An Immortals Tale (Original Series)

An Immortals Tale

The March to Heaven

Chapter 2: The Rumor of God

Two men sat in a diner down the street from a destroyed building, one with short cut blonde hair and green eyes, the other with hair bordering the long end and grey eyes. They were still and silent for a long time, staring into their cups of coffee, soaked to the bone from the rain. The restaurant buzzed with noise and life, flowing all around them, but the two paid no mind to it. Even as the waitress came back for the the third time, asking what they wanted to eat, did they barely respond. Through the sky was already dark from rain the night managed to make it even darker, hiding the moon behind thick clouds, lightning brightening the world when it felt like it.

Jon broke the silence, finally, "Bob? What happened?" Without looking up the angel responded, "Before I answer that I have to ask, Jon: Have you heard the rumor?" Lucifer's words rang through his head, but the rumor was left out, "No. I heard there was one. Lucifer-" Bob scoffed at the mention of the name, "Him. Oh, I bet he enjoyed playing out that tale for you." Jon shook his head, "He didn't tell me, Bob. He said I wouldn't believe him." Green eyes stared in disbelief for a moment, studying the Paladin's face, "He's up to something, I know it. You mustn't get caught up in-" It was Jon's turn to interrupt, "Bob. Please."

It took some considering, and another bit of time, but the blonde man answered, "It's...they say...God is no longer in heaven." The words were as confusing as they were disheartening, and it was Bob's turn to sit in silence and await a response. Jon's mind raced through all the reasons that the rumor would exist, but he couldn't narrow just any single reason down. When he looked up to his friend, he answered without being asked, "Jerusalem. The rest of the world's memory was wiped away, the horrible things never happened, all those people didn't die, but the rest of the world. The Angelfolk, Demonfolk, the Attuned, we didn't forget. And some of them took it as a sign that God no longer is in his throne." 

The idea was suddenly very clear to Jon, "And now everyone wants to occupy it." Bob nodded, "By sword or by favor everyone wants to claim it." Once again the scale of the problems of the world was more than any one man could combat against, but he wouldn't be alone, Jon knew there were other Paladin. "So that's why I was woken up? To join the others of my kind and try to keep the peace?" Bob emptied his cup and shook his head, "You're the last one, Jon." The immortals cup was already empty, so there was no buffer, "What? What do you mean I'm the last one?" The angel's perfect features wore a scolding look very well, "Who do you think they killed first?" 

"Who is they, Bob?" The moment paused while Lily, the waitress, filled their cups again. "The Angels. They knew that it was you and your kind's job to restore balance. The logic is easy to follow. After they were gone the next targets were our kind: The Seraphims that arm you guys." Bob touched the shoulder where his arm used to be, "I only survived because I was on fired and covered in blood, I'm sure I looked dead. My brothers didn't make it." Jon offered his solemn condolences then asked why he was still alive. "No one could find you. It was like you'd disappeared off the face of the Earth. When they couldn't find you we all assumed you'd died in Jerusalem." 

Jon wondered about how he kept hidden, not aloud, but trying to think why he would be hidden, and then something tripped up his thought process, "Wait. You said 'We'." Bob kept his gaze upon the cup in his hand as Jon spoke again, "What did you mean 'We'?" The Angel's brilliant green eyes were shimmering with tears, "I'm sorry, Jon. They said they'd let me live." The world exploded, cacophony and fire were everywhere. Jon's ears rang, but his grey eyes worked perfectly, he checked his surroundings. The tiny restaurant was in shambles, lights hung from the ceiling, flashing on and off, sparks were spitting from exposed wires. Sterile white walls were covered in dust and blood, gore clung to the moldings, people were gasping and choking. 

The ringing died down to a voice, so pleasant it was almost musical, "Jon. Oh, Jon? Did you live through that?" There was nothing too painful for him, so he stood, brushing the dust and dirt off his suit, "Yeah. Yeah, I lived. And who's asking?" The beautiful voice replied, "Step out of that mess and let's introduce ourselves properly, please." The immortal decided to comply, walking over body parts and bodies to the blown in front, and out into the night. The orange streetlights illuminated the chaos and the single man that stood outside, wearing a smile, dark jeans, and a button up black shirt. Long blonde hair that curled in places reached the middle of the mans back, his body was in perfect shape, skin was like porcelain, and with eyes a shade of blue that was too perfect to describe.

The man stood in the middle of the street, Jon on the sidewalk. "The Paladin Jonathan Ross, I presume?" "And you are?" The blonde bowed deeply at the waist, "I am Epoch, member of the first Choir of Angels, enforcer of the word of Michael. I'm also your executioner, and for that I'm very sorry." He stood back up, still smiling, to his full height of around five and a half feet. Jon knew better than to engage an Angel head to head, so he had to delay to think of something, "So, Epoch. Why did you kill the people in the restaurant? Why kill Bob?" It was enough of a question to intrigue his opponent, who looked back at the smoking wreckage he'd created.

"The humans and the Seraphim? Innocent? Please, Paladin, don't make me laugh. Those people are all sinners, and two of them are atheists. They don't even believe God exists. As for the one known as 'Bob', well...The weak must be culled. Chaff from the wheat and all that." Jon's temper flared, but he was still thinking of what could be in his repertoire that could possibly take down an Angel. "If you're trying to buy time until the police show up, don't bother. I've put this entire city to sleep. Unfortunately, your time has come." Pain took Jon's words before he could speak them, his vision white from the impact he never saw coming.

His head went through the back window of the car, his body crushed the trunk. When Jon lifted his head he was twenty feet or so from where he was standing previously, the Angel was on the sidewalk, strolling towards the wreckage Jon was now a part of. Anger now flooded through the Paladin, all his powers awakened at once and begged to be unleashed, and he did not deny them. He opened his mouth and let forth a blast of energy, as much as he could expel at once. Epoch held out his palm and the blast impacted and dissipated almost instantly to nothing. Jon focused his vision and let forth another blast of energy as he pulled himself from the wreckage of the car, but it got the same treatment and the angel kept walking forward. 

"Please, Jon, don't embarrass yourself. Just die with some dignity." Anger was a haze clouding Jon's thoughts, but he tried to think. The immortal smiled, his teeth red with his own blood, "There's an issue with me, there Epoch. I'm older than most other Paladins. So I got a few more tricks up my sleeve." With a shaky hand Jon reached into his pocket, where he always kept his vials of holy water, and withdrew one. The smug look never left the Angel's face, even as Jon began to speak a language that had been dead for more than a thousand years. Jon rushed the words, pressed to hit every syllable. As the last of the words fell from his lips the Angel Epoch stared down at him.

