]The light subsides in the clearing. There is no longer any buildings, just some half-grown trees and a lot of scrubby grass. No garden, no path. I fact all evidence of what had been there was gone, except for two things. Myrnodyn, staring at what had once been 'Porg's meadow'.


And me.
[/DASH]

The pain re-intensifies, it seems the other me does not appreciate me seeing his memories. As the fresh wave of pain hits me my body responds, another flux of soul energy ripping at the car. I've almost blown out the wheel arch, though I am beyond realising this. The soul energy begins to feedback, the connection is starting to put a strain on him, I can feel it.


[DASH=Green]The bridge of an airship, my airship, the Viridian. Archy is there, behind me as I look out the window at the clouds. The catgirl speaks, or is it catboy, the memory is unclear. "Look I just think we're putting ourselves at a disadvantage for no-"


"Damnit Archy no! I created the Guard to stop this war getting out of control, not to help it do so!" I do not turn to face her (him?). I can see my reflection in the glass, I look tired, like I've had too much weight on me and not enough constitution to hold it.[/DASH]


I scream again, a pulse of energy almost tearing the dashboard up, splinters of metal flying out the car from the door hinge, embedding themselves in the other vehicles travelling the highway.


[DASH=Green]The deck of the airship. Archy is crouched by an air intake, doing something technical I don't understand with a paper clip and a hammer. I walk up and lean myself over the edge of the railing that runs around the edge of the deck. "I'm giving you the go ahead." I do not look at the neko as I speak. "Do as you see fit. Make these super weapons. We will show them the Viridian Guard is not to be trifled with." As the memory ends I catch my reflection in the metal rail. There are bags under my eyes, but I am smiling. There is exhaustion in my face, but more noticeable, more worrying, is the manic glint in my eye, almost crazed.[/DASH]


It is then that I remember the face, the reflection that had haunted me since i'd arrived. I'd almost forgotten it between it's absence and everything that had happened. My body lets out one last pulse of energy in an attempt to ward off the psychic assault. This one is big, the plastic of the dashboard splinters and cracks and the door of the small car flies off as the hinges are blown out with the force.


And somewhere I can feel the other me reeling back in pain, a trickle of blood dripping from his mouth as he growls in anger and frustration.


I simply stay, curled up in the footwell, my legs on the seat, grasping my bloodied face.

 

[Pirogeth]

In one of the many books, probably burned by the inquisition, there was myth to be told. Long lost to the winds of obscurity and misinformation, there rested a tale about a being who could turn those to stone. She was a monster, a devilish being brought about by an even more unfortunate event. Athena had cursed her, that incident that took place outside the temple had became that pivotal moment. Since that moment most lived in fear of her, there were some brave and stupid enough to challenge her, yet no matter how hard they tried, they could not stop their story from ending. However, upon the winged boots of Hermes and the shield of Athena a story went on. The Medusa was thought forever bound to Aegis. Even within that state, bound to reality through an immaterial force, one could still think, I can still think. History repeats itself, but how often? She was raped in a past nobody could remember, lived as a being unable to grasp mortality, challenged by the n00bs who thought they could trust her, there was but only Perseus left and I am his Aegis.

The Medusa hovered by the door her eyes were burning flaky stone spots on Pirogeth's back. "You came, you had to. With me still alive the story still has a sequel." He straightened up the best he could, the crack on Sakura's container shattered her face into three separate visions. "Before I turn around, I would like to know a few things. After all it is a herald's job. Why have you condemned so much? Don't get me wrong I'm happy you have ended years worth of horrible experiments I'm responsible for, trillions of voices call out for my death, or rather my punishment." Pirogeth paused laughing a bit as he began talking again. "Heh-heh-he-yet, you seem set on breaking this mould that has been established before all stories began. With life there is death, with light there is shadow, with you there is the Cycle and with it everything that allows you to continue existing. What do you hope to gain from destroying this Dark Reign?"

[align=center]"Hedoesn'tunderstand.Nohewouldn'tunderstand.Heisjustlikethem.Theyarelikehim.Whyisheabletolive?Howdoeshecontinuetalking?Endthispointlessnessliveineternity.[/align]

"As I had thought. There is nothing to gain, only destruction, the plot must end am I right? Then try me." In a single heart stopping moment, admittedly even for myself, Pirogeth turned around in one two step turn. He put his eyes locked with hers. Their powers clashed immediately. The blue aura burst out blocking what it could. The stone was slowly working its way up his fingers. "You can do better than that!" He yelled now walking closer to her, her dark hair and bleak skin covered in the circles and dots of some distant meaning. He was within two feet of her, if he was not concentrating so hard he might have been able to have a conversation with the being. He balled his hand up as it turned to stone, his strength was fading. Suddenly though, it felt better, more to the point it felt like something. Yes it was a reaction in his hand, he had struck something and as his senses came back into reality the Medusa was hanging onto a chair that was slowly decaying into dust. He had struck her with his petrified fist. He stared for a brief moment only to realize exactly what he was feeling in his hand now. At first it was a small throb but it grew into a virulent strain. The petrification's effort had doubled it was now at his wrist as he tried to force it back.

[align=center]"Hedoesn'tunderstand.Heisjustlikethem.Theyarelikehim.Heisnotabletolive.Hewillsoonsilencelikealltherest."[/align]

In his struggle the Medusa had regained her footing. She walked straight up to him and put her index finger to his chin. His head was tilted upward, his eyes met with hers again. It was almost as if he could understand what she was saying. As his bottom lip trembled with the absent finger being curled back he could feel the stoniness coming up through his legs now. In one last effort, the Herald took a chance and bent one of his crusted arms grasping hold of the chains that bound him and Piroko together. "Her…fate will…not be mine." With a sudden jerk the light blue chains faded and he stood in his place losing a lot of his own power. I just could not believe it but apparently she could. With what could be called a smirk she slapped Pirogeth, no more than what he deserved, sending him through the paper thin rusted walls sliding against the marble surface and again through another. She walked through the carnage she left just to grab the nearly petrified High Councilman again. "Don't say it…I don't understand right? Heh." He was thrown through another wall straight across the street. The building's wall did not absorb the rocky form very well as he crashed through. Combined with a poor structure and the Medusa's petrifying aura the building came crumbling down. Now there was only one thing left to do.

[align=center]"Themaidensheisours.Theprogressisstopped.Shecannotsupportanyone.Theglassitshatters.Nowjointheminpetrifiedbliss."[/align]

With her mixture of remarks the glass on the container shattered. The liquid spilled everywhere as Sakura opened her eyes to what the world had become. For her maybe it was a blessing that the first thing she saw put her back in an eternal sleep.

 

[Kitti]

The path is no longer clear through the streets. Not that they were clear before, but now there can be no question that the final battle had begun for the group. Some of them would not make it through, this much Kitti was certain of, and yet there was also a defiance. No matter who perished, no matter who would fall, she would remain. It was a blessing and it was no small curse. Dying did not come easy to those held firmly in the grip of the cycle and it seemed long ago that with her fall into Iwaku, Kitti had woven herself irreparably into it. There was no easy way out, this much she had tried. Instead, she was destined to ache for all those who were consumed while she watched. The numbers of the band who shared this fate were few, but they eased the loneliness to an extent. Was she wrong for being grateful that the angel Asmodeus was as trapped as she?

Another razbot made impact with the car, causing it to swerve dangerously to the right and jogged Kitti back from her thoughts on morality to the present. There was a purpose now, some guiding force, though she knew not what it was. There was no guarantee that she had a purpose, more likely she was merely a pawn. There was no comfort in the thought, but it gave her a will to survive and a desire to prove herself more than just a playing piece. Hands gripping the steering wheel, Kitti managed to jerk the car back into the lane of the road, trying to shake the razbot as she did so, though to little avail.

Next to her, Zypher appeared to be petrifying rapidly. When had Medusa seized the soul of the ally beside her? She just needed a little help, a little cooperation. Taking her hand off the steering wheel for just a moment, she shook Zypher roughly. The motion did not appear to have any effect and another incoming razbot necessitated both hands to try and keep the car from going out of control. It was a losing battle, however, with no one to aid her. She had not counted on these being their enemies, mindless creatures she could not so easily harm. She grabbed blindly for the weapon that Zypher had obtained from Ryker. Her eyes were forward, through the windshield, focusing on driving and at first, it seemed she would not find the weapon.

After what felt like an hour, though it was likely only a few seconds, she felt the cool metal under her fingertips and closed her hand around it quickly. She wasn't sure how she would be able to brush off the razbots and drive at the same time, but she had to find a way. Zypher was quickly falling into stony apathy, losing all will to survive. There would be no help on that front. Desperately, she fumbled with the weapon while barely controlling the car.

Changing hands, she held the gun out of the window and fired a shot at one of the razbots clinging to the hood. It grazed it, but it might as well have missed for all the good that it did. Another razbot took the opportunity to rake her arms with steely claws and she cried out with pain and surprise. That moment of inattention was all that was needed for a final impact from the razbots to send the sleek little car careening off of the road, dangerously close as it had been already from her clumsy handling of the gun.

It was as if time slowed for Kitti, her eyes widening in fear and her scrambling movements to retake control. Her reaction was no match for the set of events already in motion, however, and the final seconds as the car tumbled down the side of a small ravine was spent scanning the road nearby for other cars. With the speed of the car and the earlier success in continuing, it seemed that they were too far ahead of the other cars for them to take notice. Resigned, she relaxed back into her seat when the metal met unforgiving earth. It seemed as though the metal was caving inward, cradling her and crushing her body. There was no time to look for Zypher and how she was faring, though, with the excruciating pain blinding Kitti to everything but her own body.

And then it was over. The car stopped moving abruptly and there was nothing but maddening silence all at once. Still conscious, if barely, Kitti tried to mentally assess her injuries. There was at least a broken rib - that would take some time to heal. She was bloody, though she wasn't certain where she was bleeding from. Relaxing had likely saved her more broken bones, though she couldn't be sure all of what was broken and what was merely bruised. Beside her, there was no sound yet from Zypher.

"Hey, are you all right?" Talking hurt, causing her midsection to flare with pain. Almost certainly a rib broken, an inconvenience to the mission at hand but by no means a reason to count Kitti out of the fight just yet. She still had a whole hell of a lot of fight left in her. Zypher, however...
​

 

[Neko Archy]

[DASH=Blue]The car rapidly becomes less of an automobile and more of a moving pile of scrap as Porg works his magic on the Razbots. Really, I can't complain, as long as the darn thing keeps driving. I can complain about the inquisition cars that are turning this into a shootout, though.

"So what were you talking about!?"
"Well, I-"

And then Porg starts spasming and bleeding from some sort of psychic attack, because we didn't have enough problems already.

I'm beginning to think the universe hates my guts.

