Byron, Charlotte, and Fay had just made their way back to New Albion. Jackie was waiting for them, she stared in disbelief at Byron, “Oh my god, you are not dead!”

He ran over and hugged her while lifting her, “Jackie! I am so glad to see you, despite the circumstances.”

Charlotte let a sad smile form, “We talked to Priscilla, Fay was our vessel.”

She nodded, “It was insane.”

Jackie grunted, “Look, while I would love to hear where you guys have been, we are at a crucial point now, the military is about to send a full siege towards the public square.”

Fay frowned her eyebrows, “What, why?”

“Paul the soldier, he let himself get killed, his platoon leader ignited a rebellion, but they are going to get crushed, unless we back them up. They'll drop bombs on us.”

Charlotte grunted, “Bombs, where are the Voodoopunks?”

Jackie beckoned them into the sewers, “Come, we are all waiting, I really had hoped you guys did survive, I could not believe it, I tried to tell it to our followers, no one believed me.”

Byron grunted, “Believe me, surviving those riots was not easy. If Fay had not used magical powers we would be dead.”

Jackie looked at her as they made their way to the cult. “Magic powers?”

“Yeah, Annabel granted them to me, a one time thing, she foresaw I needed it. Come on, let’s hurry.”

The entrance to the hideout was concealed behind a disused and rusted grating, tucked away in a neglected corner of the sewer system. To the untrained eye, it seemed like just another rusting grate, blending into the urban decay that surrounded it. However, to those initiated into the Voodoopunks clandestine society, it was the gateway to a world of mystique.

Beyond the entrance, a narrow and dimly lit passage snaked through the labyrinthine network of tunnels. The air was thick with the musty scent of dampness and the distant echoes of flowing water. The acoustics of the sewers played tricks on intruders, creating an otherworldly symphony of echoing drips and distant rumbles.

The Voodoopunks hideout itself was a humble enclave, far removed from the extravagance associated with secret societies. Illuminated by a dim, flickering light that barely penetrated the darkness, the hideout comprised a series of interconnected chambers. The walls were adorned with crude symbols, a fusion of mystic runes and rebellious graffiti, reflecting the eclectic nature of the cult’s beliefs.

Jackie led them to the meeting area, where everyone gasped as Fay and Byron walked in. Someone spoke up, “Byron, you’re not dead?”

“No, I am very much alive, I hear the citizens are fighting up there, I came back to fight, what are we doing here? Let us go up, and help the poor people. This is the moment they need our help, right Mom?”

Fay raised her hands in the air, palms upwards as she had learned how Byron did his rituals in the past years. “I am up for a ritual that will ignite an all out civil war!”

The Voodoopunks cheered with their leader being alive and well. Jackie looked at him, “At least you haven’t lost your charms, come on, we are going up.”

As the night sky draped its obsidian cloak over New Albion, a clandestine procession emerged from the shadows, heralding the arrival of the Voodoopunks. Cloaked in dark attire that seemed to absorb what little light dared to penetrate the urban gloom, the members of the enigmatic cult moved with a silent and purposeful grace. Their faces, shrouded by masks and hooded cowls, remained inscrutable, adding an air of mystery to their presence.

The Voodoopunks moved through the labyrinthine alleys and hidden pathways, navigating the city’s underbelly with an intimate knowledge that spoke of countless secret journeys. The rhythmic echo of their footsteps reverberated against the walls, a prelude to the arcane convergence about to unfold.

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As the Voodoopunks neared the entrance to the main square, their movements became more deliberate. They fanned out like shadows, strategically positioning themselves at key vantage points. The air seemed charged with an otherworldly energy as the cultists initiated a ritual, their hands weaving intricate patterns in the darkness. Byron took place on the main stage with Fay.

“Citizens, we take back New Albion, they clipped your wings like I said they would, you did not listen. No, you hunted us down, you murdered us. Yet here I am, with Fay, we have your back!”

The platoon leader looked at them, “How is that possible? They were supposed to be dead!” He shrugged it off and continued bashing heads in.

