The revolution for saviors below is dead; cut down by machine guns and crushed beneath the tread of tanks. Bodies adorned in clothing from the poorest corners of the city, identified by bands of light blue fabric across arms and necks, piles left in the streets of March.
Peace found in revelation; the crowds of humanity come together through soldiers and rioters, prophets and sinners, rich and poor gathered at the shoals of a newly formed lake of cold, clean liquid sustenance.
Disbelief revocated through visual gazes, subsequently followed by physical touch. Flesh meeting with the waves, minds overwhelmed by the ceaseless undulation of nearly two hundred square miles of water.
Dirty bodies bathed clean, dry souls quenched; humanity’s salvation now guaranteed through blood and lead as the cries and prayers sing out towards the dying power of evening suns.
The streets are empty, five souls making their way through the deserted quarters of old March.
Madeline makes the observation, an obvious location defined by boarded up windows, locked doors, and faded signage alluding to a previously visited saloon. “We really are back, aren’t we?”
“It's a familiar location, easily defensible if needed.” Judge Murphy informs the group as he holds the lever action rifle, a gloved hand reaching at the shut padlock. A thin layer of dust shaken off it, a sigh at the state of the terminus. “Locked.”
Alto raises the point. “Should we…”
A natural instinct already forgetting the divine nature of his weapon, Judge Murphy’s rifle used as an improvised club as he bashes through the wrought iron of the latch. Steel faltering against centralian cedar, the fragments of metal falling uselessly into dust.
“So breaking and entering…” The Bandit whistles under her breath. “That a crime or something?”
The Lawman doesn’t even hesitate to retrieve the correct code. “I am expropriating this property under judiciary…”
“Yeah yeah we get it Gramps.”
Abandoned with haste; the scent of still boiling soup and half-warmed oil permeating the space alongside the stench of uncleaned vomit. Boots atop broken tile, Judge Murphy remaining behind as he barricades the entrance with a nearby chair.
The same Saloon as before, a bartender and patrons deserting the company of hearth despite a supposed busy hour, productive members of society suddenly turned to religious pilgrims to the center of a miracle.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Madeline quickly leaps behind the counter, the rotary machine gun slamming onto the hard plastic bar table. A somewhat clean cloth towel retrieved, alongside an unmarked half-full glass bottle of brown whisky.
There are tears, an endless stream of saline water falling from Samantha’s face. An emotional state broken into irretrievable fragments, a body remaining clung to the still living sibling who calmly drags her alongside him.
“You’re a mess… ” Madeline makes the observation with a small smile, joking casualness to life shattering events as she hands her the cloth. “Gods you really do love your brother don’t you?”
She tries to cut a hostile look through the sobs, an utter failure of intimidation as human minds simply process the raw, unrefined cuteness from the face of the girl. Eyes reddening from pulsing blood vessels and mucus choking diaphragms, a state of mind still riding at the absolute extrema of experience. “S-si… silence!”
They find the seat, the dirty, rundown table at the back of the space. Familiar thrones and a familiar Saloon, a world converging together at the foot of a now proven divine.
Ar’s back faces the barricaded door, the rest naturally grouping in front of him in a seating arrangement of inquisition. A council of humanity convened, representatives taken from across a broken wasteland in the random acquisition of fragments:
Gunslinger, Bounty Hunters, the Lawless and the Law.
From the glassed earth of the northlands, an ocean of sand beneath the rage of suns, the great city of humanity at the center of the world, and the fragmented outposts of a transient nation state; the world focused now on a single point in space.
The Bandit pauses as she holds the now opened bottle of whisky, turning to the remainder of the group. “Any of you wanna drink?”
Blank looks returned, voice continuing as she takes the first swig. Pointed out towards the One, words half-coughed through the raw content of the drink. “No offense Ar, but I ain’t having this conversation sober.”
“Is this necessary?” Samuel asks her with cold, emotionless boredom.
“Look I’ve just found out three hours ago that Arsa really does exist, and he’s out to finish the job.” Madeleine informs, swirling the brownish liquid within glass. “And even worse, his… copy? Is our last hope. It’s been a literal day, by the way. We’re in over our fucking heads.”
She takes a dramatic pause, turning towards the childlike body. “You are Arsa’s copy, right? He wasn’t lying about that?”
Ar simplifies it to fallen humanity, an answer just enough to answer the question; a mixture of technical specifications and philosophy crafted perfectly. “I cannot determine the origination of our… forms, however it is certain that we share the same origination point before divergence.”
Judge Murphy inquires further. “Is that even possible?”
Alto carefully places his statement, his point in the world built upon the characters of scripture and faith. “Saint Mathias met his own mad self during his exile in the desert.”
“Well, gives some credence to that story.” Madeline scoffs, eyes fixated on the childlike body. “So you’re not in cahoots with… with yourself?”
“I am not.” Ar answers her.
“The fact that I just believed you is a sign that I’m going crazy.” She takes another long drink, a short sigh following the burning sensation snaking down her throat. “No sane man should take the word of gods as gospel.”