Jon shook the vial, the cue for the liquid to do something in reaction to the spell he'd just spoken, then glared angrily at it when nothing happened. The angel reached into the wreckage where Jon was and began to pull him out, prepared to deliver the final blow. Epoch lifted the immortal, his free hand forming a blade, fingers pressed together. Jon shook the vial again, ignoring the immediate threat, a last resort. "Goodbye, Paladin Jon." The liquid finally changed, the vial's clear contents turned black, and with that Jon met Epoch's smile, "Goodbye, Angel Epoch." Jon's hand flew as fast it could and smashed the glass container on the angels head. The scream that filled the air was unearthly, shattering windows and glass doors for blocks.

The Paladin was released as Epoch reeled away, he clawed at his smoking face in agony, dropped to his knees by the pain, his screams now just choking sobs. The black fluid melted away the holy beings flesh, sloughing off in chunks. Jon stood over Epoch, adjusting his suit as he spoke, "Black water. Deadly to Angelfolk. Luckily, though, this isn't enough to kill you. This, however, is." The immortal plunged his knife into the heart of the angel, twisting the blade. The world went silent again, but so did Jon's hope. Angels were hunting him, and now, even friends weren't to be trusted. With Epoch dead people began to wake up, and that was the immortals cue to leave the scene and try to regain a sense of self.

Half a block from the dead angel and the chaos that was left behind something happened that Jon couldn't believe: A woman walked into his path, fully awake, and seemingly unaffected by the sleep spell Epoch had cast. She looked one way, then the other, and laid eyes on the immortal walking her way. Both paused, staring wide eyed at each other, both just as confused as the other. Jon broke the silence, "Attuned." She startled and turned away, and began to walk quickly, muttering to herself, "Oh, my. Oh, no. Oh, goodness." Jon began to give chase, "Hey! Hey! Come back here!" 

An Immortal's Tale: Final Chapter

An Immortal’s Tale

The Man In The Black Suit

Part 12
“The End Of All Things”

He didn’t remember the impact, the flames rushing into the cabin, or the screams of people around him. It was drowned out by the cacophony of the plane he was in, being torn to shreds and falling to the ground below. Hands roughly pulled Jon from the flaming wreckage. The Cult shot it down, they had been watching him, and now they were retrieving their prize. Jon’s eyes fluttered open and shut, between consciousness and blacking out. His last thought before the world turned black was, “The air is on fire.” 

Sounds couldn’t push through the fog of the crash or the pain he was feeling. He would slip back into the black, and resurface only for a moment to take in what was around him. He heard voices and felt hands tearing at his clothes. Nothingness returned. A silencing muzzle was forced over his mouth, his hands were wrenched behind his back, and there was a smell of ancient iron. Back into the void. Orange light, chanting, winds. He awoke.

He was on his knees in the dirt, upon a hill overlooking Bethlehem. The horizon was red with the violence below. Pillars of smoke and fire crept up from the city. If Jon concentrated his hearing, he could discern screams, heavy rocks falling from different structures and thudding to the ground below, crushing many. Mushroom clouds from things exploding would rocket up. Tears stung the immortal’s eyes as he watched, but couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe it was happening again.

“Do you like the ritual, Paladin?” a voice behind him growled. The iron muzzle stopped his speech, the mittens of the same material stopped his powers, but he looked over his shoulder and leveled a smoldering gaze at the hooded man. Jon’s powers were suppressed, but his physical strength wasn’t. Despite all the cuts, bruises, and possible broken bones, hidden beneath his torn and tattered black suit, he began to twist and pull at his restraints. He would be free. He would avenge the innocent. 

The hood, flanked by four Cult members, looked down at the Paladin on his knees and laughed, “What’s the matter, Judas? I thought you enjoyed a little chaos?” The other hooded ones chimed in and repeated that name. He growled at them all, trying to let his eyes do the talking. He told himself to keep twisting, keep pushing, you’ll be free. “No? It’s OK. Only a few thousand or so need to die. Then you. And it’s all over.” Jon could hear the smile hidden by the hood. 

“Let’ssss kill him now! He owesss me an arm!” It was the scratchy, inhuman voice from the bar where Ricky worked, that reptilian creature that named him Judas. Two of the others hissed their agreement, but the one at the head of the group silenced them with a wave of his hand. Jon was taking inventory: one woman, one creature, two men, one leader, and the others doing the dirty work. “Get our guest up. It’s almost time.” The two men grabbed Jon under his arms and hauled him to his feet. "Keep twisting," he thought.

They began dragging him away from the horror he could do nothing about. One of his captors whispered in his ear, “Soon you’ll meet the one that made all this happen.” His arms were wrenched harder for no reason as they went. It was barely dusk as they set out, walking on and on until dawn broke. They walked through miles of desert, the dawn breaking a hearty red in the distance. Only then, against the glowing crimson, did he see other pillars of smoke, other cities burning to ruin.

With the day banishing the night, Jon saw their destination: a pile of rocks in the middle of the sand, golden colored to blend in, with a crack through the middle to act as a door. He said silent prayers for all the souls lost in the fires and the Cult’s acts of destruction. Just as the first rays of gold crawled over the distant mounds of smoke and sand, it was all taken away again as he was shoved head first down a long staircase.

Each carved, sharp rock step bit into his flesh and muscle, bruising here, cutting there, ripping his clothes further, as he descended the near hundred stairs, landing with a grunt on smooth stone. He was too dizzy to count the broken bones and whatever other damage he’d received on his trip down. Everything was a blur in his beaten vision, only the laughter coming down the same steps behind him rang true. His mind scattered again, but his body was already healing itself; he could feel it. He was suddenly being dragged; to whom, what, or where, he didn’t know.

He heard his name. Heard his name being spoken by a voice that was from long, long, ago. He figured he must have passed out. Then it came again. “Jon. Oh, Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon. Look at you, my son, you’re a mess.” With the world spinning in his head, the immortal opened his eyes and peered up at a face that couldn’t exist. The world stopped swirling, his body and its aches were forgotten, and even the iron clasps were a distant memory. Smiling down at him was Arthur’s face. King Arthur. 

The young ward that Jon had escorted to London stood before him; same head of curly hair, same boyish looks, the same height, and smile. But where there should be a childish charm or a kind of exuberance, there was age and hate. Behind those shimmering blue eyes, where there had been life, lurked evil. The Boy King knelt down, dressed in the Cult’s robes, and caressed the iron mask over Jon’s mouth as he spoke.