Porg's thrashing about in the footwell of the car, which just so happens to be designed that the driver and passenger can play footsie with each other. Currently, this is causing troubles for me, as Porg's random flailing does a good job of randomly pressing the gas every now and then, making the car that much more difficult to control.

On the upside, it makes it that much harder for the bullets whizzing around me to find a good mark on my head. It's like I'm playing some old videogame, and the "How badly is Archy Fucked" meter has reached 256 and looped back to negative numbers due to hardware limitations.

I'm getting distracted again. Right, focus. Quips are not gonna save my life. Today.

One of the Inquisition cruisers pulls up close to my side of the car, and a shotgun pokes out of the window at me. I get a shield up in time, and the buckshot scatters harmlessly off the bright circled dot of magic I have protecting me. Doesn't hurt even a bit-gotta love that crazy high energy infusion I got. I draw one of my pistols, and it crackles with eldritch energy as I put a bullet into the cabin of the car chasing us.

Immediately the scene inside the cruiser changes to one of utter violence; the bullet becomes a whirlwind of shrapnel as it detonates. It's small, and the explosion that it produces is as well, but...nobody's going to have a good day after a small metal objects explodes near their face.

Apparently I can do that now. Cool. Still gonna die horribly, but cool.

I'm lining up a shot on the tires of the cruiser, when Porg's power goes whack and blows up part of the dashboard. That throws my aim off, which in turn gives the Inquisition driver enough time to slam into us, trying to force us off the road. We get to skidding, and Porg continues putting waves of force out, and I slam on the gas.

The car's back in my control with some effort, and what's more, we're in front of that Inquisition cruiser now. I unload a good number of those rounds into the windshield, which is of course bulletproofed. It is not, however, designed to withstand multiple impacts from explosive rounds, and there's a nice web of cracks and a few holes where the driver should be.

...There's no blood spatter. He's still alive.

Asmodeus comes over the radio, telling us to take the next exit. I look away from my shooting back to the road, and have to swerve the car like crazy to avoid going over the railing. There's something that sounds an awful lot like a car bursting through the railing behind us, and I have to mutter a silent prayer to the universe for looking out for me for a change.

The drive rapidly calms down to it's original, subdued pace. Each of us has done a little bit of work in clearing the road of any pursuers. Finally, I can take a breath and relax as the Council building draws closer.

I notice for the first time that Porg's head is in my lap.

Yeeeeeeeeeep.[/DASH]

 

[Pirogeth]

They had entered the territory of the Inquisition, there was definitely no turning back, no hiding, and definitely no giving up. Piroko readied herself with Orion to take on the last Razbots. She was gathering her energy when she felt a prickling feeling in her legs, almost familiar. In a sudden realization she dropped to her knees hoping that this second hand petrification would not have her fall over off the van. As Orion had taken over most the battle Piroko was left there with little option but to use the rest of her mental faculties to try and steer their ride rather than worrying about what might be happening to Pirogeth. She held out her hand trying to control the aural currents around the wheel. She was shaking, although she would hate to admit it, fear was gripping her more than this stone was. Trying to focus her efforts the inevitable happened, her fingertips were starting to turn an ashen grey. "Damn…it all!" She shouted nearly collapsing. She gripped the hood of the van as her limbs started to go numb. As soon as she thought there was nothing more she could do, a feeling returned. She could bend her fingers and feel the rush of wind against her forearms. "What?" She asked confused. Her breath was short for a moment before she recuperated still feeling exhausted. She knew she could go on with the fight, yet, she felt as though a large amount of energy had been taken from her. It dawned on her, like an idea takes to a genius, she figured it all out. "Damn it Pirogeth." Only a speed bump brought her up out of her train of thought. Immediately she looked as to where the van was headed. They had set up a road block ahead. "Orion finish up we're going through." She moved along the side of the vehicle opening up the driver's door. It took a lot of effort in the position she was in to move the heavy headless Razbot. None-the-less she managed and took back control of the vehicle hoping the flagship of this crew could smash their meager block of inquisition vehicles and road cones.

 

[Porg]

In the calm after the storm I'm feeling comfortable, something I didn't expect here of all places. My head is still screaming at me and I can feel the warm blood trickling around my face, but there's another sensation, one I haven't felt for a while. Softness. I open my eyes the realisation coming slowly as I raise my head away from Archy's lap. I feel my cheeks flush crimson and I quickly turn away, rubbing the blood from my face as a front to hide it.


"Gah uh.. s-sorry, really.." It's a fairly in-cohesive mumble, but hopefully Archy picks up on the message. My side of the car is a mess, the seat flattened down, the dashboard wrecked, the door buckled and bent. "Jeez.. I really.. did a number on it didn't I..?" I say, though it's mostly to myself. I move to the back seat, giving myself a more secure position, and suddenly a wash of loneliness hits me. What is this? All of a sudden I just want to be next to the girl in the driver's seat, I just want to be back in that soft, comfortable place. I pinch the bridge of my nose, the gesture quickly morphing to rubbing more of the blood off of my face.


I find myself looking at the back of Archy's head before mentally slapping myself and looking out of the window. It seems we've shaken them off, and I can't help but feel this is just a calm before a bigger storm. My head is swimming, I just found out so much, important and scary things. So why do I keep thinking about Archy, and the softness!? Is this what it means to have your strings pulled by the cycle? Or am I just going crazy in this bleak excuse for a world? Either way, I have a shadow I have to stamp out.


"I think I've figured out our little mystery."

 

[Astaroth]

As I was wandering in the dark
I came across a little spark

I am sure, when I accelerate and swerve out into the lane behind Asmodeus's car, that my appearance comes as a dawning realization. I can see myself in his side mirror as I dart out of the chaos on the roadway, at first unremarkable yet looming ever closer, my iron steed heralding my approach in a roaring crescendo. Soul Reaver is clutched in one hand, crackling with an energy not native to this plane as it cleaves through the Razbot that gets in my way. Lasers, the rain of bullets, the vehicles racing at breakneck speed and crashing into one another... None can touch me, or so it seems. I am in my element. I won't be delayed now, not when I am so close that I can taste it. I am a weapon, a tool, a device; nothing less, nothing more.

It's like an infection.

My wings begin to unfurl, the seams of my jacket straining and splitting.

It's showtime.

Today I told my soft goodbyes
Smoothed specks of stone dust from my eyes

"Do you remember me, Asmodeus?" The words reverberate from my lips. I swing in towards the driver's side, drawing my blade screeching and sparking across the car door. I'm close, so close that we'll collide if either of us drifts too far in the wrong direction. I'm pressing him, forcing him off of the road. The impenetrably dark visor of my helmet hides my face, but I can see his at this distance, can see the wear and tear on him as well as on his scarred vehicle. I recognize him- would recognize him in any form- but he seems different, somehow, than the Asmodeus that I have known. His time in Iwaku has altered him. I know, now, what this means.

I believe in many things
In stories lost, and sword-crowned kings
And even far, far stranger things
Like living death, or angel wings

I smile and smash the window with the hilt of my sword.

And these words my soul is inking:
I must revise your way of thinking.

 

[Asmodeus]

Through the crumpled wreck of the car, Zypher's hand found Kitti's. The road they had plunged off was far overhead, carrying away the noise of engines and gunfire. Their crash-site, part natural ravine, part drainage canal, gave echo to every sound. Zypher's breathing was short and sharp, and with the angle of the car and protrusion of twisted metal, Kitti could only make out half a face, bloody but smiling. "I've had better days..."

The grip of the fingers shuddered grip. "I helped... didn't I...?"

The tense of her words and the tremor of her grip - it told Kitti all she needed. And though her broken rib pricked her breathing she turned to place her other hand on Zypher's face. "Yes..."

There was laughter, struggling with blood in the lungs. "But it's alright... you see... I'm complete... Diana told me everything..."

The last of the color fades from her eyes and she crumples to the ground, turning into a pile of rubble and dust. The one known as Diana no longer exists in this realm. All that remains of her is a small flicker of teal evaporating from the rubble and vanishing. Free from her captors at last. Her gift though, lives inside me now, and with that gift came the knowledge of the Luna Ashe.

I had taken the lefthand lane, hoping to see where Kitti and Zypher had crashed off the overpass. I am already scraping the barrier as the motorobike comes up beside me.

"Do you remember me, Asmodeus?"

Her blade sparks along the hull of my car, and like her words carries over every sound and obstruction of this reality. It opens blossoms of exquisite pain around the book in my chest. I double over, against the wheel, crying out. Then her blade smashes the window. Glass slices my cheek. The car hits the barrier and I am launched into the freezing night.

And for a moment I feel as if a godly hand holds me up - a mother's cradle, a father's shoulders. I see only the swirling rift storms overhead.

Then I smash into the ravine, the car rolling through the drainage channel and landing a quarter-mile from Kitti's wreck. Like a beetle peeled apart by some viscious child, the pieces of my car are shed. The compartment folds around me. Metal presses to my arms and face.

I land against the side of the trench, brought to deafening silence.

"Don't go yet, Kitti... I need to tell you..."

"SHIT! Weh lost 'em!" Aimi twisted in her seat, face pressed to the window as their bread van sailed past the holes in the barrier where Kitti and Asmodeus had crashed through.

"We must turn back!" roared the Warmaster from the rear, even as he reloaded.

"No time!" Grant glared ahead, watching Piroko and Orion's van smash through the Inquisition roadblock. Barriers, cones and black-hoods went scattering as they barrelled into the compound of the Council Offices. The courtyard, adorned with statues and ringed with balustrades and water fountains, was the only way in. But it was the perfect kill zone. A rocket-propelled grenade shot from the eaves and tore up the ground near Orion's van, flipping it onto its side. Behind this, Porg and Archy's car ploughed through the roadblock and into the smoke. Its wheel arch struck the chassis of the other vehicle, and they likewise came to a halt. Grant wrenched the wheel, pulling their own van into a squealing slide, through the roadblock, into the compound and through the smoke. It came to rest with a thunk against the other two vehicles.

They were now in a triangle, in the centre of the courtyard. And around them the last of the Inquisition took up firing positions. These were the hardcore, the elite... the ones who had yet to fall to Medusa. And each of them knew that they had to keep fighting in order to elude her curse. Screaming and sprinting, the Inquisitors came at the heroes with everything they had.

"Diana gave me the knowledge, Kitti... the memories... that you, Asmodeus, all of you... need to know..."

Something lands beyond the shattered windshield... like a piece of debris in delayed freefall. I open my eyes amid the metal tomb. She is there, in the drainage channel. And I know her name, as I have known all things, in one way or another, since my fall into this city.

Ozryel turns her blade, the edge of the Soul Reaver glinting in the rift storm light. She strides towards me. I have to move. Bucking and shouldering, I clear the debris from my lap and twist my legs from the footwell. The steering wheel is buried in my chest, taking the place of the chasm. I can't reach my guns anymore, but my sword it still there. The skin is scraped from my knuckles as I work the hilt, easing the blade against the steering column. Inch by inch it cuts as she bears down on me. My knee comes up, slamming into the weakened column, urging it to break. She is almost here. Her sword comes up, her elbow high to deliver the impaling thrust. The column comes loose. I pull sidewards to spill out of the side-window, and as I fall the reflection in Ozryel's sword shows me what I must learn...

