An Immortals Tale: Part 8

An Immortals Tale
The Man in the Black Suit
Part 8
"The Day The Sun Died"

The change started in the cab home. Jons body became hot and bursting with energy that was slowly building to something he was dreading: Rebirth. The driver didn't bother asking questions and Jon liked it that way. The night was cold, vapors of heat rose from his overheating body in the backseat. It would take another few hours for the transformation to be complete, but before that he had to deal with the pain of it. Like a mother giving birth he had to take it all. The cab pulled up to his apartment and Jon threw a wad of cash at the man behind the wheel before fetching his impossibly heavy bag from the trunk, lugging it up the stairs while waves of pain crashed into him with no mercy or sign of relenting. His fingers fumbled with keys and after an immeasurable amount of time found the right combination. Inside the bag was tossed aside, thunking like a thousands pounds of metal against the hardwood floor, but he didn't care. Midnight was upon him and the worst of this pain was yet to come. In the middle of the room, near his comfortable chair he began to strip, losing his clothing with gusto, as if it were the fabric, itself, that was on fire and not his own skin. Soon he was naked upon the floor, panting heavily and trying to deal with the oncoming agony that seemed endless.

Invoking the powers of a Paladin for a holy man as he meant that new things would come to light, new powers, new abilities, new sight, new strength, but there was a price to be paid. Paladins were the purest of the holy hierarchy of the order, bringing judgement to humans, demons, and angels, alike. Jons perfect teeth gritted against the new wave, his eyes shut tight, every fiber of muscle like stone, as more of the pain come forth. Screams tried to escape him, only to be choked off by the rigidity of his own body. His mind was being torn apart as his body was rebuilding itself into something different: A Soldier. He clutched at the wooden floor beneath him, his knees on ground with his clenched hands. Hands so tight he was sure he was cutting into his own skin. Knowledge that had been tucked away come screaming forward, incantations, weaknesses, spells, and all the things that he never needed before, once so trivial, now impossibly important. The world drowned itself out in his suffering, the night outside the windows of his small residence reflecting a world that right now didn't matter. Then a break came. Just long enough for him to draw cold air into his lungs, right before the newest assault on his senses came, the first wave of the change complete. He screamed as he arched his back, so hard he was afraid, somewhere in the back of his tormented mind, that he had broken it. Legs stiff with pain could not support him and he fell back, his head meeting the floor along with his shoulders. And that's where he stayed, for hours, until the change was done with him. 

Midmorning was already singing its song by the time Jon came around. He was where he was before: On the floor, naked, twisted in an uncomfortable position. New energy flowed through him, new knowledge screamed in his mind. He stood up, slowly. Muscles had ripped apart, only to be rebuilt anew, adding and subtracting to perfect his new soldier body. Legs, though sore, carried his half limp body to the bathroom where he saw himself for the first time. His bland physique was gone, replaced with tone and bulk, his soft jawline now hard with muscles. But it was his eyes that frightened him the most: Still grey, for the most part, but now with a ring of red along the outside. Jon stood, mesmerized by his new body, as he quieted the new things in his head screaming for attention. He needed a drink. A shower later the immortal stood before his wardrobe and hoped upon hope that they still fit. With a giant sigh of relief he donned a black suit that hung perfectly off his rebuilt frame perfectly. In fact, it looked a little better, now. With little regard he lifted the now, almost lightweight, bag carrying all sorts of arms, into the closet to get acquainted with his wardrobe. But before he stepped outside he surveyed the world with his Paladin eyes. All of it, every single thing, seemed different. The buildings, the sun hidden behind the clouds, the people, all resonated something different. His reborn sight now was able to pick up the things that were lost behind a cloud of comfort.

Legs, that seemed to carry him with a lot less effort, made the walk to his favorite pub shorter. Along the way he had stopped and eaten three times, intake to fuel and maintain the power within himself that demanded more than what he was used to eating. Thoughts and deeds poured off the people he walked by, audible to him, now, like heat waves radiating off a hot coal. Some disgusted him, calling forth the fury waiting beneath the surface, others almost screaming for him to judge them. But he fought the instinct. He didn't want to pass judgement on them unless he had to. As he walked, though, he found he felt his usual smiling demeanor replaced with a frown, almost scowling at the things he now heard. At the things his new paladin powers allowed him to hear. He decided, then and there, at the thoughts of a man who wanted to murder his wife, that this new frown would be the face he would wear on this new body. Blocks passed, people passed, all the more disturbing to him. Sometimes his hands would clench so tight, trying to control the fury inside him, that they shook. He wanted a little peace. A bit of his old life back. And before he could lose control the door of his pub stood before him, welcoming, promising. He pushed it open. Inside sat the same old bouncer, with the same old look, but his reaction was different. Upon locking eyes with the incoming immortal he blanched pale and almost white, pushing the door open while he looked away from the judging gaze.