“Oh. I know you’re confused, but I did promise to never let anyone try and unite the three kingdoms again. And I intended upon keeping that promise. But the Cult, or the Brotherhood, or the Order, whatever name you choose to give them, took me under their wings, unlike you. You abandoned me, left me to a life of a king, a puppet on the strings of the church. But they told me about you. About what you were. About how you’re the greatest betrayer of them all: Judas.”

As the boy king walked away, Jon finally looked at his surroundings. The room was a circle, with runes, ancient and dangerous, drawn on the floor. Twelve circles, carved and not drawn, were amongst the runes. The stone that made up the room was amber in color, rough and dry. The ceiling soared fifty feet above, runes also drawn into it. Torches hung in iron braces and colored the rough stone with greasy, black smoke. This place was a ritual chamber designed for a great sacrifice. As Jon took it all in, Cult members dragged in others, placing them on their knees in the various circles. Twelve, including him. 

“You see, Paladin, I promised to never let anyone unite the three kingdoms, but after you threw me into a life of contrition and servitude under the guise of a church, the Cult began to teach me the truth. They gave me eternal life, and showed me that uniting the kingdoms would bring peace to this world; end its violence. But there needed to be a sacrifice: the blood of the twelve apostles of the Son of God.” Jon studied the other people in the room, all different ages and sexes, each with a Cult member behind them. 

Jon tried to protest, but his voice was nothing but murmurs, muffled by the muzzle. “Oh? You don’t think we should? Well...WHAT DO YOU KNOW?” When Arthur shouted, a wind swept over the immortal, hot as fire, scalding his unprotected skin. “YOU’RE A TRAITOR!” Another blast. Jon could feel his forehead and cheekbones begin to blister. 

The young man fixed his hair, the rage leaving his youthful face, then adjusted his dark orange robe. “No matter. It ends now. All of it. And now the three kingdoms will be one. And I, King Arthur, chosen by God, will have done it and given this horrid world peace.” He walked to the center of the room and pointed at the twelve to be sacrificed. 

“You eleven are descendents of the men who walked the Earth with the Son of God. He, however, is of the bloodline of Judas Iscariot, an immortal soul brought back to serve for eternity. Since the Great Betrayer did not have descendents, we reached to his lineage before him. You’re paying penance for that bastard grandchild of yours, named after you.” Oddly a great sense of relief washed over Jon, but at the same time he was filled with dread as the young man threw his hands up and began chanting. 

Torch flames flickered as the words poured out. Jon could only gaze in horror as each apostle was named, a person pointed at, then a stone blade was pulled hard and fast across their throat. As bodies fell and blades became coated in the spilled blood, the members of the Cult, one by one, gathered around Jon. A buzzing sound in the back of the immortal’s head suddenly appeared. It grew louder with each second. It was a voice, whispering to the Paladin. “Do you want to live, Jon?” 

More chanting and spilled blood glimmering on stone knives was all the muzzled immortal could think about. But the voice kept nagging. “Do you want to save the world, Paladin?” Six dead. Jon screamed against the iron clasped over his mouth, trying every spell he knew, ancient and new, forgotten and fresh. Nothing happened. 

Seven dead. Tears of desperation flowed. “Do you want to save them?” Eight dead. More hoods circled him. He pulled as hard as he could, his muscles screaming with pain as some tore, trying to break the iron mitts, but they didn't give. 

Nine hooded figures surrounded him now, hands holding him in place, as he stared at the wide eyes of the recently dead. “Jon, you can save them all. Do you want to?” The voice was almost as loud as Arthur’s as he chanted. Ten knives, dripping with the blood of the innocent. The immortal screamed as the last blade was pulled. Arthur now faced him, still chanting, his voice thundering like hundreds. The boy king’s arm descended and pointed at the iron-clad immortal and stopped chanting. 

The shock of the first stone blade plunging into him arrested his breath. “Jon, do you want to save them and yourself and the world?” Another knife. Then another. Each one going to the hilt, into his flesh. The pain began anew as more were plunged in.

Eleven handles stuck out from the immortal on his knees. A twelfth joined the others. Jon’s vision narrowed into blackness, like the shutter of a camera slowly closing, as he slumped to his side. As he landed, fresh pain from every blade shocked him.

Now the hooded figures gathered around Arthur, arms raised, and the chanting began again. “Save them all, Paladin. Do you want to save them all?” Jon’s view was now a pinhole in a black velvet blanket. With his last breath, Jon finally answered, “Yes.” His eyes closed. The world was gone; only darkness remained. Breath became a faint memory, heartbeats slowing to nothing. Immortality never meant not dying. 

Ululation joined the chants, with Cult of Altu’rang members raising their voices in celebration. Their work was done, their goal accomplished. They didn’t notice, in their jubilation, Jon’s body twitch. They didn’t see it stiffen. Nor did they witness the iron restraints glow white hot and melt, as the blades dissolved into molten glass on the floor. In fact, they only turned around when the final handle clattered to the ground. All of them now paid close attention as the immortal’s body stretched and bent in inhuman ways.

They were speechless as the man in the black suit began to right himself, limbs and head dangling and jerking randomly, like a marionette with certain strings cut. Jon was on his feet, his head thrown back, his body arched backward. A moan slowly rolled forth from the once-lifeless throat, that finally escalated into words as he stood straight and peered at the ones in hoods, his eyes now black as pitch.

“Oh, it feels so good to breathe in the dirt of this world again.” The once raucous crowd stood in muted awe. Arthur shouted “KILL HIM!” and the followers obeyed, shouting war cries. They brandished powers and new blades pulled from hidden pockets, but halted mid-stride and shouted. The man in the black suit raised his hand and mocked them with a frown, “Ah, ah, ah.” Legs that were once stiff now stepped closer. “I bet you’re confused, let me explain,” the man in the black suit said with a voice that was no longer Jon’s. 

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the first betrayer. I walked the ashes of Pompeii. I swam through the rivers of blood that drowned Babylon. I am the Morning Star.” The man that was once Jon bowed at the waist, one hand tucked under him, the other thrown back in mock grace, “I am Lucifer.” Pitch-black eyes fixed themselves on Arthur as the oldest evil stood erect. The boy king yelled, “You cannot be here! This place is-” His voice choked off and was replaced with strangled noises as he lifted ten feet in the air. Lucifer sauntered over to the first member of the Cult, “Were you about to say ‘holy’? It’s OK. I’ll clarify.” 

