And those of great deeds will attain salvation.
But those whose balance of submission weighs poor, will abide in fire.
The great scouring will burn their flesh, their souls forever stained and charred
* Savorus (44:11); CATACLYSMUS Sect
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The terrace stands at the very peak of the world.
A secured study of grand proportions, real wood furnishing occupying nearly every corner of the well lit room; aisles of ancient tomes and knowledge stuffed across packed bookcases.
The scent of pine and cedar envelops the space in a rapture of outgassing, a luxury beyond the confines of this world attacking the very senses of humanity.
One form within it all paces back and forth, his mind occupied by racing thoughts.
A black suit above brass cloth, the subtle weave of carbon fiber plating placed over a shirt of white silk; Governor Newark attempts to calm himself within the cocoon of hidden armor. Heavy footsteps and hard breaths bring forth an entire world of concern to activity, the waiting of news consuming his very soul.
Five knocks followed by six against the far armored door, a secretive measure delivered as he quickly stumbles towards the sound.
A wild array of mismatched locks unlatched with shaking hands, the fat man sliding the door a crack as he ensures the validity of the guests.
Dark blue uniform and white slabs of ceramic armor, the badge of seven bars and one unfired bullet separating him from the world beyond.
The Governor speaks the name and title nervously. “J-Judge Greyson…”
A strong hand pushes aside both the heavy door and man, the form stepping into the safe haven without a single word. Munitions pouch half expended, disposable ablative armor across his chest untouched in the masterful execution of gunfighting. Weapons holstered in place, the delivery of his report unhindered by its implication. “We’ve searched the complex, he’s not here.”
Governor Newark just stares in disbelief, a mind stopping at the realization of his own demise. Eyes meeting, two southlantic bloodlines against one another in their own failures.
“I-I-impossible. He was lying… and how could…”
“As I said before, he wasn’t here to begin with.” Greyson continues with emotionless zeal. “Your plan has failed.”
“My plan?” The man flares at the directed words. “H-how could you… you were in charge of looking after him! You were supposed to make sure he was here in the first place! Now look at all this gone to waste, what happens now?! Y-you…”
Greyson shuts the door behind them, the fallen Judge confirming the seal as he presses the wood surface hard. “Let’s ask him then.”
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Two souls in the secured study, silence enough to bridge the sound of heartbeats and short breaths of human biology.
It comes in time.
A voice untraceable, an accent combined from a trillion souls beyond the walls of this world, crafted with mathematical perfection, and spoken by the most innocent of lives. Unreadable, a perfect wavelength crafted to the ears of humanity.
The words are enough to bring attention towards its source behind each of them, the questioning command spoken as softly and loudly as it echoes into the room of utter silence. Spoken to the very being of a human soul.
“Where?”
Only one life guilty, one life requiring explanation. Chosen to speak by a majority of two the Governor stammers out his answer. “I-I-I-I… I-....I d-on’t”
“Where?”
“I-I-don’t have it!”
Absolute quiet in the study, the universe reduced to a single room of knowledge and tomes.
An open soul is spoken to, a divine voice bringing instructions into his very fundamental being. A justice found in this dying world, judicial position beyond mortal law ascending above the highest forms of perhaps even the divine.
Greyson interrupts as the order is disseminated into his mind, understood through a decade of mental conditioning and warfare in the Federation. “Your usefulness to our Savior has run out.”
A sawed off shotgun removed from its holster, twin barrels snapped open and checked for the status of lethal consequence within. Two rounds of buckshot stare back, unfired and ready for action as Greyson aims the weapon directly at Governor Newark.
“W-w-wai…”
Pellets of lead rip into the form, arcane armor upon flesh absorbing lethal projectiles yet none of the force. Thrown to the ground, the governor raises a desperate hand as he pitifully screams for salvation through shattered ribs. “J-judge p-pelase…. I-I have a-a-family p-plea…”
Death in execution, biological matter scattered across the room from the muzzle blast at point blank range.
Gunfire absorbed by the very design of the chamber, the ear shattering sound of two shotgun shells evaporating into mind numbing silence. A purpose not lost on the cold face of Shawn Greyson, his body of combat reflexively reloading his sidearm.
Spent shells of plastic clatter to the wooden floor, empty shapes replaced with fresh rounds.
From behind him the door opens, shadowed forms of armed intruders responding to the carnage; witnesses to the aftermath of a death by gunfire.
White ceramic armor alongside assault rifles and submachine guns, a strike group held together with religious fervor upon pale blue armbands suddenly broken in confusion.
He turns from his handiwork, a calm explanation at his lips suddenly interrupted by the divine. The disembodied voice heard by all present, a holiness speaking directly to the souls of them all. “You are chosen, Shawn Greyson.”
A placement of authority in systematic theocracy, the next in succession chosen at the beckoning of a single god. “Find the Five.”
They all drop to their knees; terrorists in witness to a miracle of beyond ancient creation submitted to powers beyond. Weapons clattering onto blood soaked wood, all watching as Shawn Greyson just stares at his universe.
“The Empire awaits your command.”
His kingdom.
The conditioning of a Judge fails, the sole purpose of justice broken by the simple temptation of humanity.
Its power, its strength, order from a world of dust and decay. It's the perfection of divinity given to simple humanity. And one final temptation, a universal for every single soul:
Salvation for him alone.
“Kill them all, every last one. FOR THE SAVIOR.”