24 years ago...

Rory exited the ruined cottage, stepping out across the scrubland by the roadside.

At the horizon, where mountains marked the border of Iwaku and Gaia, rainclouds were gathering. He had left Artemis crying in the kitchen behind him, her story told, her part played. She would be remembered only in the tapestries of others. But such was the fate of all but a few. He sighed. Around his neck the silver medallion, inscribed with dotted circle, caught the fading light.

"Did you get what you came for?"

Ahead of him, at the border of the forest, his two comrades waited. The boy they had been minding had already dashed off. Plunging into the treeline with his toy rabbit, Nobody was lost now in his private game with the trees and animals. He did not linger to stare at Rory, the man he would one day kill. Rory was glad of it. Conversation would have been difficult, not the least for his own aversion to small talk. "I got what I could."

Ozryel spoke again. "But is it enough?"

"Time will tell."

"We have come too far to trust in time alone." Now it was the third angel, Azazel, who spoke, his features etching darker in the coming rain. He was like a blot of troubled ink. "If Artemis cannot recount the nature of Asmodeus, then we must go elsewhere."

"Don't patronize me, Azazel. I may be autistic but I know the notes of suffering. It has been my challenge to learn the ways of the Feminine, and from Artemis I have learned much - I assure you."

"Then we can begin?" Ozryel raised an eyebrow.

"In three years. I will need that time to complete Fluffy's training."

"She is your chosen vessel?" Azazel's cynicism was clear.

Rory did not answer. Turning towards the road, he buttoned his coat. "Asmodeus is beginning work on his Towers. The wheels of the Admin War are in motion."

"It's almost complete, Kitti... a plan beyond time and space..."

She leaps atop the car, her blade slicing inches from my neck. I sit up and palm-strike her heel, knocking her flat on the hood, then reclaim my sword. She rolls as I rise and drive it clean through the engine. We've both had our near-misses now. She lands on her feet, spinning with another slice, which I lean under with my weight on the impaled sword. I use it to bring my feet up, straight into her chest to knock her across the concrete. As I free my blade we circle in the open.

"I don't have time for this."

"Make time. For all our sakes."

The twist of her blade is slight but exact. It reflects the image of myself, the mirror showing the book in my chest. I realise why it hurts so much now. Words are appearing, images and colours on the embedded pages. She is showing me...

Rory stood in the control room, his normal smile was gone. He drew his blade, Iadosth, from the sheath that Kitti handed him.

"With this Blade, I transcend the history of Iwaku and all her parallel universes.
I exist outside of time and space, allowing me to summon what is unseen and unheard by those that are no longer with us.
It is with my heart that I call forth what I seek!
It is with my soul that I go into planes, unnoticed and un-phased.
ANGEL OF MERCY, I CALL UPON THEE!"​

The golden vessel was emitting an eerie blue light, with a sensation of an overwhelming aura of presence behind it. Rory raised his blade towards it, "Angel of Mercy, I have come to free you!" The vessel cracked as waves upon waves of green magic struck it. "Angel of Mercy! I call upon thee! I have used the combination that the tablets in Temple foretold: feather of a fallen angel, mana from dark beings, through the staff of Simica. And finally the 'innocence' of a child."

Below the vessel, Fluffy waited, a half-angel wreathed in black. Her eyes were open, calm.

White light poured from the vessel, flooding the chamber like milk, washing over Fluffy. Images fell into her, pens rewrote her. Pulse by pulse, the Goddess was taking form.

Kitti recoiled with a cry. And just for a moment... before Rory shielded his own eyes... he thought he saw snakes in her hair...

"Diana watched Rory from afar... She knew it wouldn't work... the Luna Ashe knew... the salvation of the Goddess would be fleeting..."

Our blades clash, Metatron to Soul Reaver, angel steel to angel steel. Her boot comes up. The kick sends me reeling through the air, but my two feet land flat on the drain wall. My wings open. I fly back towards her and she goes airborne to parry me. Wall to wall we leap and slash, sparking like embers in the night.

I land on a length of metal, torn from my ruined car. It levers up into my hand and I toss it at her, following after it. She parries the metal but not my sword. It cuts her shoulder open and I collide with her, my greater weight driving her into the ground, where rainwater is pooling. I land atop her, the chokehold precise, our eyes locked.

"An angel of the Silent Hill. WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

Her knee swings up into my face. I roll and she turns with me, sending punches at my head. Like clockwork our limbs direct and parry blows as we tumble. I lose my blade, and as I twist to reclaim it her arm snakes around my neck. The headlock closes. Her words are in my ear.

"For Rory's legacy."

She slams me down into the shallow rainwater. Its reflection shows me more...

"Ashmodai…"

Name upon the back of wind it came through the leaves. Fluttering syllables clicked against the angel's mind like the tentative touch of a child. Probing…curious…seeking…cruel. At once the Prince was hurled from his body in a spasm cracking his back against the earth around him. Eyes sliding back into his skull, the angel fought against the insistent whisper, no defense to keep its prying claws from tearing into his psyche. Yet somehow it felt familiar. There was no whisper now, the wind screamed the name around his body and ordered his compliance. Branches shook and snapped beneath the onslaught of syllable and power and even whole trunks were twisted from their grasping home of earth. Screaming his own primal defiance, Asmodeus clawed the ground and his fingers came back crimson-stained. It was over in a moment, cold body discarded callously among the corpse-leaves. The voice had not cared about it. What was a vessel but disposable?

Summons were always nauseating.

The fallen angel twisted through dark realms and outer horrors of no rational words and still went farther. He passed Enoch, the Precipice World from which the universe had flowed, cascading over its inky drop. The Great Turtle, lethargic head resting on a hell of wailing souls as existence thrived upon its broad back. The pillars of Sheol, that judgeless void of dead and forgotten and the Lovers…known as Gaia and Chronos, or sometimes as Geb and Nut, mostly called Earth and Sky. These sights were ones he'd seen before and the timeless entity he had been recognized the lie in them all. They were the Storybook Phenomena, the narrative of disbelief. In the face of creation the rational absconded from truth, making mates of myth and legend and thus the False Gods beyond Enoch. And beyond them?

Truth.

It came to him as a cloud of fallen pillars. Meaningless temples choked in moss and winding roads of loose stone spread from each vapor construct. The sky flashed with lightning, jagged swords to touch the tops of tilted towers and the gong of thunder to follow. It was much as Asmodeus had left it…after the Fall. After the Golgari. Heaven as some called it, Jerusalem by others. It held a list of titles too long to recount and too strange to write. The once paradise never showed her true form, not even to the angels who once lived within her. To each, Heaven would take the form of the mind which viewed it.

Well…Asmodeus always had a flare for the antiquated.

Tugged from his spinning orbit by that name again, he fell through cloud and stone to sprawl before the whisper.

"Ashmodai…"

The Hall of Apocrypha, as they called it now…after the Fall, was littered with the corpses of an uncountable multitude. Wings bent in gnarled angles, blades still glittering as dawn red blood coursed from open wounds. Bodies bucked in perverse agony, white flesh marred by claw and blade still bleeding onto the marbled floor. It was as he had left it, the ruinous aftermath of the fall the Grigori led them to. Though millenniums had passed, God had not let his First die. Untouched by the reaper's scythe within this realm they would forever relive their final moments. It was their punishment for arrogance.

For questioning.

For doubting.

Tears came unbidden to the angel, a million memories and more were lost to him of the Before. God had taken them as he had taken his Divinity…as he had taken ALL their divinity. The weight of forgetting was almost more then he could bear. Poor brothers and sisters who must experience this sorrow for All Time, dying eternally around him.

"Ashmodai…"

It was a whisper, hoarse and choked with agony.
He mouthed the name, the angel who had brought him here and who lay impaled to the ceiling with his own blade. Azazel

"Yesss…You remember now." Asmodeus gazed up, a single body hanging limply from the cosmos painted ceiling. A glimmering blade held him taught to stone as a river of blood sprinkled a descent around the wound. Azazel was beautiful, even wan with loss of blood and his body torn with wounds. White motes of light framed his face in the suggestion of hair, dulled eyes still a shocking gleam of magenta. His blown glass wings fluttered weakly, the chime of glass and metal in symphony surpassing any crafted instrument known to any world. He had created the wings himself, a testament to his ingenuity. Asmodeus could remember that…but nothing else of him, save that he was one of the Grigori.

"Thou hath returned to us brother," Azazel gasped, "I am elated mine grasp hath reached thee."

"I left this place with no intent to return," Asmodeus answered, his voice echoing strangely across the hall. "After all this time, why have you brought me here?"

"Hast thou forgotten? God hath cursed this place to know not the passage of time. It hath been but moments since thee left me here."

Asmodeus said nothing, the cruelty of The Cycle…or God a fresh memory even now. Justice was absolute and punishment was never hasty.

"Welcome, Ashmodai…to our Regret and Suffering. How hath your freedom been? And who hath clipped thy wings?"

"Azazel had to be sure... He suffered more than any, knowing the Cycle was still broken... So he tested all of us... He made a world, the Azazel timeline... to test if we had truly learned from the Goddess..."

"YOUR MASTER IS DEAD!" My fist connects with her jaw and sends her reeling. My eyes blaze upon her. I dare not look at the reflections, at the pictures taking shape on the book. "WE ARE THE LAST OF THE ANGELS. FOR THIRTY YEARS THE SILENT HILL HAS DONE NOTHING! WHY NOW?"

Another kick sprawls her against the drain wall, but she does not drop. Venomed words drip from her. "The Watchers heed all things! You are flawed, Asmodeus. You have yet to learn."

We both leap for our blades, snatching them up as we roll, then flying once more at one another. The flurry is harsher than before, steel flashing like fireflies, till the delicious taste of flesh rewards me. I slice once beneath Ozryel's ribs, then once on her thigh. She staggers, falling down against the car wreck.

I have her now.

Advancing, I ready my sword, catching only the flicker of a reflection in the ruined wing mirror.

He waited on the battlements. The sun was beginning its evening descent behind him and a cooler wind came to maul his hair, sending it dancing in front of his heavy-set scowl.

Beyond the battlements of the castle, the city seemed veiled in fog. The fires had died out after the second day, and now there was only smoke and the half-ruined skyline, like a toy city moth-eaten and half-built. The lumbering forms of Elder Spiders patrolled the streets and far to the south the Iwaku Mall was being repainted by a team of Deviants, the dome turned to garish red and blue.