The Devil leaned in and carefully inspected the first member as he spoke, his voice smooth as honey, yet grating as granite grinding against itself. “You see. I’m not unholy. Nor am I unwelcome in any holy place. I’m still God’s child.” He blew on the one he inspected, like blowing out a candle. With a scream that could only be described as pure agony, the hooded figure burst into flames and fell into a pile of smoldering ash. He looked up at Arthur, a look of question on his face, “Does it bother you? All those sacrifices. All that searching to find the descendents. All that time. Dashed by me?” 

The boy king couldn’t answer, and Lucifer made his way through each Cult of Altu’Rang member, reducing them to ash and screams. Finally, the Devil stood before Arthur, suspended in the air, hands clutching at his throat to try and pry loose something that wasn’t there. “You see, Arthur... can I call you Arthur? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Look. I can appreciate your little plan, here, but...” Lucifer let loose an exaggerated sigh, “It just doesn’t jive with my plans.” The boy king floated down to eye level with the Devil. “This world, Arthur, is...MINE.” The last word resounded in a voice so dark and powerful, the very walls cracked with its release.

“In time, that is. I know you’re wondering why I’d prevent this happening. How saving this pathetic world would be God’s work. Well, anyone can do God’s work. Anyone. However, since you wanted to unite the three kingdoms, I’ll be more than happy to give you a tour of Hell. Every. Square. Inch.” Lucifer’s hand shot out and gripped Arthur by the throat, smoke and a sizzling sound coming from the touch. “Let’s get started.” One last scream echoed through the chamber of sacrifice, longer and louder than all the rest.

Jon woke with a start. He found himself in the same strange room as before; however, the Cult was gone. His hands were free, as well as his mouth. The immortal searched his body for the knife wounds, only to find none. He looked around for the bodies of the eleven, but they, too, were gone. With confusion heavily weighing on him, he found his way back into the desert, where the sun was setting. Jonathan Ross stepped into the dusk-colored world and walked away from the rocks that should’ve been his tomb. He stopped when he saw a man sitting upon a random boulder.

He was tall, with long, perfect blonde hair cascading down his shoulders. He was clad in a red suit. The man turned to Jon. “Hi, there.” The Paladin was more than confused as he returned the greeting, “Uh...Hello...Who-” The man stood and straightened his suit, facing Jon with a sigh, “I’m the most beautiful of God’s angels. I’m the shadow that roams the earth. I’m-” Jon had to interrupt, “Lucifer. I get it.” The man sagged, this time the sigh real and filled with disappointment, “Oh, come on! I don’t get to do this often.” Jon shrugged his indifference and readied all his power, but it was Lucifer’s turn to interrupt, “That won’t be necessary. I’m not here to hurt you.” 

Jon relaxed himself, but only slightly, as the Devil went on. “The Cult is gone. The eleven returned to their former lives.” Apparently the immortal could not hide his confusion and Lucifer explained, “Their plan was cute. But it just doesn’t coincide with mine. Or God’s. So I took care of it. Had to borrow your soul and your body for a while, there, to get the job done.” The Devil approached Jon and patted him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry. The world is safe. Bethlehem didn’t burn, yada, yada. Your soul is yours again. I have no need for it. All is well. No need to thank me.” The immortal was more than uncomfortable with the gesture and it showed.

“Uh...thank you,” Jon spouted as Lucifer strolled away and peered into the sunset. “I said there was no need for that.” Jon again shrugged, eyeing all that was around him. “Well, it seems my work here is done. I’ll see you later, Jonathan Ross.” He turned and winked at the Paladin. “I don’t understand,” Jon, again, spouted. Lucifer turned to him and smiled, “You will. See you in a few years.” With a wink, the man with the blonde hair and perfect physique, dazzling smile, and voice of nothing but honey, disappeared. 

The immortal, the Paladin, the defender of all, Jonathan Ross, was now alone in the middle of the desert. With a heavy sigh, he headed toward what he thought was civilization, pondering all that had happened. Night was heavy and so were his thoughts as he walked, both breaking, like waves upon a rocky shore, as he finally entered a city. He made his way to the airport and bought a ticket home. 

As the plane took off, Jon adjusted his tie and looked out upon the world below, clouds and blue and people. He sighed a small sigh and crossed his arms, snuggling into his seat, ready for a peaceful sleep. The final thoughts that ran across his mind were, "I almost died. And it would’ve been worth it." His eyes closed and he fell deep into a restful sleep for the first time in a long time, knowing the end of all things is yet to come.

A Member Of The Osiris (Original Short)

Nothing was real. Not the wind screaming in his ears as he ran, not the loose gravel type roof under his feet, not even his feet. Nothing was real. Damien had to remind himself as he came upon the gap between the building he was on and the building he was planning to jump to. Two lanes of traffic, two sidewalks, and cars and people were forty stories below. He didn't calculate. That's not how he was taught. Suddenly the end of the building was right in front of him. He jumped.

With the momentum he'd gained and the height of his leap he cleared the street and landed safely, kicking up tar and the like as his feet tore up another roof, and he kept running. His suit was restricting, but he paid no mind. His sunglasses helped him both with the sun and the underlying green tint of the world. 'Christ, they're fast.' Damien thought as he felt the whole building shudder with the arrival of his pursuer. Another ledge, but he didn't plan to span the gap, this time, he was going down. Fifty caliber bullets tore up the bricks around him as he dove over the edge and straight down.

This is where Damien felt at home, falling and sailing through the air. His non-existent body twisted and contorted to avoid clotheslines and wires suspended between two buildings. The world felt silent. He moved with practiced grace as he slipped through the obstacles coming up at him, weaving a serpentine path of flight through it all. The one chasing him had more issue trying to get through it. The dirty ground was coming fast. Damien brought his legs up and under him and prepared for the impact. He knew it would be jarring, but, he reminded himself again, nothing is real.

His impact was both violent and silent. The world around him rippled with it, holding itself together and looking like the surface of still water that a drop of water had just fallen into. Damien took a deep breath and began running again. He had to deliver the message. Failure was not an option. He hopped over cars, slipped through the people on the sidewalks, moved with ease. Even as more bullets ripped apart the world around him. They didn't care who they hit. They didn't bother to aim. One slug found Damien's shoulder. He didn't have time to register the pain.