Ricky, the vampiric bartender, was at his usual station, staring at his phone and clicking away. The bar smelled the same, but now it was laden with something that had never been there before, and was as palpable to Jon as the brews being served to the patrons: Sin. Jons mood was too foul to play a prank on his favorite bartender and he made a beeline to the heavy wood counter. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted new patrons, all heavily robed and all drinking sacramental wine out of crystal goblets. He decided to ignore it as he took a chair and waited for Ricky to notice him. After a few moments the vampire looked up and saw the immortal patron and smiled, happy to see an old friend. Ricky made his way quickly, and fluidly, like he was floating on air to Jon. Jon had never paid attention to the way his bartender moved, but now it seemed almost alien, too fluid for a human, but ignored it, as well. "Jon! My favorite......" Rickys eyes met Jons. The already pale face of the undead bartender lost even more color, "What....did you do...Jon?" Rickys eyes were locked on his patrons, studying, and in pain. It gave the immortal pause to see such emotions flowing through his old friend, but he finally answered, "I'm a Paladin, now, Ricky." The vampire held his gaze, but 'No' kept tumbling off his trembling lips as he reached out a thin hand to touch a face he thought he knew. An audible hiss and a stream of smoke emitted from the outstretched fingers as they made contact with the new skin Jon wore. Slowly and trembling Ricky withdrew his hand, shaking with the pain of touching his friend.

"Oh dear God, Jon, no. A Paladin?" Jon could only nod as Ricky went on, "No, Jon, no! God have mercy. For the rest of my undead life I will remember this as the day the sun died and the world became a darker place." Watery eyes begged for an explanation. Jon began forming the words when the first blow came from behind, knocking his head into the heavy wooden counter and turning the world into a blur. Ricky gasped and suddenly ignited, like he'd been set on fire from the inside, flames seeping through cracks on his now burning and blackened skin, before he collapsed into a pile of smoldering ash behind the counter. Jons head came back up, but so did his anger, awakened and at the ready. The immortals hand shot behind him and grabbed thick robes, pulling the weight into the bar as he stood, knocking the wearer out. With unearthly speed Jon turned to face his assaulter. Before him stood six hooded figures, all near the same height as him, their faces hidden in shadow, their bodies hidden beneath thick fabric. Jon let his new power flare and flow to his fists that glowed orange, showcasing his bones through the illuminated skin. His voice was low, a growl, a hatred he'd never heard come from himself, "Your lives are now mine. FORFEITED IN THE NAME OF GOD!"

His left hand, burning with burning hot power, moved on its own, slamming down upon the figure on the floor, releasing the captive energy into the receiving body, reducing it to a flash of golden flame then ash. Powerful legs launched him from his half-crouched position towards the rest of the figures, a primal, guttural scream erupting from Jon the newly born Paladin. His movement was so fast that it slowed the world down to a crawl and for the first time since entering Jon saw the usually busy bar was empty save for the now seven occupants. Glowing fingers raked through the air, seeking a target in the hooded figures before him, begging to be released. He caught only fabric, that burned away into cinders, as the figures dodged his strikes. Jon wasn't connecting. He knew why: He wasn't utilizing his new knowledge. So he brought it forth. All the new methods of using his now muscular body joined him and now it became as easy as breathing. Thick fabric ripped and Jons extended limbs now connected. Although they tried to avoid him he was ripping into them. Every time one of the figures would try to mount an offensive against the immortal it was met with swift and aggressive action, interrupting the motion before it could be completed. Soon he had them on the ropes, his punches and kicks colliding with solid bodies. It only served to fuel his want to reduce them to nothing even more. 

The sound of splintered chairs and tables as Jon chased his aggressors around the bar joined the grunts and yelps of pain he elicited with his attacks. Finally he'd chased them into the back corner, six figures trembling and looking to one another from behind hooded cloaks. "ENOUGH! YOU DIE NOW!" Jon's throat burned with the scream as he launched himself again at them. Then his body came alive with pain. The robed figures threw out their hands, aimed at Jon, each sending an unseen knot of air at him. He was too committed to his own attack to dodge them. It felt like he was being shot with a machine gun, each knot smashing into him with unforgiving force, driving the air out of him, one or two cracking his ribs, and the last of them catching his extended limbs and rendering them useless. He fell, in a heap, to the floor before the six figures, his consciousness threatening to succumb into passing out. He realized, as he lay on the sticky bar floor, the hands that had reached out of the robes were something he had not expected: Human. Above him a voice spoke, gentle and wise, "You've come to the fold, Paladin Jon. You've proven yourself to us. And we are thankful. But now. Your power is ours. As is your life. Go with God, Paladin Jon."

The world around him was beginning to fade to black as he looked up and saw six pairs of hands stretch out of those heavy, brown robes above him, and begin to glow the same color as his own. His vision continued to fade, tunneling into a long, dark spiral. The hands glowed brighter and some ancient language he thought he recognized began to drone. Jon fought to stay awake, seeking that last glimmer of light at the end of the black corridor that had become his vision. The last thing he saw was those hands above him, performing a ritual he was unfamiliar with, but he felt the effect: His lifeforce, itself, was beginning to drain away. Blackness took over and the newly born Paladin fell unconscious.