Rory's eyes were drawn to the crater where the South Gate once stood. The airship docks were in ruins and the hollowed out frames of the royal fleet lay like dead insects between the derailed trains. Everywhere, from east to west, there were echoes of disaster... demolished buildings, cracked streets, impromptu graveyards. The bodies of the fallen had been heaped on street corners for disposal, except where they had been swept away as the river broke it banks. Palonis Bridge was gone and the main boulevard was all but levelled.

He had seen every part of this city grow, from foundation to varnish, the 18 years of long construction. As reluctant king and trustee of the ARC fortune, he had been a father to these people, and now, as he saw the smouldering ruins, all he could think of was the time before all this, when he had summoned the Goddess with such high hopes...

"I have failed..." Azazel was darker than before, drained of colour, gaunt and unsteady as he drew up beside the king. "Asmodeus will not listen. None of them will."

"I am to meet the ambassador the Elder invasion," Rory spoke as sadly as he ever would, though his eyes were set in a calculating frown. "I will surrender the city."

"So this will be it."

"We gave them no chance, really. They had already charged to their deaths. We just carried them like seeds to fresh fields. There were no winners in the Admin War."

"The Cycle will turn forever, and none shall be healed."

"No..." Rory's frowned lightened somewhat. "She will come again. The stone the Elder spiders are made from - it matches her signature - the patterns we recorded during the summoning. She is trying to manifest again."

"How long...?"

"Another eighteen years. That is the time her suffering will need."

"We have come too far to trust in time alone."

The echo made Rory turn to his fellow angel. His frown returned, a subtle mark of a decision made. "I know. That is why I shall go to ground. The next age will need me. I will have to be in the correct place, enact the correct things, await her coming."

"Part of you knew this... when you chose Nobody as your murderer."

"All things will come to pass. The road is clear now."

Azazel's head tilted, sensing the approach of the Luna Ashe, the invaders, the exploiters of the Elder machines who, like the Iwakuans, followed in their own way the footsteps of the waiting Goddess. "Then I shall return... to the suffering of the Silent Hill. I shall see that the Goddess finds her way to whatever age will follow."

He turned, but Rory's last words caught him. "One last thing, my friend. Tell Ozryel that I have a task for her."

"Diana always wondered... why Rory surrendered so quickly... why he gave up his reign... It was only later we realised... that he was waiting... always waiting... for the Goddess to return...

She lingered, looking down at Sakura's frail and sodden body. The girl had looked upon her, for one fleeting second, and there had been no recognition; no guilt like the others, no terrible empathy. Only love. Sakura had looked upon her with love.

Medusa moved onwards, trailing the skirts of her ragged dress, snakes hissing in the moonlight. Through the hole that she had flung Pirogeth the adjoining building - a gatehouse leading to the Inqusition Fortress - had collapsed under the Councillor's impact. Medusa could hear gunshots from the courtyard: the shouts of Grant, the Warmaster, Orion, Porg and others as they made their stand against the Inquisitors.

Medusa turned, drawn towards the heroes. But a shape appeared through the rainclouds beyond the ruined gatehouse. She turned the other way and saw the trailing leg of the TL;DR Scorpion. It glimmered in the darkness, Elder symbols aglow upon its alien stone. It was the colour of petrification, of paralysis and waste.

It was her stone.

Medusa's hand extended. And inside the churning heart of the Scorpion, Syracuse felt a hundred-fold shards of ice. He was torn from his machine, the atoms that made him dashed and scattered. He felt his control slipping, his consciousness carved like meat on the chopping board, whole swathes pushed aside by the knife. A surgery cruel but unfeeling, subtle but insurmountable.

And then, in one sweep, he was cast aside and his place was taken. Medusa was gone from the Council Building. Now she stood atop the rearing back of the Scorpion, her arms outstretched, the city before her. The beast was at her will, the city at her knees. Medusa and the Scorpion beamed with silver light... and all who gazed upon her knew, in their dying moments, who had come again amongst them.

"We should have joined him from the start... your mentor... we had so little time together... him and the Luna Ashe... Diana might have been spared from madness... if only she had known what he was doing..."

"Did you never ask yourself..." Ozryel spits as she lays against the ruined car. She has given up trying to rise. Her wounds are bleeding. "...why you had so many females around you? Why Zypher and Archy and Feral were women this time round... why Medusa's first murders were only men... why the Noobs loved her... why the Convent was so sacred... why I'm here?"

I stand before her, the sword poised to impale. "No more time for questions."

Ozryel's eyes are fearless. She is ready. "We have come too far to trust in time alone." Her wings curl around her, hair veiling half her face. "This one last deed is all we ask of you now, Asmodeus. The only question that matters. The only one you should ask yourself, and which, in your heart, you have already answered... WHO. IS. MEDUSA?"

There is a reflection in her eye.

18 years ago...

For the first time in two decades, Rory smiled. He looked at the face of the Shadowed One, studying the features he knew so well. "So you're not Paorou after all."

"And yet I speak for him. What business would you have with us?"

The other Powers hung in the shadows of the throne room, watching. The sound of the Dark Reign's construction echoed through the walls. Rory took a step closer to the Shadowed One. "I wish to lead your Council."

The Powers exchanged looks. A silence passed. The Shadowed One shifted. "Surrendering again, Rory?"

"A trickster doesn't take sides. But the Dark Reign must prevail - I know that much. Make me your High Councillor and I'll keep the Mad King's affairs in order."

More silence, ponderous and historic. "A great favour you do us, to lend the support of the beloved King Rory. I assume you seek something more than your life in return?"

Rory didn't miss a beat. "Yes. I request that a Convent is founded, at the point of the Sixth Array. And I request special protection, under the Dreamsphere, for the following citizens: Diana, Ocha, Soledad, Acquariana and Tegan. These are my terms."

More looks were passed. Even the Dreamsphere pulsed a pale yellow of confusion. The Shadowed One managed a playful smirk. All women, Rory? Is there something we should know?"

In his pocket Rory felt the weight of the medallion with the dotted circle. He returned the subtle smile. "You'll know soon enough."

"Your mentor kept us safe..." Zypher's grip on Kitti went loose. Her breath was stalling. "All these years... so we could help her when she came again... your friend... your dearest." A painful cough shook her body, blood trickling over pale lips. "She's here now... Medusa... it's Fluffy.... the Goddess... Medusa is the Goddess..."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and her last heartbeats carried her final whisper. "Lead her to the Tower."

And then she was gone.

 

[Warmaster Death]

Musical Score: So Cold (Remix) - Breaking Benjamin - We Are Not Alone

He couldn't tell if the air around him was freezing cold or burning hot, though visual signs pointed towards the former.
He could barely hear the thunderous roaring of the guns around him, and it was a strain to hear the shouts of his comrades.
His vision in his natural eye was dimming, his Augmentic working at full capacity to compensate, tagging priority targets and battlefield hazards.
His sense of taste had gone completely, as had his sense of smell, and his nose had cracked and fallen off as he disembarked the truck.

His senses Failing, The Warmaster strode forwards, projectiles slamming into his armor, some were deflected by the curves of the armor, some stopped by the thick Ceremite plating, those that pierced the armor cracked and damaged petrifying flesh most stopping before they damaged any part of the space marine that was still organic, and stone chips and dust poured from the holes and cracks in his armor, leaving an ashen grey trail behind him.

"I have Waited Long for this day" he bellowed, though his voice was a shadow of its former self, and he staggered as a grenade detonatede next to him, but he righted himself and resumed his march, every shot fired from his bolter spelling doom for an Inquisition lackey
"Where there is uncertainty, I shall bring light" He growled, as he drew close to the Barricade behind which his enemies cowered
"Where there is doubt, I shall sow faith" He said, kicking a concrete block over, crushing two inquisitorial agents crouching behind it
"Where there is shame, I shall point atonement" his voice grew in volume as he turned, slaughtering the black robed soldiers as he emptied the magazine of his boltgun
"Where there is rage, I shall show its course" he roared, locking the bolter to his hip, drawing his screaming chainsword, the blades shredding the first soldier to cross his path and smashing aside the bayonet of another, ripping through the soldiers neck on the back swing
"My word in the soul shall be as my bolter in the field" he grunted as several bayonets found purchase in his breastplate, he brought his armored arm down, tearing the blades free in a shower of Astartes blood, stone dust and ceremite chips that blinded the soldiers for a brief moment before the chainsword took them in their midsection, their blood mixing with the stone dust
"Come you traitors! show me what passes for fury amongst your misbegotten kind!" he screamed, reloading the bolter before unlocking it from his hip, bringing it to bear on the soldiers standing between him and the armored doors of the Inquisitorial fortress.

He had long since forgotten if Grant or Aimi followed, all that was left was the fury and the fire of his final hour, his last stand before the enemies of man.

The Soldiers were broken bloody chunks of flesh by the time he reached the large, gold trimmed black steel doors of the fortress, and the Space marine produced a small metal disc, hurling it at the door as he strode towards it.
The Melta Bomb detonated with a crack, a wave of superheated gases melting a large hole in the door, molten gold and steel running down the etchings and pooling on the marble steps.

He kicked one side of the door with a frustrated growl, and a section of the door weakened by the melta bomb fell inwards with a tremendous crash.

It was then the Space marine turned to see how the others fared, covering their advance.

By the time they reached him, The Warmaster could feel the petrification overtaking even his advanced organs, that he had survived this long was nothing short of miraculous. as the others reached the top of the marble steps, the inbuilt Auspex of the Warmasters Augmetic eye sounded an alert, enemies incoming

"Go, I will hold them here" he whispered to Grant, as black robed figures emerged from behind the wreckage at the plaza entrance

"I Am Silias Ventris, Alpha Legionary, Son of Alpharius, Here i stand and here i die" he barked, bringing his bolter up, his organic senses finally fading to nothing as he did so.


Grant and Aimi could hear the sound of the space marines last defiance for another fifteen minutes before the clamor of battle finally faded.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

[size=+1]

We barrel into the belly of the beast.

I've forced the van through too damn much. Firefights on the freeways, running battles with Inquisition forces; it's too much for the poor thing. As we slam through the barricades it finally gives out, the engine sputtering into ex-engine status with a guttural mechanical death-growl and a cone of smoke slowly emanates from it.

No matter, really. It's managed to get us to where we need to be. It's just that 'where we need to be' is entirely surrounded by the remnants of the Inquisition's forces. From points of cover and from suicidal positions they surround us, unaware or uncaring of their exposure. Their weapons are levelled, defiant to the end despite the odds. Here they are, side-characters to this story, fighting for forces they cannot hope to understand. The final mooks rallying against the pseudo-protagonists of this truly messed-up story.

Heroes? Is that what they're calling us now?

What a fucking joke.

Now I find myself waiting for the onslaught of automatic fire from our would-be antagonists, the muzzle-flashes signalling our doom. It never comes. Instead comes a roar from the back of the van as the Warmaster flings himself into the fray. His voice is hoarse, the bullets impacting upon him spraying stone, his movements a shadow of what they might once of been.