One more block and it would be done. Only another building stood in his way. With his lungs heaving air that wasn't air he lowered his shoulder and plowed through the bricks like they were paper. Dust, debris, mortar, all went flying through the poor man's apartment as Damien tore through it, wall after wall. The report of his follower came much sooner than he expected and he had to run faster. The map of the building, the city, the grid he was on, was suddenly in his head and he could navigate it expertly. But if he had the knowledge, so did his chaser.

At speeds that could only be described as a car on the freeway Damien and the one behind him ran through the halls, bullets chewing up everything. Pain crept in, and so did fatigue, but he fought them valiantly, they weren't real. The door to the building shattered into glass and metal as they burst through. He took an immediate right, heading for the phone booth, but he had to buy time. The twin pistols in his jacket were drawn and leveled at the one behind him.

Both were fully automatic and both emptied their clips into the pursuer. They wouldn't stay down long. He gathered the last of his strength and ran. He knew he wouldn't live through this. She had told him. Even though he'd shot down the one behind him, he would still fall, but not before delivering the most important message of all time. He was going to die in a matter of minutes. She had told him. And the Oracle was never wrong. He threw open the phone booth door and grabbed the phone.

Instantly a voice on the other end picked up, "Operator." Damien said what he knew his last words would be, "The One has been found. Prepare for his coming." Gunshots took over, drowning out the response on the phone. Bullet after bullet tore through him, every limb and all his body. Consciousness was slipping fast when the man in the black suit and sunglasses stood over him, the glass crunching beneath his feet. "And who might you be, that you're so important to them?" The utter voice of authority. Damien spoke through the blood in his mouth "I'm...no one...who the hell.....are you......program?" The man knelt down and gave a kindly smile. "Me? I'm a Smith. Agent Smith."

Damien smiled as he slipped into what felt like sleep. Soon his name would be remembered. Soon all the lies stopped. Soon Zion would be free and the Matrix would fall.

An Immortal's Tale

An Immortal's Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"

The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.

This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.

The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.

The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.

As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.

Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.

Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.

With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"

With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.

The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.

An Immortals Tale: Part 9

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"


Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.

Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.

Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.

Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.

He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."

Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.

A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.

The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.

Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."

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.

An Immortals Tale: Part 7

The Man In The Black Suit

Part 7

“You Get A Lifetime”

Jon comforted his bruised and aching face as the taxi door closed behind him, trying hard to ignore the radiating pain in his cheek. He sighed heavily and knew that he was in for a long drive, settling into the leather bench chair, letting the smell of the cab and cheap disinfectant wash into his nose, tuning out the world outside the window to a dull hum, content to watch it go by in gray and black streaks. He let the words of the creature he’d just encountered play in the background of his head, letting the meanings and implications settle into a cozy area of deduction. Humans. As much as he loved them he really thought they needed to be more cautious about the world about them. Real estate, slave demons, conspiracies and the like, all turning slowly in his head as the cab bumped and rocked over the streets and potholes beneath them. His phone had chimed a few times since he’d gotten into the car, but he ignored it, trying to comfort his hurt pride and injured face.

Slowly the destination came around, near two hours later. The sun was low in the sky and his energy was waning, the rush of being in a fight and nearly losing had taken it out of him. He handed the driver the fare and a generous tip and got out with a ‘God bless.’ And he meant it. If he failed in any way, shape, or form, the heavy guns would be brought in and there’d be no peace for anyone, human or otherwise. The tall, faceless, nameless building stood before Jon like a monolith of modern architecture that stared down at the world and passed judgment. He rubbed his sore cheek and sighed heavily, hoping the elevators were still functional as this place seemed a bit on the drab side of things.

The door clicked open and closed behind him with no effort, the only piece of the lobby that didn’t seem old or made in the late 70’s. Yellowed paint that cracked and peeled decorated the walls inside, the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled malt liquor hung heavy in the air, unintelligible conversations wafted down the hallway. The stairway to his left held the same, faded decor, as well as the elevators. Of the four metal doors only one was lacking an ‘Out of order’ sign and Jon hoped that it wasn’t lying. He pressed the button and the light came on, illuminating the ancient plastic a deep yellow and gears began to turn and churn. After dings that played through a blown out speaker counted off the floors, the door opened with a screech that begged for a good shot of lubricant and the immortal stepped in. The inside of the elevator was no cleaner or better lit than the lobby it now sat in. Another button was pushed and he was away.

More counted ‘dings’ came and went and Jon finally reached his destination: the 13th floor. As much as he hated being here, the unfinished floor of a building in a dilapidated part of town, he knew the coming days would require him to collect what was sitting behind the steel door at the end of the hall. As he stood in the hallway with flickering fluorescent lights, he ran his tongue alongside the punched cheek, hoping not to taste that metallic sign that he was probably bleeding. He didn’t and thanked God for that little bit of luck. This floor was different from the rest. The air was thick with dust that stank of cement and sawed wood; the floor, itself, was unfinished and bare concrete. There were no other doors on this floor, save for the one: His destination. Jon took a deep breath of that air and let it out with a deep sigh before turning and starting his walk to become something he didn’t want to become.

The only light that properly worked was right above the polished steel door, steady and humming. There was no handle. There was no window. But he was being observed by the occupants on the other side. Jon gave a crooked smile, his injury not allowing him a full one, and spoke, “Evening to you, folks. I’m Father Jon. I’ve come to be readied.” He waited. Minutes passed and he stood still as stone. He tried to remember what he’d forgotten. Was it a pass phrase or a word or passage? Confusion crept across his face as he ran down the list of things he could’ve forgotten. Latin? Spanish? Old English? Lochke? It came to him and he rolled his gray eyes right before he spoke, “Amen.” Several locks gave way, some so heavy it knocked new dust into the air off the walls, then the door began to creep open.

Slowly and painfully the door moved on its massive hinges, steel grating the floor that already had deep grooves in it from previous activity. Clean, cool air conditioned air began to seep from around the seams of the entrance. Then finally it opened completely. Inside were three men, all identical. Around five and a half feet tall, curly blonde hair to their shoulders, with green eyes. All were dressed in jeans and black shirts that were at various stages of buttoning, one all the way to the top, the other half way, and the last with only a couple undone. The room they sat in was as plain as a walk in closet and almost as small, with one sink decorating one barren concrete wall, and a small table set in the middle of the room. The three men sitting at the table smiled as Jon greeted each of them, “Evening, Abinon, Manist, Bob.” Each returned the greeting and the giant door began to slide back to its original position.

