09-15-2016, 12:41 PM
Armande snarled with righteous satisfaction as this...creature was buffeted by the radiation. She would burn too. All of them would. All would be cast into Gehenna. Burned alive. This....thing who had been by his side, allowed to live among them.
Again and again, the universe made it clear.
He.Was.Right. He had always been right. Inhuman creatures- anything that was not normal- were a cancer. Demon cells on the body humanity. Liars. Fakes. Impostors. Lissandra's face came to him, superimposed over the sentient. Anger turned to rage. It stormed around him, buffeted him. He would purge them from the earth. All of them. Brandon. DuBois. Aria. All of them.
Suddenly he was yanked off his feet to the floor, the chunks of wall and twisted exposed rebar approaching him rapidly. He barely saw that the Ijiraq was not there. Instead, an unsteady Apollyon on his feet, face a mass of burns, that damn metal crown he wore surrounded by burned and smoking flesh, faced him....
....and Armande felt anger grow. He would not go in fear. He would not die a coward. Evil incarnate was before him. As he was dragged by invisible bonds across the rubble he felt tearing at his clothes, his armor, his body. His left arm dragged across a jagged piece of rebar, deep down this forearm, across his ouroboros.
The pain fueled his anger, as he drew closer to the maw. His heart screamed defiance as death approach, the Atharii saying ripping from his throat with a roar. "Till hope is gone, till all has gone to dust, screaming defiance alone in the dark, we go to spit into death's eye!!!"
He struggled violently, fighting with ever fiber of his being, ignoring the pains that ripped across his body as death approached, his eyes glued to the demon that would be king.
And suddenly his bonds disappeared as blood fountained from his chest and Nikolai Brandon dropped to the floor. Dead. At last. Relief ripped through him. He turned his face to see Barovsky with his gun, just as the sentient stabbed him through the chest, her face ecstatic as he died, and then fell to the floor.
Armande felt a stab of grief at the loss of Metatron. His friend. But now was not the time for it and he pushed it away. The sentient still lived. And he needed to make sure Apollyon was dead. And his Sigma.
He struggled to get up. He weakly got to his knees and his head swam for a moment, but he tried to push through the light-headedness. he still had a job to do. He ignored the pain that pulsed through him, his shoulder, his arm, his ribs, his legs all vying for his attention.
The dust and smoke hung in the air as he got up and stumbled to find a weapon.
At that moment, he heard the sound of an alarm, of doors up the stairs. Too late. Guards were coming. Looking back over the scene with a grimace- He had to be dead!- he took off, shouldering his pack. Leaving Martin behind was unfortunate. But he was a soldier. They all were. But at least it was over now.
If she had not died, the girl would. Never again. Never again would the Atharim tolerate traitors like that in their ranks. Over and over again, it churned in his mind as he made his way down the tunnel. Never again. He would cleanse the Atharim in blood and fire.
Weakened from the loss of blood, flesh torn, bones broken, head spinning, The Regus Armande Nicodemus disappeared into the night, fat moon hanging low in the dark sky. Resolve burned like a fire within him, a furnace. The war had begun. The king was dead. Now for the others.
Edited by Regus, Sep 15 2016, 03:38 PM.
Again and again, the universe made it clear.
He.Was.Right. He had always been right. Inhuman creatures- anything that was not normal- were a cancer. Demon cells on the body humanity. Liars. Fakes. Impostors. Lissandra's face came to him, superimposed over the sentient. Anger turned to rage. It stormed around him, buffeted him. He would purge them from the earth. All of them. Brandon. DuBois. Aria. All of them.
Suddenly he was yanked off his feet to the floor, the chunks of wall and twisted exposed rebar approaching him rapidly. He barely saw that the Ijiraq was not there. Instead, an unsteady Apollyon on his feet, face a mass of burns, that damn metal crown he wore surrounded by burned and smoking flesh, faced him....
....and Armande felt anger grow. He would not go in fear. He would not die a coward. Evil incarnate was before him. As he was dragged by invisible bonds across the rubble he felt tearing at his clothes, his armor, his body. His left arm dragged across a jagged piece of rebar, deep down this forearm, across his ouroboros.
The pain fueled his anger, as he drew closer to the maw. His heart screamed defiance as death approach, the Atharii saying ripping from his throat with a roar. "Till hope is gone, till all has gone to dust, screaming defiance alone in the dark, we go to spit into death's eye!!!"
He struggled violently, fighting with ever fiber of his being, ignoring the pains that ripped across his body as death approached, his eyes glued to the demon that would be king.
And suddenly his bonds disappeared as blood fountained from his chest and Nikolai Brandon dropped to the floor. Dead. At last. Relief ripped through him. He turned his face to see Barovsky with his gun, just as the sentient stabbed him through the chest, her face ecstatic as he died, and then fell to the floor.
Armande felt a stab of grief at the loss of Metatron. His friend. But now was not the time for it and he pushed it away. The sentient still lived. And he needed to make sure Apollyon was dead. And his Sigma.
He struggled to get up. He weakly got to his knees and his head swam for a moment, but he tried to push through the light-headedness. he still had a job to do. He ignored the pain that pulsed through him, his shoulder, his arm, his ribs, his legs all vying for his attention.
The dust and smoke hung in the air as he got up and stumbled to find a weapon.
At that moment, he heard the sound of an alarm, of doors up the stairs. Too late. Guards were coming. Looking back over the scene with a grimace- He had to be dead!- he took off, shouldering his pack. Leaving Martin behind was unfortunate. But he was a soldier. They all were. But at least it was over now.
If she had not died, the girl would. Never again. Never again would the Atharim tolerate traitors like that in their ranks. Over and over again, it churned in his mind as he made his way down the tunnel. Never again. He would cleanse the Atharim in blood and fire.
Weakened from the loss of blood, flesh torn, bones broken, head spinning, The Regus Armande Nicodemus disappeared into the night, fat moon hanging low in the dark sky. Resolve burned like a fire within him, a furnace. The war had begun. The king was dead. Now for the others.
Edited by Regus, Sep 15 2016, 03:38 PM.