But as the Warmaster steps into the fray against the remnants of the Inquisition, he becomes an avatar of Death in the truest sense of the word.

[size=+2]"WHERE THERE IS UNCERTAINTY, I SHALL BRING LIGHT."[/size]

His muzzle-flashes spit death and destruction upon those who would stand in our way. The bolter-fire tears through our enemies as they try to respond to this unmitigated onslaught, my comrade-in-arms never ceasing in his stride towards his foes.

[size=+2]"WHERE THERE IS DOUBT, I SHALL SOW FAITH."[/size]

He does not fear them, the Warmaster. Arrayed against him are enemies who outnumber him twice and twice-over again, yet he marches at them unflinchingly, without fear; he has become Death now, the destroyer of worlds.

[size=+2]"WHERE THERE IS SHAME, I SHALL POINT ATONEMENT."[/size]

He's roaring his defiance to the world now, to the heavens, and I can only watch in awe. Whatever may be affecting him, with a weapon in his hands the Warmaster is an artist who paints with bolter-rounds. The Inquisition are as cattle to the slaughter before him.

[size=+2]"WHERE THERE IS RAGE, I SHALL SHOW IT'S COURSE."[/size]

The bolter runs dry and the remaining assailants rush their slaughterer, yet they fail to anticipate the chainsword that he draws; the Warmaster suddenly becomes an arc of death betwixt them all, hacking them to shreds in a haze of death and glory.

[size=+2]"MY WORD IN THE SOUL SHALL BE MY BOLTER IN THE FIELD."[/size]

They're driving blades into his flesh now, his armour corrupted by the curse of the Medusa; all this serves to do is give him more targets to kill. I can barely perceive the Warmaster now; he is Death amidst these fools who would challenge him, an unstoppable path of destruction, and for a moment as I stare upon him I see the form of Uriel, my ancient friend from the world before and companion-in-arms within the Knights.

I chuckle dryly, take the hip flask and have another swig. "We're the Knights of Iwaku, Uriel; we don't stop 'till we're dead."

[size=+2]"COME, YOU TRAITORS!"[/size] He's a blazing symbol of defiance against oppression, an arcing avatar of death. [size=+2]"SHOW ME WHAT PASSES FOR FURY AMONGST YOUR MISBEGOTTEN KIND!"[/size]

The Warmaster's rage has got to me; I am ready to fight now, ready to die.

There just remains one final thing, and then I am fully prepared to embrace fate.

I reach across the ruins of the van to take Aimi in my arms, kissing her as fully as I can muster; for a moment time stands still amidst the violence, death and chaos. There is only Aimi and I.
"You were the only girl for me. I want you to know that, before I die." I never give her the chance to respond, storming out of the van with my weapons raised aloft, blazing death and glory. How Aimi reacts to the kiss I will never know; all I am aware of is the fact that almost immediately she's by my side, the muzzle of her assault rifle blaring as she shoots round after round into our enemies.

We finally make pace with the Warmaster's advance; he looks like he's ready to fall apart, but he holds his weapons aloft defiantly, ready for the end.
"I will hold them here," he informs me, with the certainty of a man who has fully embraced his own death. I grasp his arm one final time and share a brief glance, two killers about to meet their final fate.
"Give them hell, Warmaster," I tell him, before charging the Council Offices.

That's how I like to remember the Warmaster; defiant and unrelenting to the end, ready to fight to the last man in the face of certain death. A beautiful way for a warrior to go out. And finally I recognise the intrinsic difference between he and I; though I may be merely a killer, the Warmaster is a warrior.

This is his final battle, his glorious death. I think that's what he's been looking for all this time.

Aimi and I strafe gunfire as we charge the imposing Inquisition building, faced with a heavily dug-in defence within the main foyer. We stack up against one of the door pillars, the dark masonry brutalised by shrapnel and bullets.
"Are you ready, my girl?" I ask her, looking down upon my oldest companion, my dearest love.
"Born ready, Grant," she informs me.

There is nothing left to say, no words that can express the feelings we have for each other.

Now's the time.

I burst into the building with two pistols blazing in my hands, a bandoleer full of bullets and an angel's name, roaring forth from my lungs.[/size]

 

[Paorou-sama]

The sky cleared instantly.

"...Preheat oven to 350 degrees F..."

Soon the din of gunfire and expelled shell casings ceased from the ranks of the Inquisitors.

"...and place rack in center of oven..."

Then there was silence throughout the Inquisitorial compound.

"...Butter or spray with a non stick vegetable spray..."

The Inquisitors looked up, their ears picking up a far off noise.

"... a 9 x 5 x 3 inch loaf pan..."

The beating of large wings.

".... Line the bottom of the pan..."

A shadow flickered over the edge of Grant's vision.

"...with parchment paper and butter..."

Aimi caught a glimpse of it too. She saw a great, red-skinned creature flying in the distance.

...or spray the paper....

The last vision of the Warmaster reminded him of his fate in the Cycle. He saw fields stained with blood, in wars he had fought long ago. Battles where he marched against large monsters of absurd origin alone, firing his bolter and reciting his litanies. This creature was from such a time of darkness and blood and gore.

"In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, and vanilla extract."

Silias wildly fired his bolter at it, until his vision and muscles finally gave out. His final effort was rewarded with a clean hit, perforating the demon's left wing. With a cry, the creature fell from the heavens, spiraling towards the earth below. There was a loud crash, and the scattering of rocks and metal.

A pillar of smoke rose over the entire compound.

"In the bowl of your electric mixer, with the paddle attachment..."

Before the Inquisitors, the interlopers and the shadow of Nerf itself, there stood a gigantic demonic creature. Crimson-skinned musculature, a wicked row of horns, and thickly-bristled hair, covering it like a small forest. It's face was like a bull's, albeit with sharp teeth and eyes of flame. It wore a black apron, like a butcher - but its tall, tower-like hat suggested a culinary bent. In its hand was a large, black rod, crackling with arcane energy.

"...place the dry ingredients and mix on low speed for about 30 seconds or until blended."

The dread Breadbaker, picked from the greatest of Skhone's personal chefs. The Inquisitors looked on with awe, but soon turned back to fire at the intruders. Once more, the courtyard was ablaze with the lights of muzzle flares and tracers. Aimi and Grant fired back.

"Add the butter and half of the egg mixture."

But the gigantic creature seemed perturbed by this exchange, and roared. It suddenly raised its gigantic baking pin with supernatural speed. Then it jumped up, and smashed the ground.

"Mix on low speed until the dry ingredients are moistened."

Rubble and blood flew everywhere, as the Inquisitors were crushed by a falling balustrade. In confusion, they fired off a few shots at the creature. The Demon did not let up, smashing an Inquisitor gun nest in the next split second. It roared, but its chanting did not cease.

"Increase the mixer speed to medium and beat for about one minute to aerate and develop the cake's structure."

It was claimed by the chaos of battle. The final curse of the Warmaster led it to believe that each and every gunshot in sight was aimed at it. Thus, all firearms and its bearers were its enemies. In a frenzy of crazed blows and swings - the courtyard was reduced to rubble in mere seconds.

"Scrape down the sides of the bowl."

Then finally, it turned its attention to Grant, Aimi and the vehicles behind them.

_____________________________________________

Cardinal Orochi had just completed another pastry. A groan of pain and the cracking of bones echoed from inside the Great Blood Oven. An offering that surely appeased Skhone.

The great oven produced a tart of blood and sinew, that when consumed, gave its devourer the might of giants. The Cardinal gave this to a frothing zealot in sack cloth, and pointed him at the direction of the Teknikans.

"We need more!" Orochi yelled at the frenzied crowd, "More prisoners! More Martyrs! More victims!"

Suddenly, he felt a slight breeze at his back. Orochi turned to see three stripes of red on a leather jacket. Before him stood Furrow Insayne, kneeling with a tome in his hands. The Cardinal scoffed at him.

"What is this!?" he asked curtly.

"From the King, himself. You may want to read it." Furrow replied, smirking. Then the Trismegistus agent handed the tome over to Orochi.

Covered in what seemed to be human flesh, The Cardinal made out the words 'BREAD FOR THE BREAD GOD : The Skhone Doctrine' on the spine and cover of the book.

He turned to question Furrow once more, but the man in the leather jacket had disappeared.

The Cardinal then slowly opened the tome, as two of his priests led a screaming, fanatical woman to the fires. As he pondered its contents, the woman's screams echoed in his mind. Then something locked within himself was dragged out, kicking and screaming.

At the balcony of Nerf Castle, Paorou-sama grinned.

_____________________________________________

"Bread for the Bread god."

There was a dark room, where an asian man with small-slit eyes and eyeglasses was baking a cake. He took eggs, flour, water and sugar, putting them in a bowl. He mixed it thoroughly.

"It's amazing, Orochi. The cult is growing fast thanks to you."

A man caped in red, his face obscured by the shadows.

"I came up with a name, you know - for the god - Skhone, on his throne of Scones."

A slum, with various creatures on the streets, shouting and cursing. The city's layout changes over time. People held bread wherever they go. Laughter.

"Scones for the scone throne!"

The image of a great king, surrounded by his followers. They overlook this changing city, their banners cutting across the sky. Markings of feet crisscross everywhere.

"We wage war with Gabriel."
"That's crazy!"
"Lawl, I am the King of Insanity."

Markings of war. Weapons being stockpiled. Blood. Battles. Endless Battles. Corpses.

"By the blood of his enemies, Skhone makes his bread."

5 Towers, breaking down. The world bleeding green blood. The sky, sundered.

Silence.

"This experiment was a success."

The man in the red cape, now standing over a miniature galaxy. Shimmering lights dot the empty, black horizon.

"I would have preferred the Zealous Ones to have prospered long ago, but this is enough."
"What?"
"We've defeated Entropy, Orochi."

He holds in his hand a ring of light, stained bright red.

"Infinite energy. All we pay for it are the blood of our enemies and victims."

The new world, born with Paorou's generosity. A new frontier. New faces. New People. New Iwaku.

"Then there's no need to fight then, we just have to collect the ingredients..."
"No, I miscalculated."

"Skhone" is nothing but a method, a title. He hid it as a religion, as a cult. Everything to him is an experiment. Everything to him is a test of power.

"The power is not in the blood. It's in the struggle."

Mountains of corpses. Not Paorous, not Nics, not Orochis. Soulless danced upon the blackened dead.

"There is power in strife. Infinite power in infinite war."

Three banners lifted against grey skies. Stone constructs moving ever slowly over the horizon. The sky, sundered once more.

"Destruction. Death. Rebirth from Death. The Creation of the New."

There was a dark room, where an asian man with small-slit eyes and eyeglasses was making a red mash. He took a heart, a skull, blood and bone, putting them in a bowl. He mixed it thoroughly. Tears formed in his eyes, his hands now bloody with filth.

"The Cycle of Skhone."

Orochi screamed, seeing his own reflection in the mire of gore.