“How are my three favorite Seraphims?” The curly haired men each answered in different accents, stating their well-being, then one asked in an Irish brogue, “And what is it we can be doing for ye, Father?” Jon’s eyes swept the plain room, the inhabitants and hated the words that were about to come out, “I need to be readied. I can’t be a father anymore....” Jon lowered his gaze to the floor, “I need to be a Paladin.” The three men before him exchanged sidelong glances, considering the immortal’s words. Then another one of them spoke, with accent at all, “You know that you can’t go back to being just a Father, right? You become a paladin and that’s it. Think about this, Jon.” Doubt crept into the man in the black suit. The men were Seraphims, a choir of angels, these particular three had come to Earth to help in the best way they knew how: arming and teaching combat against the unholy. Since Jon was well-versed in the latter he now needed to be armed and in doing so would be named the next evolution of a man of the cloth combating evil. He’d become a Paladin. It was a title almost no holy man wanted. But he needed it. So with a deep breath Jon looked up at the men and nodded.

The Irish brogue rejoined the conversation. “Well alright, then. We’ll get ya set up. But first. What’s up with yer cheek, man? Ya look like ya got in a fight with a wall and lost.” Jon nodded and had almost forgotten about it, “That’s sort of what happened.” The Irish one stood, “We can’t have ya coming into the armory looking all beaten up and what-not, now can we? Oi. Bob. Fix him up.” Jon began to hold up his hands in protest, but the one that had not spoken yet stood and closed the tiny gap between the two. With gentle hands, Bob inspected the pulsing, hot bruise that Jon wore, checking out the extent of the damage. Then the blonde man reached into a pocket and took out a small bottle filled with pearlescent filling. He unscrewed the top and poured some of the thick liquid into his open right hand, then replaced the top and stuck it back in his pocket. “Hold still.” Bob had a British accent. With deft speed and precision Bob’s thin hand with the liquid in it slapped Jon across the face, right on the injured cheek. The pain flared up and almost instantly died, but Jon still felt it and exclaimed his displeasure, “YOWZA!” The pain and the bruise was gone. If Jon understood the true nature or use of the cream he’d make an observation, but he kept his mouth shut. Bob gave a small smile and gestured with his head toward the back of the room, “Shall we?”

Jon eyed the three in the room, all six eyes waiting for his response. He nodded. The back of the room began to open, the wall giving way to a door that was hidden, the three men along with the immortal waiting in stillness as the concrete reached its final destination. Behind the door was a large, pitch black, warehouse of a room. Abinon entered the room first and lights on a sensor clicked on. The room was not concrete like the outside; this one was solid steel lined, shelves and counters along the walls that were topped with weapons upon weapons. The shiny walls, themselves, had hooks and small shelves, each with a weapon of some sort hanging off it. Ammo cluttered the counter spaces where there wasn’t a weapon laying. The floor was even covered in steel that seemed to be cleaned regularly. The selection of armaments ranged from flintlock pistols all the way up to the ultra-modern design of things that had not even been released to the military or public yet. But among all the impressive things there was one that didn’t belong: The glass cabinet at the back of the room.

Inside the cabinet stood three items: A glass container of holy water, a copy of the Bible, and lastly, the red smock given to all Paladins. Jons eyes locked onto the six-foot-long piece of red cloth. Becoming a Paladin meant becoming something different; it meant becoming not a man of God, but a weapon. Jon’s self-appointed ‘arbiter’ title was going to be obsolete, now, he’d be the judge, jury, and executioner. Avoiding taking the oath was his way of doing no harm to the humans around him, for God’s judgment did not just pertain to the unholy, it was cast down upon all.

The room was huge, twelve-foot-tall ceilings, and the size of a basketball court, with a slender table running through the middle that held nothing. It was there to act as a shopping cart for those who came to see the three angels come to Earth. The four men made a beeline to the wooden cabinet. Manist opened it and began the ritual, handing Abinon the Bible and Bob the holy water, the red cloth stayed with him. Jon’s silver eyes locked with the green ones of the man holding the final part of the ritual. Manist spoke to begin the whole thing, “Father Jonathan Ross. Speak thy oath and become the instrument of God.”

Jon took a deep breath and began, at the same time Bob also began to sprinkle holy water on him, and Abinon brought the Bible forward and Jon put his hand on it. The ritual was short, but the words were intense and the commitment they elicited all took a toll on a man reciting them. Soon it was over and ‘Amen’ marked the final words and stopped the gentle spray of holy water. The Bible fell away and Jon lowered his head as the red frock was laid upon his shoulders. “Paladin Jonathan Ross.” The weight of those words and the frock was crushing. Jon’s head finally raised and looked the angel in the eye again, “Let’s put some iron in my pocket.” The remaining two items were locked back in the cabinet and a whole new ritual began.

The three men spoke in turn, bringing weapons and their traits to the center table as Jon watched and listened. The weapons were beautiful in their own right, each possessing its own unique quality as well as caliber and size, from handguns to full-on rifles. The immortal couldn’t decide. So he had a giant, black duffel bag stuffed to the brim with all sorts of weapons and the ammo to fuel them. As he walked out of the steel room and back into the concrete one, Bob pulled on the immortal’s sleeve and asked in a hushed tone, “Why do angels and demons and such give up their immortality to become human? I never understood what you get out of it. Do you know, Jon?” Jon smiled as gently as he could and patted the man on the shoulder, “It’s about free will and having the ability to choose, and to have a life outside of all of this. But. In the end. You get what everyone else gets.” Jon turned to walk away and made it to the giant door that was already opening to let him out into the world when Bob spoke again, “And what’s that?” The man in the black suit walked through the fully opened vault door, before turning back to the curious angel and thought for a moment to find the right words. As the door started closing, Jon smiled and answered, “You get a lifetime.”

