One soul against the universe itself.
Dead gods watching a movement through alablaster halls and beneath the intricate artworks of ancient civilizations. As much a palace as a work of divine inspiration, the geometric precision of a divine mind found within every single inch of the palace.
All pummeled to ash beneath the weight of human explosives.
Within the fog of dust Judge John Murphy moves, a predator alone in a world of prey. The divine weapon cycled open, loaded with a new stripper clip of sheer black rounds: arcane munitions for the killing of acolytes. A weapon’s maw accepting a new sacrifice, a thirsting monster to be unleashed upon the dogs of false gods.
Boots upon the dust and death, between isles of broken bodies and bullet holed walls the human makes his way through folding halls. A goal across a sprawling labyrinthian maze, the heartbeat snaking up to his very mind.
Running souls, censored by dust, executed without identification through the blasts of muzzle flash. A judiciary necessity justified against insane risk, firefights avoided by immediate, direct violence. Instinctive training and experience, killzones cleared as the Judge sprints past corners onwards towards the central spires of the palace.
A race against concentrated bombardment, a structure’s central core reinforced against the very act of destruction both a safe haven and a primary target.
Stopped by one.
Dark blue uniform against the white dust, an anomaly coming to approach the Judge with weapons raised.
A halting of firepower, a silence beneath the five gods as he recognizes a comrade in arms. Of seven bars and a single unfired bullet, the heart of the Federation stops as two souls stare down one another.
Greyson’s face contorted into an unnatural smile, arms lowering his assault rifle as he steps forth from the dust. Voice of uncanny confidence, of an elevated position above the entire world. “Judge Murphy! Good to see you.”
“Likewise.” Judge Murphy stops as he lowers the Lawbringer, a stance still hostile against the more casual swagger of his counterpart. “Report.”
The man scoffs, beginning an answer to the request. “Well there’s plenty of hiding places here in the complex. Decided to run a bit of interference, killed a few of ‘em. The Governor's dead too, just checked the study.”
A short nod as Judge Murphy reorients tactical objectives, interrupted by Greyson’s own condolences. “Sorry to hear about the rookie by the way, bad luck.”
The inconsistency is caught upon the ancient mind, wisdom bridging together a single pointed question. “How did you know about Cadet Smith?”
A lie detected, a suspect already confirmed without a single answer. The glance alongside calm, cold eyes matches with the finality of his open lips.
A corruption running so deep exorcistion now deemed impossible.
They don’t even hesitate.
Neurons and sinew in a battle of milliseconds, weapons drawn at point blank range fired without care for accuracy; a volume of lead compensating for imperfect aim.
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The younger soul beats him to the punch, twin barrelled shotgun roaring forth buckshot right at Judge Murphy’s center torso. An explosion of sparks as gravimetric shielding shatters incoming lead spheres, Judge Murphy’s drawn revolver knocked out of his hand. Sidearm fallen, a response found as the old Judge rips forth a combat blade from his chest carrier.
Reaction, movement, hand-to-hand the only counter to arcane shields.
Lethal, serrated edge sent in a vicious stab towards the traitor, an armored left hand easily deflecting the strike as the riposte slams across the right side of the old man’s face.
Senses left reeling back, a mind utterly annihilated from concussive shock. Spots dance within eyes, a jaw singing with pain; a sudden knee right into his lower torso sending spittle and combat knife onto the floor.
“Pathetic.” Greyson informs as he slams the old man onto his back, the betrayer’s sawed off shotgun snapped open in the beginnings of the reloading process. “You’re too old for this.”
Two shells clattering onto marble flooring, the sound muffled from a directed barrage of artillery. He continues as he watches the old fallen form squirm in pain, two arcane slugs loaded into his weapon in the killing of fragments. “The Federation… our world is dying, Judge Murphy. And a savior is coming. Your fragment is just one of five, but the cycle has already begun. I’ve seen him, I’ve heard him; he is the Savior in the depths of March, the fi…”
From the fallen form of the Judge a single act throws forth lethal consequence; a sphere of molded explosive stacked between arcane sheets of steel sent straight into the center torso of the betrayer.
Magnetic fields intersect, an arcane gravimetric generator implanted within ceramic armor sucking in the anti-tank grenade in a progression of natural effects. A lethal thump echoing through a soul held within the cocoon of protective measures as divine arrogance meets with human reality, eyes meet as the internal fuse counts down in the seconds before activation.
A weapon created to slay beings of heretical creation, now fallen to the simple killings of mortal men.
Greyson is only left with his own realization. “Gods abo…!”
A power sneaking beneath arcane shields, plating unable to contain the raw, uncontested jet of molten metal from a shaped charge. The directed explosion literally evaporates the armored torso, an entire soul rendered from its body by a repurposed anti-tank warhead at point blank range.
Shockwave deafening ancient ears, Judge Murphy’s prone position sparing him from the plume of ashen gore painted across the walls. A betrayer turned to dust, returned back to the world.
Rage echoing into the halls in the final movement of an orchestral of violence, the soundtrack of a dead god perpetuated by the distant pounding of incoming artillery.
The Judge stands to his feet, broken lip sending a thin trail of blood trickling down his chin. Mind still maintaining razor focus, a trained gaze scanning over the remains of a fallen comrade.
Black, magical rounds scattered like stones; the forms of arcane construction still intact against the shattered remains of their human produced counterparts. A utility belt of tools turned to smoking black shards, a mastercrafted assault rifle nothing more than melted metal slag. All completed by the burned fabric of the Judicial uniform.
He finds it among the aftermath: the single glowing circle peeking out behind a roasted chunk of human flesh.
The heart of the Judge, a life distilled from humanity. From the ancient depths of Centralis, of a relic from a war against the old gods long forgotten.
The square shape freed from its nest of damnation, Judge Murphy takes the item back into authorized possession. A fragment of humanity rescued from the hands of gods, a moment of consideration ended as the next barrage of shelling fire shakes the foundation of the palace.
Both Judge radios ignite blue, a transmission received from distant souls. “This is Judge Hoppe to all points, we have a ten-thirty-five developing on Central March Bank, five hundred souls estimated. Need backup.”
Judge Murphy reloads his weapon, the Lawbringer once again readied against another hostile world.
“Judge Hoppe this is Judge Murphy responding to a ten-sixty five at March Central Bank. ETA is fifteen minutes.”