_____________________________________________

The Cardinal buckled over, his back and chest aching with a fiery pain.

"It was me..."

He saw the tome vanish, becoming specks of light that entered his form.

"I was... I am... Skhone!"

A surge of Perlasven energy struck him from the heavens, creating a burning circle at his feet. In an instant, his flesh burned away, becoming the embodiment of sacrifice for power. The Cardinal threw off his robes, his form now of boiling blood and roiling flame.

He made a low whistle, and a great winged lion jumped from the shadows.

At first it was scared to approach him, and it roared at him, but Skhone held out his still human hand. Dandelion finally recognized its old master, and jumped into the flames. Orochi's last vestige of humanity burned off in the flames of infinite power, consuming his beloved pet to abuse the power released by such emotional triggers.

He burned brighter than ever, becoming a great fire that was set to consume the entirety of the crowd.

"Bread... for the bread god!" A priest screamed in terror and awe, and he was baked in an instant.

"Scones for the scone throne." Paorou smirked, saluting his friend.

 

[Asmodeus]

Sindri appeared in a corridor of the Inquisition Fortress, coughing and snarling. He shook a layer of dust from his armour, batting at the flakes like they were ants. The Barship Bunker had fallen. The petrification had come from nowhere, paying no heed to the enchanted hull-plates that reinforced the command post. The control staff and the remaining ministers were all gone, statues now in the tomb below.

But Sindri's will was stronger. He still had hopes. He still had ambition. Reaching through the darkness, his mind located the weak psychic signature of Pirogeth in a room near the promenade that divided the Council and Inquistion offices. He could tell the High Councillor was injured, trapped, half-petrified. Now was Sindri's chance. He drew an arcane blade and set off down the corridor, his staff punching the ground with every step. He would cut out Pirogeth's eyes, drink his soul, then make his move for power. The King was beseiged, the Powers reeling, and Jack Shade no more than a whelp who was green to the ways of the Sword. Sindri though - he had studied the Sword of Iwaku, the Powers of the King, the ways of the Cycle - his obsession had made a veteran of him before Jack Shade was even born.

This was his chance. With Pirogeth's herald-sight he would steal the throne from under Paorou's nose. He would be the armoured vulture, the answer to this equation, the Messiah of the Dark Gods who--

He stopped.

The sorceror was crossing the foyer of the building. The lobby was strewn with pieces - body parts and weaponry - as if some great beast had shredded all his toys in a tantrum. The walls were flecked with gore, the carpet soaked, the statues and reception furniture hung with severed limbs and entrails. To his left, through the ajar doors, the courtyard shook with the roar of the Bread Baker Demon as it circled the shelter of Porg, Archy, Piroko and Orion. And to his right, footfalls in one of the corridors told of where Grant and Aimi had run to.

He would deal with them shortly.

For now, Sindri's eyes were locked upon the new adornment to the Inquisition's lobby. He removed his helmet, so his smile could be seen, and then, as if barely containing his laughter, he stepped towards the seven foot statue of the Warmaster. It was Medusa-grey, decked with gore, one hand holding out a bolter, which perhaps had been pointed at the demon in the courtyard before he had petrified. The other hand hung loosely, the chainsword fallen on the floor. Sindri circled so he could gaze at the fossilised pits of his enemy's eyes.

"Was it really worth it, Silias?" he whispered to the lifeless face before him. "Your glorious death, in the bowels of some bureaucrat's den? Where were your legions? Your burning stars? Who will sing the saga of the Warmaster now?"

His staff tapped the outstretched bolter, making it crumble into dust along with half the Warmaster's arm. Sindri's head rolled back as he chortled. "You should have remained my puppet. You would have been more usefu--"

There was crunch of stone. The statue twisted. The other hand came up and clamped around Sindri's throat.

"AIIURGH!!" His eyes went wide, staring at the stone face of the Warmaster. But there was nothing there. Only the Warmaster's arm had moved, as if possessed by the last drops of his death-defying rage. His were the blank features of oblivion, the face of the abyss.

Sindri's knife swung forward, snapping on the stone breastplate of the statue. Then his staff sputtered with light, trying to summon his magic, but the Warmaster's fist was closing. Sindri's arteries were crushed, his voice silenced. His eyes blazed with eldritch rage, but he could do nothing. He was now a part of the statue, stone joining stone.

There was a snap of bone, and the Council was no more.

The Warmaster's statue would be glorious.

 

[Jack Shade]

I cannot focus on her, quartered body cut like so much paper. Instead I trace the edge of TK's mask, the only thing left of her on this plane. Has she died before? Have I? Memories are scattered lily pads bumping over a forever pond. As with each time, my true identity eludes me. Am I Nobody, the usurper? Am I Jack Shade, the general? Am I Purger, the Assassin, or am I Hero, the Redeemer? How meta for the character to question their role, Asmodeus would find it quaint. I stand, looking out over Iwaku, this Dark Reign, and I am taken by the agony that suffuses air and sky alike. Clouds roil above. I can feel the electricity building. This world is breaking, like the last, and the one before it. Something is eating through the barriers of this reality and fraying its place in the cosmic branches of Iwaku's many-fold histories.

The sword and sheathe pulse in my hands, bringing with them memories across the multi-verse. Once I was a boy in armor, leading fantastical creatures from an underground base. Once I could become like water to escape my fate. Once I was a general who plunged Iwaku into further conflict. Once I was the burned and dying body beneath Asmodeus's hands. Once I was his son. Once I was his Father. Once we were brothers and once we were the same people…and several people.

The Absolutes of Iwaku share realities. This blade and sheathe exist simultaneously in every world. They are the keys; part of the fulcrum which keeps all Iwakus rooted together. The Four Powers, The Recurring Names, and the Absolutes. Absolutes are part of the paper we write on, the Powers are the ink, and our names are the pen. We all speak one tongue of continuity, of consistent renewal...perhaps just perpetuation, repetition. And in that echoing language, I will face Asmodeus as we have before…as we have five hundred and forty eight times before. We both continue until our bodies are the dirt and our words are the wind, always building on each other in a tower of stagnant development.

Our rivalry is cliché and inevitable.

Here, shadowed against a burning backdrop, I reel with epiphany. I put myself upon this world to oppose him, and in some way I always have. I am the son who seeks approval; I am the coworker jealous of his talent. Has our conflict always been based on something so petty? Kneeling, I can almost feel my faith rupturing. What role can I possibly have that's bent of jealousy? Once more I am the Purger, an assassin dog for the Powers. I taste the dry sarcasm, the aged pessimism like wine turned to vinegar. That familiar ulcer needles into my stomach, a beetle renewed in its plunge toward solidarity. When my faith wavers, my powers flicker.

Heavy hearts and promises have weighed my progress till now. In the right place at the right time I have been a convenient vessel for prophecy. A son always kills his father and perhaps that is what the Cycle wants in this universe, to tie me by blood to my always-mentor and slay him with his own casual destiny. I am a tool, so cleverly wrought with justice and ideals. At once I see the Cycle for what it is, something far different from the alien turning of some unimaginable wheel. No. This puppeteer controls me with strings sown of multiversal confrontations, each step taken in this story leading up to now. I have completed the Hero Journey. I have suffered. This is the reward for my planned trials, a throw at what I am supposed to want, supposed to need.
The death of the Angel.

Laughter cripples me, the sword clattering from my grasp across the blood-soaked roof. How perfect, how utterly perfect. The grand architect above us all masquerades as a Wheel and we listen to its churns. Why confront the skies and heaven when such convenient enemies place themselves before us? Again and again, Iwaku has replayed her wars and violence. Again and again we choose to pursue the challenge which wears the most recognized face. Again and again our hatred grows, our worlds turn to stone, and we continue again.

The wheel is no wheel. The Wheel is a mind, the true Shadow of this story playing us like pawns on a chessboard that spans time and space. Asmodeus? A pawn! I? A pawn! And Paorou is perhaps the most predictable pawn of all! How stupid could we be to swing our blades at phantoms and shadows in a never ending play? Acts upon Acts and the actors are all amnesiacs!

This world is a farce!

My hands grip the hilt of the sword again, renewing my connection to the verses that were and may yet be. No one knew, how could they? Without the Absolutes, there could be no Absolute truth! I see the twisted stone faces of my friends and foes, hundreds of realities all mute with faces carved too perfectly for any craftsman. The Medusa follows, she always follows and yet I find there are worlds untouched by her corruption. The Admin war replays in my mind, a floating island in space is destroyed and the Legacy ferries familiar and new faces into the stars.

Could it be so easy? Could the answer to all this really be so elementary?

Medusa, she destroyed the realities that have no end. SHE is the end. My heart races, cold water running where blood once pumped. Medusa, this ungainly snake, she ends the worlds that do not finish their own narrative. She is the force of decay and obliteration which absolves them from the timeline.

My god.

Iwaku is not meant to be a multiverse, no. Iwaku, true Iwaku, is TRYING to end! All these stories that die, all these realities reduced to rubble, they are the maybes that the story could be! Like chapters in a book! My heart is a furious race of skitter scatter beats, my mind is full of apocalyptic visions, of knowledge and revelation too terrible to possess. Could that be it? Medusa aborts these birthed realities before they're stillborn. Now she's here, too soon! Too soon! Our world has not stopped turning, she seeks to end it before we can do it ourselves!

A haunting notion. What if Medusa enjoyed her destruction? What if Iwaku was a story no one wanted an ending for? What if this grand manipulator could sense our conviction in this world and let the demon in too early? I reel. Some small part of this god's subconscious wants to perpetuate our suffering, seek the perfect ending or none at all.
Medusa is here to end our world…so a new one can begin.

Everyone here is in danger.

Everyone.

And her summoners were fools to think she could be controlled.

I leave Natalie in pieces on the rooftop, my wings beating around me to lift my body into the sky. The Cycle reminds of my promise, but I do not seek my adversary yet. Asmodeus was never my true enemy. We are both distractions to each other, devices to perpetuate a plotline. We will meet, inevitably, but he cannot be my enemy anymore.

Within, a boy named Nobody wails against the walls I put around him. All that unrequited respect, the rabbit stuffed with angel feathers, memories of holding it in the night imagining a father that would never come. These were not mine. These were distractions. Nobody is, ultimately, the murderer of Asmodeus. By son's blood, I have the tools to end him…perhaps permanently. But if the Cycle is so set on the angel losing this battle…what happens if he wins?

Suicidal musings come at the price of confidence and I nearly sink from the sky. No. Thought later. I can approach these revelations again when I am ready. For now, my path is clear. I must end the corruption in Iwaku, now, while brimstone burns and chaos reigns. Strike down the serpent and eventually I will be given its head.
My fate says to confront Asmodeus.

But I wing toward the Cathedral of Orochi, the Bread cult and their infernal ovens.