An Immortals Tale: Part 3

The Man in the Black Suit
Part 3
“Nobody Gets It”

Jon’s gray eyes watched as the massive hand arched at him, the thick claws long as kitchen knives and thick as three fingers at the end of each digit, the grotesque and overgrown muscle on the arm that drove the entire thing at him, all of it, moved like it was in slow motion. Options ran through his mind, drawing out different conclusions and possibilities. Each option drew its own line of reasoning and consequences. None looked good for the preacher in the midst of half a dozen demons and a satanic priest with a really high pitched voice. Each conclusion saw itself finish and each time there was bad at the end of it, nothing complex to a being of his age at this point. It was like math to him, simple addition and as elementary as he made it he didn’t seem to like the outcomes. He was running out of time to devise a good one that he could use and live at the end of it. The beasts before him were almost a foot taller than him and near twice as thick as him, all muscle, piss and vinegar. Vinegar. A smile crept onto the face of the immortal in the three piece suit. He found it.
Near his face the arm of the demon before him stopped. Hard. Like it had struck concrete and stone. Suddenly as the stop a silent and invisible explosion sent the heavy, clawed hand spiraling into the darkness out of reach of the candle light, purple blood painting circles on the ceiling and floor as it flew through the air. The heavily muscled demon clutched at its bleeding stump where a hand used to be and howled in pain, dropping to its knees and staring at the man in the black suit with a small smile on his face. The five heavy feet behind the first pair stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the small and confusing incident, their eyes collectively going from the leader of their pack to the outsider. The thick blood dripping freely from the wound could be heard clearly, every being in the room silent as the grave. Jon’s gray eyes came down and met with the demons at his feet, he lifted his hand as if to brush away dust from a counter top, his left bicep the peak of the fore swing. The demon gasped as it finally realized what was about to happen. Jon swept his hand across the beast.
Purple blood and dark flesh were violently torn apart in a torment of violence, all of it sweeping in the same direction as the preacher had moved his hand. The powerful, muscular demon was no more but a stain and collective pieces of skin and internal organs lying to the right of the man in black. Jon looked back at the other five and the skinny guy holding the spear of Tristen and let venom and menace crawl into his voice as he spoke this time, the friendly, kidding nature gone and vanished, “I’ll give you one last chance to do this quietly and without further incident. Give me the spear and you all walk out of here.” Jon advanced forward on that bitter note of threat, his power demonstrated and one of them felled with a simple gesture took the fight out of them, reduced them from brooding beasts to cowed servants the master of the house is angry at. The sea of muscle parted and he stepped through them, untouched, unchallenged and at his own pace.
He reached the altar, the girl exposed from the waist up, the rest wrapped in white linen, and snatched the spear from the conductor of this Ludacris symphony. Jon stared the young man down until he, too, cowed away from the man in the suit, and then spoke in the same menacing voice, “Next time you get the idea to have monsters guard you whilst you play with toys that you don’t understand think about the consequences that are imposed upon others.” Jon motioned to the purple mess on the concrete floor that was a guard, and the young man could only nod his agreement. Jon considered leaving the girl behind, but instead took the book that was being read and wrapped the girl in his coat, carrying her past the guards, their flat, broad; pig-looking faces staring daggers at the preacher. The walk down to the street was longer than he remembered, his nice shoes clopping along at a nice pace until the thin girl with the small frame became too much the package. He went to his own knee and laid her on the floor gently, shaking her to wake her.
After a few minutes of trying to wake her his efforts paid off and she came to, her big brown eyes matched her hair that traveled down to the small of her back, her skin soft and lily white with freckles here and there, “Where am I?” Jon did his best not to frighten her and not to look creepy, “Well. You’re in an abandoned warehouse on the Southside and were about to become part of a very unsuccessful ritual that would have probably ended with you dead.” He did his best to smile to try and soften the impact of the blow. She looked at him for a moment and then looked around at her surroundings before responding, “Uh. Okay. Can I go?” Nothing prepared Jon for that shock and he nodded before taking his coat back. As she reached the exit, wrapping her top half with the linen that the rest of her was wrapped in Jon couldn’t help but ask, “You do get that you almost died up there right?” She looked back and answered as a cab stopped to pick her up, “Uh. No. But…bye.” She climbed in and the cab sped off.
Jon shook his head and put his coat on muttering under his breath, “They never get it.” The afternoon was here now, sun pounding through the clouds and infecting the rest of the earth with its rays. The world was alive and unaware that they dodged a huge bullet today, and because all of this happened in the shadows there will be no parade, no celebration, no names added to the list of heroes, no, this day will simply be another day in the week. With his new additions to the long growing list of stupid things that can do bad things in stupid hands he decided to take a cab home. An hour later his door swung in and he was welcomed by the musty and dusty smell of a thousand or so books, over head lights clicked on, the large studio apartment with one chair in the middle of it and a table next to it sat still and waited for its only resident to interact with either. A bookshelf was set aside for items collected and so the book the kid had and the spear of Tristen took up new residency for now. A single door sat in the back of the apartment and that was his closet, filled to the brim with suits and their matching ties and shoes.
The immortal sat down and sighed long and hard, remembering the simpler days of the church and its enemies. He let the day go, melting it away into the steno pool with all the others. As he relaxed he looked over at his new pieces and knew there was something bothering him about them, the spear of Tristen and a black bible. But that didn’t look like a black bible. Jon got up and walked over to the shelf that held the two newly collected items and flipped open the cover to the book. Blank first page. To be expected, it’s a book after all, he shrugged and then with a ginger finger flipped the next page. The words on the page flowed into his eyes, each letter leading to the next, building words that were as heavy as bricks, the paragraph a solid ton and the bold title at the top was the rope that was waiting to be cut to let it all come down. Jon closed the black leather cover and stepped back, running his hand from his chin up his face and through his hair, mussing it, his hand lading on the back of his neck and staying there, as if to contain the news he’d just come across.
Jon’s legs carried him numbly back to his leather chair and table that sat still and idle for him as he shakily came down into the seat. He took a deep breath and let it out again, trying to process the information more slowly, but it kept coming back the same. That book should not exist on this planet. It should only exist in hell. As God has the holy bible and other such scripture, so does the Devil. This was the Devils bible. The barrier between the three kingdoms has been breached.

