And perhaps more importanly...
Who (if anyone) will stop this reborn God?
Tome: When the Night Falls
Chapter 6
Filius Mortis could sense Grosse Mann’s movements. Still.
Unmoving. As if he were sleeping but his soul was dead.
And yet, an essence
of life wound around his body. An essence of
something that had been handled by caring, loving hands however these
hands were also clumsy and stupid. Tampering in things that they should not…
Mortis stayed and
watched intently at the goings on, seeing the Necromancy in Grosse Mann’s body
dwindle and die but only to be replaced by something greater. Something new.
Something much more evil…
So Filius Mortis
stayed. Intrigued and watching this evil conjure itself up into Grosse Mann’s
body. Waiting to see the power tear the daemon apart, that was what he stayed
to see.
But no.
The power did not
tear him apart, instead it stayed. It played with Grosse Mann’s mind and soul.
This scared Filius
Mortis.
This truly scared him.
So he swore and he
turned and ran. He kept running and running until he fell through the shadows
and then... He did not stop...
Dead Weight took one long good stare at the door before he
started to whack away at it with the broomstick. Holding it by its end so as to
get more leverage, all he managed to do in that dark place was break another
broom. Its wooden haft fell to the floor with the mop promptly following with a
dull flop.
He sighed and sat
back down amidst the assortment of brooms, mops and the hoover that he had
already broken.
Dead Weight took one
great long look at the door and closed his eyes concentrating. He could feel
every shadow in that door, even in the smallest of spaces there was shadow and
he concentrated hardest on them. Those solitary little ones rather than the
larger, more bulky shadows. His eyes opened and the door imploded, showering
him with the shavings of wood.
The door fell off of
its hinges and fell to the ground and smashed apart.
Dead Weight picked
himself up off of the ground and took a look at his hand in the light. It was
fading so very quickly. His hand disappearing back to the shadows which it
used.
Dead Weight staggered
out of the broom closet and looked down the corridor. In front of him was one
single man, he was covered in wood splinters and held a key in his hand. His
eyes were hidden under a baseball hat and his moustache was covered in little
bits of wood splinters.
They shared a long
sceptical look at each other before Dead Weight pushed the man out of his way
and darted off down the corridor. He had no weapons, his sword was hidden by
somewhere no doubt and he had no idea where he was going…
But by hell he was
going to get out of here.
Number 47 threw himself out again and shot down another two,
wounded and out of action before throwing himself back against the soil. Lead
threw itself seemingly aimless at the soil and Number 47 could feel every
vibration as they did.
Tiberius held his axe
up and sent another careening back down the soil hill as the flat of his axe
met with his face. Another tried the same as the last but an almighty
backhander from the Paladin sent him flying across the battle scene.
This did not come
without its disadvantages however as bullets sundered the warrior throwing him
to the ground weakened. His arm’s armour was totally shattered and in some
places Number 47 could see some of the skin that had been plastered onto the
Paladin Armour. Tiberius bled out the red lifeblood of the humans as he crawled
weakly back into a place of safety before anymore bullets blasted him apart.
Even the impenetrable
Paladin had taken quite the battering this battle.
Then the chatter of
gunfire stopped and everything went strangely silent. Something in the air had
changed slightly. Something new had entered the room. Something new to this
world.
Number 47 could see
the fumes rising up, polluted and blackened. They smelt of something that he
had smelt before. Smelt before in a place and a time that had never existed.
His heart raced as
the memories began to claw back into his mind and into his mind’s eye. He knew
that smell. He knew it very well…
Number 47 stuck his
head up cautiously and looked out across the battle scene where something new
had materialised.
“Grosse Mann?” Number 47 instantly though in shock but then looked
on at the being more closely.
Yes it had six,
flailing arms that were primed and ready to kill at any point, yes it still had
that faceless face that looked ever so ponderously at the crowds around it. The
kill thirst set deep in its mind.
That was always obvious but there was something different. The way in which its
six arms squirmed in its black suit was clumsy and automated. Clunky almost. As
if this were but a metallic mimic of Grosse Mann. His true form was totally and
utterly lifeless and devoid of movement that was not controlled. Its legs stood
weakly and the arms that did not move flopped back down against its side. Truly
a very poor imitation.
Although nobody could
deny the glowing potency of the wires and pipes that snaked around Grosse
Mann’s body, all of them clutching to the power pack on his back. Number 47
pointed his pistol at the imitation of Grosse Mann and fired, the shot flew
through the air and simply stopped.
Grosse Mann had
simply looked at it and the bullet had stopped many meters away from Grosse
Mann’s body. It was closer to Number 47’s. Then it flew backwards and shattered
Number 47’s arm. He dived and landed cradling his broken arm resisting the
uncontrollable urge to cry out.
“What was that? How did it do
that?” Number 47 thought as he breathed heavily trying to forget the pain.
“Help me Number 47…” the thoughts seeped through. Not a voice that
he had heard before but he could guess easily whom it was, “Help me…”
“Why should I, you’ve hurt me
enough already…” Number 47 groaned and continued to breath heavily.
“I am not controlling my body, Number
47 nor my magic… the Cult of
Mechanics… it is them that is doing
this… Help me…” Grosse Mann’s
thought groaned across the psychic message.
Number 47 took a very cautious look up over the soil
hillside and looked at Grosse Mann. Why would he be combined with this machine
and moving about as gracefully as a baby’s first steps? Definitely not voluntarily,
he was sure of that.
The meek man’s mind screamed
in agony as if it was being pulled apart from the inside out and yet it was
enjoying this. The meek man controlled the nervous centre, it could shut the
being down or make it stronger. It controlled the power of those vats of blood and…
It was all in his hands.
All regards to his
personal safety went to the wind as he sent the Haloed energy fleeting across
the room, spiralling and decimating everything it touched. It clipped one of the
Soldiers of the Cult of Mechanics and he instantly fell to the ground
screaming, his particles falling apart and to the ground as he quite literally
disassembled on the spot. There was no blood to be spilled as it too was broke
apart until there was not even a memory of the man, the ancient power of the
Haloed energy wiping the man from history completely and entirely.
This was the power of
the Haloed Ones and it was something that all would eventually come to fear
very much. The energy spiralled around until the soil that had hid the Noble
Alliance agents was spiralling through the air in dirty, foggy gouts of mud and
dust until even that disappeared from the annals of time memorial.
Number 47 hid
himself, grazes from the explosion of gunfire and battle wounds lay all over
his body. He still clutched his arm in pain.
Tiberius didn’t look
to healthy himself barely avoiding a direct hit from the spiralling Haloed
energy. Their cover gone and that new Grosse Mann here, Number 47 hid himself
as best he could amidst the remaining dirt waiting for ensuing battle.
Then he saw him
standing there all of a sudden out of nowhere. His two tails spun in the
windiness of the room but his jacket was spotless. His face was hidden by the
Necromancy spell that he had cast over it and as always his fedora was tipped
low. Two blue specks in the gloom of the spell shone through, stern and cold
looking as ever. His scythe was not drawn and his arms were crossed in
defiance. His fingers drummed rhythmically across his arm as he looked down
from the top of the soil hill at Grosse Mann.
He made one gesture
of a fight before the two were upon each other. He reached for his staff and in
an instant they were fighting. The God and the Bio-Mechanical.
Number 47 smiled.
Filius Mortis was
here…
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