Like all minor players, Orochi has been given too much time to be important. The story will warp his path and use him like a dishrag to continue this chaos. I have been given the power to authority the changes made in this grand narrative, or perhaps I am its greatest advocate. Regardless, I will cling to the idea of free will. I will follow what my heart tells me to do.
Right now, it whispers to me, it tells me to protect.

I was never a villain. I play its part poorly.

So I will be Hero and damn the consequences.

Within the great Cathedral, Orochi's body writhed with divine fire. Remade in Paorou's imagined furnace, consuming his loyal lion, Orochi was nothing more than conviction and power, stitched of holy writ and some poor joking homage to baking. The first of the priests were obliterated in the fire that sprang across Skohne's body, feeding the oven that bubbled over stone and wood to consume the frenzied masses beyond. Innocents clamored to escape, the frightened roiled in religious conviction. In a moment, the fire would consume them all.
Instead it ricocheted into the sky with an unearthly roar, leaving the citizens unharmed.

Between Skohne and his prey, black wings unfurled around the Purger's body, the Sheathe held out between he and the monster, the eldritch green sword of Iwaku at his side. Jack smiled. "Orochi!" He called to the thing, "You're looking bigger! The Cathedral Larder treating you well?" The only answer was a din of voices and fire, Skohne's voice, terrible and unintelligible.

"I think I prefer you this way," the Purger murmured, bringing up the blade, "Finally you are revealed for what you always were…" Another gout of fire, again defended by the Sheathe. Beyond, the citizens and faithful alike scattered into the rubble and ruin, the shining example of the Hero returning their minds to them from the brink of religious suicide.

"A monster dressed in faith."

Skohne lumbered forward, Jack leaped at the demon, sword and sheathe extended.

There was an explosion, infernos, green enegy.

The Cathedral was no more.

Nerf Castle

Jumi and Tyrone worked tirelessly at the controls, vid screens for the Razbots scattered across the terminal as they input new directives, commands, incentives. Jumi brushed hair away from his pale white mask, wiping away the dried blood left from Jack's assault only hours ago. Tyrone watched his partner from the corner of his eye, toying with a ring on his right hand, almost nervous. Together they controlled the entirety of the Razbots, the machines that hampered the progress of the terrorists and mowed down suspicious citizens from anywhere near the tower itself. Nic and Rosoft had full access to the assault on the Scorpion and the Trismegustus, as always, had their minds not on the present, but the future. Today was as good a time as any to eliminate possible problems for the regime and reinforce the might of the Dark Reign to the citizens. Tryone turned the ring on his hand again, twitching.

Jumi didn't notice.

Hurled from the Scorpion, Syracuse was momentarily everywhere and nowhere at once. His energy diffused into the whole of the city, much of Orion's boost leaving him and simply vanishing into the atmosphere. He hadn't the means to hold it all together, not in so small a form. Medusa almost had him, and he still had the haunting feeling of petrification wearing on his conscious as energy tried to find its path back into a whole. For a being of constant movement, to become stone was a fate worse than death.
He hadn't anticipated her so soon.

In an alley, a flash of red light revealed the beaten and bloodied Syracuse, desperately tying and wrapping bandages around his body. He had only a few moments before the energy would discorporate, but luckily his time in the army had taught him a thing or two about hasty medical treatment. Sighing, he collapsed against the back wall, spinning the golden pen on an open palm. Soon he would need the other, the one that had been with Asmodeus till now. A momentary switch so that the right player could make the right choice. He only hoped the Tyrant would be too busy with the story to notice another player entering its realm. Gripping the golden shaft, Syrcause was gone from the alley and appeared upon a roof, looking out at the disarray and chaos around him. Jack Shade was engaging Orochi in the Cathedral as expected. The so called Medusa Terrorists were held up near the Council building with Pirogoeth. He wanted to intervene, but it was not his place to do so. They needed this trial before the end. Silas had perished, Zypher had perished, Trance Kitsune, Sindri, and Natalie had perished. More would die, and their loss would only fuel the angel's guilt, only build his resolve stronger. Besides, Syracuse was in no condition to assist them now. He was still gathering his energy and even then, he knew he was dangerously close to discorporation…too close.

A pause, recalculations.

There would be a change to the Revisionist plans…a necessary one. But not one he would relate to Tegan.

"Now," he whispered to the air, a charge of energy taking his command where it needed, "I think the path can be cleared and the soldiers put to more vital tasks."

Words said, Syracuse vanished once more, hurling himself toward the Tower and appearing on the roof of a building just outside the courtyard. His mind reeled, his body ached. For now, he had to let the others complete their tasks and have faith in their completion. The end was near and he still had some main players left to lecture. His last lecture.

A smile moved the bandages around his mouth as the Hijacker laid back.

One hell of a career.

"Where are your Razbots going, Tyrone?" Jumi asked coldly, scarcely looking up from the control panel, "Your subjects are due in sector 5. N00bs are escaping the sewer entrance and we need them dealt with."

Tyrone did not answer, not at first, twisting the ring on his finger.

"Tyrone!" Jumi snapped, turning that white mask and black-hole eyes toward his companion, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Tyrone answered, quickly typing in the commands to send the Razbots toward the n00bs. He paused, as though listening to something, and shivered. "Nothing wrong at all…yiss, yiss."

Jumi turned sharply, but it was too late. A Razbot behind the both of them, one of hundreds still awaiting orders for release…the 'reserve guard' had lowered its plasma gun directly against the back of Jumi's head.

There was a single discharge.

Only one Trismegustus agent remained at the controls, quickly assuming Jumi's position and cackling to himself as he rerouted commands. The Razbots turned from their duties before, including all the reserve guard, and rolled toward the Scorpion, warming up their primary weapons. The golden ring was bright on Tyrone's hand, but without his companion, it was not necessary. Woodrat removed the ring Syracuse had given him from one claw, cackling to himself as his hands scuttled across the keyboard.

"Obey! Obey! Yiss, Yiss, I will obey," The mad guardian squeaked, opening up the way for Asmodeus and the others, "History will continue and the gift rat will remember! Right son? Right Dad, I always knew we could believe in the Gift Rat, good ole Woodrat. Yiss, yiss."

 

[Porg]

I don't get a response from Archy, the maelstrom that is the barricade happens. The smoke from the explosion floods into the vehicle through the smashed windows and punished frame, making the crash inevitable but the impact a surprise. I grab onto what I can and the stop is forgivingly gentle but as the smoke clears and Grant's vehicle comes thudding into the plaza I see what's waiting for us. A wall of inquisition troops is there, guns raised.


I scrabble forwards and grab Archy by the waist, kicking backwards, breaking her belt buckle in the process and slamming into the passenger door. With all the damage it's received it breaks easily and we go crashing to the ground between the 3 vehicles. no sooner are we clear of the car to bullets pepper the metal, smashing what windows remain and flying above our faces. I roll over a little, letting Archy go to rest on the floor as I roll the other way, getting up to my knees. Orion and Piroko join us in the space between the cars, also keeping their heads down.


There's not much we can do, before a roar sounds out and the Warmaster makes his final charge. We're pinned down still and miss the chance to follow him like Grant and Aimi do. I want to help the warrior, but I can't, he is already lost to Medusa's effects, a warning to the rest of us. His last charge is something to behold, and I find myself filled with pride. Pride that I got to fight alongside him, however briefly. As well as sadness that I didn't know the man better. The Warmaster's charge is devastating to the inquisition, but not enough to remove the pressure that's pinning us down. I duck back behind the cars, trying to think of what to do, how to move, when a shadow glides over us and with a terrifying crash the Bread-cult demon lands, decimating the Inquisition forces.


"Shouldn't the Angel dudes be the ones fighting the Demon dudes?" Orion says as we stand, dwarfed by the creature.


"Funny you should say that" I reply, watching the creature as it circles our nest of cars.




[DASH=Green]Porg was sat on the roof of the cottage in Porg's Meadow. He was staring out across the seemingly never-ending trees that surrounded the clearing. The trees, at one point in the horizon, stopped actually existing but the image of them remained - the ghostly visage of them having a heat-hazed effect that was quite soothing to watch. As he sat there, lost in thought, Obskeree flew up and perched on the roof next to him. Her wings fluttered to a stop and she stared up at the young man, who easily dwarfed the fairy.


"Mr Jack" she chimed, looking down and away as he shook out of his day dream and turned his attention to her. "I wanted to ask you something."


"Yeah?" Porg replied, readjusting his perch to face her better.


"Uhm.." She took a little gulp before looking him in the eyes. "Would you be my new angel?" The question hung in the air for a few seconds, it's gravity would be lost on most, but not Porg, he understood just how important it was for a fairy to have an angel, and how lost and hopeless Obskeree had felt having lost hers. He knew what this meant and he knew the amount of trust she must have in him to ask.


And yet, there was only one thing he could say.


"Obskeree… I'm… not an angel, I couldn't be. I'm sorry"
[/DASH]



"Guess we'll have to face this thing without angels eh?" I say stepping up onto the car in-front, facing up to the hulking beast. I'm not an angel, I'm not capable of living up to that title. But with the others here, I'm not letting some half-assed joke of a demon stop us now.


I glance over to the Warmaster, now nothing more than a statue, a testament to a warrior's strength. The spectacle lights a fire, and I feel my soul flare. The demon roars and swings it's club down at me. Soul energy flares around my hand and I swing a punch, the club cracks, chunks flying off as the blow is deflected to the side, carving a gouge into the stonework of the plaza. I stare at the creature, the energy rippling around my arm as the others make their moves.

 

[Astaroth]

Asmodeus stands silent above me, grip slackening around the hilt of his sword.

"Embrace it," I whisper around the blood trickling down the back of my throat, as his moment of epiphany unfolds. I push myself to my feet, reaching out to lay my hand against his cheek. "You still have time."

It is a luxury that I lack, myself. My body is rent, my resources tapped completely from the confrontation. I am still moving only to ensure that my message is not in vain. Lodging my free fist into the hole under my ribs, I stagger towards him, my eyes never leaving his. If I waver, I may lose him... and then all will be lost. He is the reason that I was sent here; he is the last bastion against Rory's teachings of the sacred feminine, and he is the festering wound which must be amputated if it cannot be purged of infection. He must accept the Cycle's lesson. If he does not...

It's like an infection.
It festers unnoticed as your skin inflames
Only to suddenly be right there,
Spilling out of you and bubbling up from within,
Stinging and swelling,
Making your blood go hot and your hands turn cold.

I see a flash of her in his eyes.

"Tegan... You recognize what she is to you, don't you?"

She's like an infection.
She's under your skin and inside your veins.

Rory looked at the angel of the Silent Hill, and she at him. Her hair was shorter now than last he'd seen her, shorn to her ears, but her eyes were the same: clear, piercing, purposeful. Her back was straight and stiff, her hands clasped before her, her chin level. There was no mark of sadness on her, and one might wonder if she was so unaffected, or if it were merely the way that she preferred to appear.

