Madeline McCormick scoffs at the words, while the twins simply stare at the young man. Only Judge Murphy takes some action, removing his hat from his head.
The Bandit rolls her eyes at the sight. “Wow, didn’t expect you to show respect for this thing gramps. Considering you Judges aren’t even allowed to have any beliefs in any sects.”
The old form simply shuts his eyes with an aged wisdom. “It’s good to have a blessing for safe travels, no matter what gods are prayed to. Proceed, Alto Carrin.”
They all watch as he pulls the book from within his duster, the item itself revealed to gods both above and present. Bound with real leather, crafted within the trained craftsmanship of some ancient paragon of humanity and passed down through countless generations. Scars of usage, damage from its travels across the world, obvious upon its cover; remade and repaired by dozens of hands.
Thick paper binding casted from ancient plant fiber written upon by hand, a transcription of holy words made perfect through raw and unfiltered dedication to the craft. Chapters upon chapters, books upon books; the power of faith writing itself in blocks upon blocks of wisdom spoken to humanity by dead gods.
Alto turns to the memorized page near the end, marked by a small deteriorating notch at the top left of the page. A book written by an ancient prophet, of a human revered across their world by all peoples. Saint Mathias' origins from the old war disagreed upon even by the studious priests of the Centralian temple circuit, yet his or her written material indisputable across the disparate remains of humanity. Lessons taught to children by parents, wisdom used by adults and seniors for guidance in times of fear and hunger. A hero of mankind, still revered today.
Known even to Ar.
The phonetic pronunciation similar to a ranked military officer of an eon long passed, the single name enough to trigger the memories of the ships above them all burning the world below.
And his supposed prayer is spoken aloud by Alto Carrin:
Oh gods above, watch over us
You offer us your protection, and guide us through these deserts and forests,
Your mercy shield us from beast and gunfire,
Against any who wills us harm.
Oh twins above, Stratos and Strata
Give us your wisdom and fortitude
To overcome any adversity without fear,
To never stumble upon rock and sin
Father Mar,
Give us the wisdom for peace,
To guide us upon the path that is noble and right
Help us bring order to this world
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Wherever we shall tread
Destri, gracious and good,
Grant us patience in delay and challenge,
And humility in all things.
My gratitude fill our hearts for all wealth,
And open our eyes to all beauty.
Alina,
Forgive us for our transgressions,
Guide us with your grace, and to love all companions upon our side.
Bring us home to a place of water and bread,
To that garden that awaits us
Five above guide us today, tomorrow, and forevermore.
Ar connects their names, the five gods of this world referenced with those of his own time. It’s a reverence of heroes turned worship, the decay of knowledge allowing for the superstitions of time to be consumed to the ignorance of populous masses.
It’s them.
It's the five traitors.
Those who sold themselves to their masters, to commit the most unspeakable atrocity in their name. Their selfishness put before them all, no punishment able to match the damage, the ferocity of that single crime.
He hates them, he hates that even they could be revered by the rotten, decaying, dying biologics of humanity. A single desire for violence surges from within his quantum soul, an uncontained roar of pain forcing the software blocks to retch in disgust.
All are about to continue before Alto continues off the finale, an extra prayer from a heresy long ago yet graciously included for the twisari within their group. Translated, spoken in the standard language of wastelands instead of those found within the deepest reaches within an ocean of sand.
Afterall, the Collective will travel with them.
Keep us safe on this journey,
Guide my way, night and day.
Guide my path through desert's grace,
And with my collective find my place.
Alto raises his bowed head, gently shutting the prayer book.
For a moment the world has its voice, the howl of a sandstorm now turning into the light crescendo of sand upon cobblestone. A sky turning a dark orange as light scatters amongst particulates, even gods now only identifiable as dim sources of light beneath a smothering blanket.
Madeline smiles brimley as they all pause in awkward silence, a bombastic encouragement to the rest as she opens her arms wide. “Hey hey! Don’t feel bad, it's an adventure to save the world! We’ve got a legendary Gunslinger, we got a pair of Bounty Hunters from the Armin Collective, we got Federal Judge Murphy himself, and most importantly we got me; the fragging Million Dollar Woman! The greatest heroes of the era, saving the world together! It's gonna be the most incredible adventure ever!!!”
They all stare coldly at her, tiredness and a social disconnect already wearing away at their collective.
“Alright whatever, get in the truck.”
Bodies on the move, pulling themselves into the ancient vehicle one by one before Alto turns. The last one at the back of the covering, staring at the childlike form still waiting outside. “You coming?”
He’s there.
Ar detects it passively, a sensory body reacting to the expulsion of energy in the relative proximity to their position. A signal of his own kind marking the rebirth of a Destroyer, of him.
The rage, the anguish, the absolution within each wavelength; a quantum soul returning to the world for the sole purpose of vengeance, for a salvation to come.
Arsa is somewhere in the streets of March, a transposition of locations completed from the ashes of the world left behind.
And a new world to come.
Ar hears her voice, one more prophecy for their kind for their sake; a salvation to both humanity and their gods through the dust and hunger and rage and vengeance.
It's his own prophecy:
Bring together the five pieces of a broken god.
Unite them, to birth a weapon that will save us all.
He speaks their name for the Device, a strange nostalgia upon his lips as the words are lost against the world, unheard upon the ears of mankind. “The God Gun.”