An Immortals Tale: Part 2

The Man in the Black Suit
Part Two
“In the Balance”

What felt like steel wrapped in dried and cracked leather were wrapped tightly around Jon’s neck. Rotten breath cascaded over his shoulder as the wraith held tightly to his trachea as it kept speaking, “You think your God will welcome you with open arms or with damnation and fire?” The raspy voice laughed. Jon’s nervousness peaked when he felt that skin of the fingers begin to crack, then he could hold back no more, “Very funny, Sah-Jan, now let go before you get skin flakes all over my suit again! You know how hard it is to get that stuff out? Impossibly hard.” Again the raspy voice laughed and the fingers released, the seat next to him pulled aside and the Wraith named Sah-Jan sat down, a grey suit with a black shirt and red tie were draped over his thin and very bony frame, darkened skin and sunken eyes complimented lips that had dried up and had been pulled back to reveal stained and yellowed teeth. It was a sight to see, horrifying in almost every way, but still a sight. The Wraith laughed a bit more as it settled in and it finally addressed Ricky, the vampiric bartender, “Skin flakes! Right! Ricky get me some bile.” The thin man behind the bar got to work as Jon picked up his drink and inspected his suit for those pesky skin flakes he’d been nervous about getting on his suit. A cup of bile and a cup of sacramental wine were lifted and both sipped out of. Sah-jans wide eyes stared without blinking and thin hair swayed when he moved, neither his fault, being dead takes its toll on people. “I suppose you heard the news, eh, preacher? Some dumb schmuck has gotten their hands on the spear of Tristen.” Jon nodded and watched the wraith carefully as he spoke, “Yeah. Quite the little dilemma we got going on here. I doubt they know how to properly use it, though. All those proper texts are in such in an archaic language that these youngins don’t have a real chance to get into all the real problem causing stuff.”
Another sip of the bile was taken before the dead man spoke again, “You know google does this marvelous thing called uh….translate.” The smile was impossible for him to do due to his skin being dried and tighter than a tourniquet on those bleached bones, but it was implied. Jon simply smiled back at the Wraith and sat his cup down to respond, “You know what google doesn’t do? It doesn’t give you Nordic or Hebrew ancestry or the correct correlation of runes and such to get the proper rituals done for anything big.” Ricky was finally feeling the tension between his two patrons and decided to step in, “Hey Jon, don’t you have somewhere to be? And Sah-Jan, isn’t there somewhere else you can haunt with your poor prophetic crap?” Jon nodded and downed the rest of what was in the goblet and proceeded to pay his tab, the Wraith deciding to stick around and consume more bile. “Email me the rest of the details of what you know, Ricky. It’s been good seeing you.” Jon stopped by weekly at the little tavern to check on things and rumors from the underworld. This little piece of information regarding the spear of Tristen was just too juicy and dangerous to pass up.
Afternoon tried to shine through the still overcast skies, but failed to penetrate the thick layer of clouds that hovered above the city, keeping the two o’clock hour nice and chilly, the slight breeze that wafted between the thick concrete buildings that hid away the skyline of the world. Jon’s pace was quick and direct, knowing where he needed to go and how to get there the quickest route. Nameless faces streaked by as his pace was steady and unfaltering, buildings with their names proudly displayed on the front were merely veneers between him and his destination. As he walked he tried to imagine all the horrible things that could come from having such a powerful and dangerous object thrown into the hands of bumbling idiots who probably didn’t understand the first thing of the paranormal or its consequences. He said a small prayer in his head, hoping to God that he wasn’t too late. Options played before his eyes, most he didn’t like, but a few he could live with. Suddenly, and as if on purpose, his cell phone chimed to tell him he had an email.
Guided by repetition his hand quickly found the phone, clicked on the screen, opened the program, and then selected the new email to read. Information got read quick and precisely, as to not make any mistakes, and then memorized with daft precision. The name of a satanic church, a man responsible for the item not being in quarantine, an address for both, and a warning to be careful. Apparently their goal is to raise a small squad of Gollum. Rock monsters that love to squish human skulls for fun. Luckily he was already on the path to the church, originally to seek some counsel, but now to give it. Jon liked walking and could get places in moderate time, not that he really cared about time or how late he got there usually, but this time it was a bit pressing. Blocks went by and by, none making their names known, just the general direction as his expensive shoes clopped on the sidewalk. It was easy for him to get lost in these streets, not because he didn’t know his way, but because he liked discovering new shops and such, however today he didn’t have the time.
In his inner coat pocket there was a tiny copy of the bible. One he always kept. In the other pocket was a single vile of holy water that could be used as a weapon in the right circumstances. And worse come to worse it could be a bomb strong enough to level a building. Soon the church was before him. Or the abandoned warehouse that these cretins called a church. The door was open and so he let himself in, Jon the preacher in a satanic church, this will be one for the books. The dark halls and low ceilings were easy to navigate as he searched for the proper hallway and room combination, graffiti covering the stone walls with satanic labels and pictures and such. It was idiotic, he thought, but to these morons it was a place of worship. Soon chanting came wafting down the halls like a breeze that carried the smell of rotted flesh and cigarettes with stale beer, all unpleasant to the human kind. He sighed deeply as some of the words rang true and so did the smell of burning candles. This was bad and he was about to step into it knee deep and fast.
In the center of the large room there sat a girl with long black hair, pale skin, and no clothing on an altar, six men around her in black robes with hoods, candles lighting the whole situation, and one tall and skinny male leading the chants with the spear of Tristen in hand. A virgin sacrifice. The skinny leader raised the spear as he continued chanting and reading from the black leather bound book he had in the other. With each passing verse the spear raised higher above his robed head, the girl on the altar before him seeming to be awaiting the fall of the blade. They hadn’t noticed him yet so Jon decided to make his presence known. He cleared his throat hard and loud. The chanting stopped and all the heads that were not his turned to regard the man in the black suit that was invading their sacred ritual. Jon stood tall and smiled the best charming smile he could as he stepped forward. “Hi. My name’s Jon. I’m here to confiscate that little butter knife you got in your hands, there, junior, in the name of the Church and God, himself. So if you’ll kindly hand it over I’ll be on my way and you guys can continue to…drink your sacred kool-aid.” Again he smiled and took another three steps forward .
The one holding the spear was still staring at Jon like he had three heads and all three were speaking greek. Jon let the awkward moment pass and still waited when suddenly the one in charge pointed the spear at Jon like a teaching rod and declared in a loud and high pitched voice that bordered prepubescent, “Defiler! Remove him!” Jon chuckled a little and stepped forward. “I’m not a defiler. Just like…a repo man.” The six men all stood at the same time and faced Jon, their robes coming off in the same unison as they stood, revealing the true nature of what was beneath them: Six very large demons. Built like body builders with horns protruding every here and there to accentuate their already disturbing and intimidating manner. “Huh.” It was all Jon could manage as the six beings snorted their discontent at him being there and began to close the distance between them and him. The tall man behind the altar that held the spear watched as the demons proceeded towards Jon the preacher, their ritual disrupted for now.
Jon took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he prepared for the fight that was coming his way. Large demons, a closed space, a virgin sacrifice, and the spear of Tristen sitting at the end of this soon to be blood rainbow. The first demon was within its arms reach of Jon and raised its monstrously huge hand decorated with equally large talons and targeted the man in the black suit.