"I am sorry for your loss," he told her at last.

She said nothing, the way her eyes turned downcast the only indication that she acknowledged his words.

"You know," Rory began again, "There is an old story in Iwaku- nearly forgotten now- that says we are each only one half of ourselves. At conception, we are whole; but one half is born in this world and one half in the next, only to meet again at the end of a lifetime. This is the path given to us by our souls... to become complete again. This is why our lives feel empty or unfulfilled, why we struggle to fill the hole which we feel inside of us."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked him, putting her back to him and looking out at the cityscape. Her hands rested easily against the window ledge.

"Sometimes, the other half of the soul remains in this world, and is born as a second entity. Two bodies, two genders... one soul. We are drawn to this person because they complete us, in every sense. We call this concept... soul-mates. The lack of union between souls, between male and female, is vital to the Cycle. Without it..."

He smiled sadly. "Without it, the world would burn."

"Iwaku cannot be healed... without the Goddess." I'm gasping now, struggling against the slow rise of fluid inside of me. "The Cycle is imbalanced. The masculine... cannot reign over the feminine without consequence."

My strength at last gives out, and I fall to my knees, slumping at Asmodeus's feet. I let my eyelids fall shut, my palms flat to the wet earth, and murmur a prayer for him, for all of his companions... for the protagonists of this dying story. I pray that they all might find comfort in the union of their souls, before the final page comes. I pray that it will be enough. I do not pray for myself. It is strange- yet fitting- that Iwaku should be the stage of my final hour. After so many years... I have no part left to play.

I will never see my other half again.

When I hit the ground, I do not feel it. Behind me, forgotten in the grass, Soul Reaver shatters.

Tomorrow I offer my stricken greeting
The winds which bore me now so fleeting
I taste the blood my heart is beating
No, I won't have that distant meeting

​

 

[Asmodeus]

Grant and Aimi passed through a mausoleum, an exhibit of statues, a freeze-frame of pain and heartache. Statues of bureaucrats and Inquisitors, frozen in mid-run or holding papers or shouting orders. Those they touched would fall as dust, and this was more painful than leaving their agony on show. So in time they took to ducking and twisting, weaving through the jungle of the deceased. It didn't take long to find the cells and then the Heretics Wing.

And in time, they stood at the threshold of Uriel and Sozrosse's cell. There was no clear reaction in either Grant or Aimi's bodies - no sinking of the shoulders, no sigh, no cheer, no words. For the sight before them was neither beauty nor abomination. It was simply... something else.

"You're late, doctors... You always waited for the drama to come to you... in that damn medi-bay... Makes a change I suppose... to seek your patients out..."

The voice was like water dripping through caverns of rock. Uriel and Sozross lay entwined on the floor, a lover's embrace as their bodies petrified. It was slow, a gentle caress of stone. Uriel's hands moved through the ferrous red of Sozrosse's hair and she turned her cheek to press against his. "You found Aimi... good... she shouldn't be alone for this..."

There was a muffled sob from Aimi. She came down to her knees in the doorway. But neither she nor Grant dared step any closer to their friends.

"Don't cry..." Uriel whispered, his limbs becoming still. "We've wept enough... we children of the Legacy. Remember what Lamord said... the stories are our power... we must do them justice..."

"Medusa is the Other..." Sozrosse's angelic eyes were covered by marble lids. "The two becoming one. The second force. There is a reason why the cycle is incomplete... This is the final flaw, Grant... the last anomaly..."

"Remember, Grant... remember our legacy... remember what Raife did to his daughter... what he told her.. about us... Remember what monsters are..."

Aimi turned away and clung to Grant's leg, crying as the last shudder of rock signalled total solidity. Dust washed against his face, catching in his beard, in the lines of his wrinkles, and in the corners of his eyes where tears would form no more. His friends were gone... and their final message echoed in his ears.

"NOOOOO!"

I bring my sword down, hacking into Ozryel's neck, hacking through flesh and bone. She is already dead, but rage has consumed me. I swing again and again, then kick, then punch. Blood spatters my clothes. Her body crumples. I smash and carve her apart on the concrete.

No. Not the Goddess. She will not trick me. She will not steal my limelight. I do not need her.

Fuck the Muses. Fuck her. I am an angel of God. A man. The force of linear time and phallic structure. I am the hierarchy and the tower, the confluence of order. The pinnacle and bedrock of this fucking world.

I am Iwaku. I am its prodigy, its god, the only one who cares, the only one who understands. The only one strong enough to fight, to live, to lead, to rule. I will kill this Medusa. I will save this world and every fucking whelp and runt of this foresaken city will look upon me and despair in the presence of angels. She is not the answer, she is not the key, the magic solution to wash away the toil of ages. She is a whore and a deceiver. She has ruined us. RUINED EVERYTHING. THAT BITCH. THAT CUNT. THAT SHRIVELLED HAG.

Fuck Tegan. Fuck Ozryel. Fuck Diana. Fuck Simica. And Psycho Elf. And Anne. And Ana'Thil. And Peridox. All of them. Dead weights, dragging Iwaku into shit and stagnation, polluting every great work with their stink.

I bring my heel down on Ozryel's head, caving in the skull then driving my sword into her belly, cutting her open. I hurl my scream at her entrails and do not cease until my lungs are scraped dry and I am finished, on my knees, beside her ruin.

The sword of Metatron remains in my hand.

I am Asmodeus.

I am afraid of nobody.

And I will fix this city. If there is one thing that will kill Medusa, reflect her gaze back upon herself, it is the Sword of Iwaku. That is my target now. I will wield the Absolute, like no other could, and I will be the saviour. As I was always destined to be.










I'm coming Jack. Coming to fucking kill you.

 

[Tegan]

The thud of his boots against the wet concrete was the only sound he could hear as he made his perimeter rounds. Before him, the city raged and burned with creatures, armies and goddesses. Behind him was a ramshackle prison cum killing floor. No one got in. No one got out, those were the orders.
He didn't hear pale, blind Soledad fall like a feather from the sky behind him, not that it mattered. His story was over, maybe he would have better luck in the next one. He hardly made a sound when one talon-tipped hand clamped over his mouth, embracing him to her, the other ghosting across his throat. He didn't have much to say anyway.

Syracuse placed the wine glass onto the dressing table, amid the display of cosmetics and watched with curious interest as Tegan applied the warm wax to her pubis.
"Preparing for battle I see."
"I have to see a client this evening." Tegan's eyes remained steady on her work, applying the wax into key places, forming a delicate shape.
"The Purger?"
"Yes, the Council dispatched him to interrogate Sozrosse. I want to see if I can find anything out about it."
Syracuse's bandages rustled, he was amused. "The Purger trusts you enough to divulge such information."
"Sometimes." Tegan closed her eyes as she leaned back into the chair, preparing for the tug.

The silence between them was punctuated by her hiss of pain.

They could hang beef in the hallway it was so cold. Industrial strength air conditioners and dehumidifiers thundered away to keep the bodies of the executed from rotting until they could spare the manpower to dump or incinerate them. A practical, and very necessary, application for a slaughterhouse.
Unanun loved the cold. It amplified moments, thoughts, actions--made them harsh and bright as snow. When was the last time it snowed? It was only rain and a thick, greasy mugginess that clung to the skin like a film. In here it was pure. Unanun grinned as he exhaled a puff of condensation, before his eyes narrowed. Through the cotton cloud, a figure approached.
The ISAF soldier clicked his heels and gave his superior a sharp salute, before continuing on his bloody business.
For the sake of dramatics, Unanun allowed the soldier to pass him by a few meters before he spun on his heel. The silver rings on his spindly fingers flashed in the frost bitten light. The Ego Zombie toppled into a dozen pieces, sliced clean by the wires. The executioner made a noise of disapproval before retracting his wires.
"Who would fall for that trick?" He felt warmth blossom from his chest just as the remains of his kill dissipated into stardust. The nib of a golden pen sprouted from the flesh just above his heart.
"Poor aim. You're losing your touch." Unanun grinned, Tegan scowled, and soon the both of them were bloody.

​

Tegan's naked body was half-concealed by the half-strewn sheets. She sat on the floor in her swaddlings, one knee bent to her chest. She smoked a cigarette as she idly watched the Purger dress himself. Rough and scarred, visually, he was out of place in the luxury of her apartment. She did not know if he had any way of knowing that and certainly would never tell him so.

"Sometimes, I think you weren't cut out for this profession." Tegan remarked, voice lazy and thick from their previous lovemaking.
"That's treason." It was difficult to read the emotions in his voice, but he did not turn to cut her down, only worked the buttons of his black shirt.
"Then execute me." She was suddenly behind him, planting tiny kisses along his neck, his jaw. Her fingers fluttered to the exposed, savaged flesh of his chest. He caught her hand.
"Then what role would you have assigned me?" Lightly, almost imperceptibly, his thumb traced the palm of her hand.
"I don't know," Tegan laughed, unworking the buttons again. "Chef?"

"This work doesn't suit you." Tegan narrowly dodged another wire, earning only another cut on her cheek.
"I'm an executioner. Executioners must be employed in order to execute." Unanun doubled back, just before the false Tegan disappeared and the original appeared before him, her foot arching up in a deadly kick. "You used to know that." By way of reply, Tegan sent a burning shaft of light at his face, forcing Unanun to roll to escape. "Did you find anyone else?"
"I found Wearlynite, but he goes by Orion these days. I think he only half-remembers himself, like the rest of the Order of Mayhem." Then Tegan cried out as his wires found her again, tightening around her almost to the brink--
"So, care to enlighten me as to why we keep waking up in these new worlds?" Unanun's fangs glimmered. "Before I send you back to sleep, that is."
"There's no such thing as an original character. We're just rewritten over and over, given new names and faces. We're ground down like rocks in a tumbler, chipped away until we emerge polished and perfect." Tegan was dispensing information readily, something she did not do, even on the edge of death, if she didn't have the upper hand.
"An interesting theory. So, who's doing the polishing, then?" Unanun kept his tone stoic, his eyes forever glazed by jaded malaise. There were some characteristics that would never be polished away.
"You wouldn't want me to spoil the end." Just as she would never remove her own mask.
"Then let's make this fast."
"Agreed." It was only a trick of the light, of course, he never had her ensnared, his wires were torturing a concrete column. Tegan stood before him and quick as thought, pierced her golden pen into his throat.
Unanun fell back against the wall, before sliding down to the floor, his body spasming. A wet rattle escaped his lips with so much scarlet. "s-s-s-s-s-see...in...another...s-s-stor..y....Noel."
"I promise you that we won't wake up again, Rastul." Tegan knelt before him, eyes shining like stars.
Unanun died smiling, eyes staring ahead. Without thought, Tegan removed his wire wrapped rings, before engulfing his body in burning celestial light, leaving no trace. One by one, she placed the rings on her fingers before standing.
Unanun continued through the freezing hall towards the chopping block.

​