In the heart of the main square, where the clash between the citizens and the soldiers raged on, the Voodoopunks ritual took hold. Unseen threads of mystical influence emanated from their practiced gestures, weaving through the night air like unseen tendrils.

The soldiers, once clad in armor and armed with the tools of oppression, suddenly found themselves vulnerable. The Voodoopunks ritual, a fusion of ancient mysticism and rebellious intent, stripped away the soldier’s defenses, rendering them powerless against the tide of rebellion.

Metal clanged against the cobblestones as the soldiers’ weapons fell from their grip. The once formidable enforcers of order now stood exposed, their armor offered no protection against the unseen forces that enveloped them. Confusion and fear painted the soldier’s faces as they grappled with an inexplicable loss of control.

Fay laughed, “Take that, you foolish buffoons for killing the man I loved! This is for Silof, and all that he stood for!” The citizens were happy with their help, despite how they treated them, now in their biggest hour of need, they reappeared.

Missiles got launched from the military base, shaking the ground, explosions occurred, houses exploded. While the Voodoopunks could not save those inside. They used their mystic powers to protect the citizens and themselves from most of the debris. With all these people, the cult, they could harness a lot of power.

The citizens, emboldened by this sudden turn of fortune, pressed their advantage. The soldier’s now bereft of their ability to resist, found themselves outnumbered and outmatched. The tide of rebellion surged forward, reclaiming the square that had long been under the heel of military oppression.

The Voodoopunks, their ritual complete, retreated into the night as silently as they had arrived. Their enigmatic presence lingered, a testament to the fusion of mysticism and rebellion that had momentarily tipped the scales in favor of those who sought freedom in the heart of New Albion. The main square, once a battleground, now stood as a symbol of defiance. A space reclaimed by the people and liberated from the shackles of tyrannical rule.

Byron, Fay, Jackie, and Charlotte stood in the main square as they saw the soldier’s retreat. This was far from over, this moment was the beginning of a long civil war. The platoon leader walked over to Byron, “I need to thank you for your help.”

Byron stared at him. “Where were you when we needed your help? I told everyone that if you were to destroy the dolls, this would happen, did anyone listen?”

The platoon leader looked away in shame, “You are right, and I did the unthinkable, I, aided in killing your daughter. I know you cannot forgive me for that, so why did you help me?”

“Because my daughter asked me to, to fight for New Albion. People better listen to the Voodoopunks this time around.”

Fay sighed, “I need to save New Albion, for all those who died in trying to liberate the land.”

Jackie nodded, “For Dorothy, I am really glad to have you back, Byron.”

Charlotte slipped her hand into his, “And your trophy wife will be by your side.”

Fay looked at Byron, “Yeah, that is right, you are married to her, but, you don’t even like women.”

Byron sighed, “I try to keep my reason to myself, this civil war is just starting, we need to prepare for more attacks.”

A man came running over to them, wounded, carrying a woman, a child was right behind him.

Jackie, gasped, “John?!”

John, a figure of towering stature, stands with a presence that commands attention. His frame, burly and robust, carries the weight of both physical strength and the burdens of recent tragedy. His broad shoulders, once a symbol of steadfast support, now bear the invisible weight of grief and loss.

Tall and imposing, John possesses a weathered countenance that reflects the trials life has thrown at him. His face, lined with the etchings of experience, holds an air of resilience despite the shadows of sorrow that linger in his eyes. The creases on his forehead tell stories of challenges faced and overcome, a testament to a life marked by both hardship and determination.

John often wears a weathered, durable jacket, the fabric worn and faded from both time and the challenges of his surroundings. The jacket serves as a protective layer against the elements. Beneath the jacket, John dons a sturdy shirt, its material chosen for its durability. Opting for sturdy and comfortable cargo pants with ample pocket space. These pants are designed to withstand the rigors of the environment while providing functionality for carrying essential items.

“Vivian, she is dead, the bombs, she was inside, Constance and I were in the backyard.”

Jackie started sobbing, “No, more loss.”

Fay grunted, “Dammit, live is going to be hell.”