And so it had begun.

It was a squelching noise at first.

A most terrible, grossly squelching noise that seemed to grow louder and louder and louder still.

Then it was Little Red’s spectral wolf summons growling and barking and baring their twin fangs.

And finally, the voice.

The candlelight dimming.

The chapel descending into darkness.

And an eerie red glow piercing each stained glass, lighting the cobblestones an awful tinted glow.

“You. . . Angel.”

“You do not belong here.”

“Your place is in the heavens, shining and eternal.”

“You do not belong in the fires of Hell — in the brimstone and ash.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams took two steps back, then several more after.

His team followed suit.

Something moved within the cocoon of white.

Something stirred.

And the floors trembled.

“Do you wish to slaughter us — for your dear Father? Do you wish to cleanse all of Hell — exterminate us one and all? Is that why you have come — with your armies? Is that why you have come — with your swords drawn?”

“You insult me.”

It was not a human voice.

It was not even a voice, per se.

The Hunter could not find it in himself to describe the sound perverting both his ears. It was the anguished cries of a — a thing — that which was on the edge of tearing up, or exploding, or perhaps rather violently, mentally, breaking down. The perpetual moaning, groaning, crying calls of the dying, though never the truly dead — it was best described as — and Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had heard plenty enough for one lifetime.

“You come into my home, uninvited. You knock on my doors and trespass. You descend from your light to bestow judgment upon me?”

“You’ve come to fight all of Hell?”

The darkness closed in all around.

The candles flickered and faded.

The eerie red glow persisted.

“What have you brought, but your faith, Angel?”

“And what will you do then, when you have none left?”

“What will your armies be, when they look to the skies and see nothing but dark?”

“What will they be, when they look to you, and see their great Angel fallen?”

The squelching ceased.

The trembling stopped.

And from the depths of the well, from the depths of the black abyss carved right into the stone floors — right into the earth itself — they came; grasping, clasping, clutching arms and hands and fingers of black. They tore and scratched and grabbed at the silk cocoon of white, tearing it from the cross, liberating it from the chains, removing it completely from its final resting place.

“What will they be then?”

“What will you be?”

A cut.

A rip.

A tear.

And finally, a hole in the wrapping.

Out spilled a body.

No, rather, a parched corpse, with little skin at all and smooth patches of gray for flesh, and atop its head sat a crown of thorns — a crown of thorns sticking, stabbing, digging into what remained of the skull, skin, and bones.

Blood was still flowing, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams noticed.

Blood was still flowing out where the thorns met flesh.

And it was not red.

It was gold.

Gold like liquid sunshine.

A twitch, a quiver, a spasm, it moved at once, and so did the hands and arms and fingers of black jutting out the well — jutting out the black abyss. More and more rose from the hole in the ground, digging into the corpse’s back and disappearing inside.

There were many.

So very many the Hunter himself lost count.

And still, they kept on coming.

An endless stream of tendrils.

An endless stream of black.

Like leeches to blood.

Like hagfish to carrion.

Until finally the last had come and gone.

And slithered itself into the corpse.

It rose, then.

Slowly.

Surely.

In no manner a human body possibly could.

Would.

Should.

Jonathan Wicker Abrahms watched as it towered over them — a lumbering giant awoken from its eternal rest and given life.

“Such a fragile thing, this faith of yours is.”

“Come. Let me rid you of such fealty.”

***

“Do you feel that, Grant?”

“Pardon?”

“That shift in the air, that thumping in your heart — he’s awake, now.”

“May I ask who, sir?”

“My liege. My king.”

***

There was the smell of incense.

There was the ethereal glow of red.

There was the Creation, standing full and upright.

With its crown of thorns.

And its royal, knightly wear.

And the large hunk of metal in hand, that which Jonathan Wicker Abhrams presumed was a sword at one point in time, and that which was now nothing more than some long, rusted length of steel resembling a nail.

The stitched eyes twitched.

The rotten teeth parted.

And the king spoke.

“Bow.”

In what Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could only describe as a screechy, raspy, nails-on-the-chalkboard type of voice. It was the kind that sent shivers down your spine, and carried with it an odd sense of authority — authority compelling all else to obey.

To comply.

To fall on their knees and bow.

Which the Hunter found himself doing, much against his own will.

He looked to Little Red, bowing.

He looked to Wrath, also on one knee.

He looked to Hades and Sangria, with their faces to the ground and heads hung low and teeth gritted hard.

“You.”

The king raised an arm, long and slender, and with its every slight move came the creaking of old bones and the stretching of gray flesh and the tearing, ripping, disintegrating of ancient, frail skin. A finger snapped into place, just beyond — between — Jonathan’s bloodshot eyes.

“What are you?”

There was no answer.

The Hunter’s tongue simply refused to cooperate.

And so did his lips and mouth and throat.

Everything, really.

Until given permission, that is.

“Speak.”

The answer came forth at once.

“Hunter.”

“No.”

“Human.”

“Lies.”

“Outcast.”

The king tilted its head.

More.

And more.

And more still.

Until its neck twisted and its spine popped and its head was hanging way down by its chest, almost completely wrong-side up.

“Outcast.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could smell its breath, and it reeked of death.

He saw it too, as a matter of fact.

Black.

Tainted.

Clouded.

Like a rolling mist of wither and corruption given form, breathed into the world with every word spoken.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Fallen from grace. Cast out.”

The king rose.

“Fallen from grace. Forgotten.”

The sword rose.

“Angel befallen. Condemned.”

And both came down, in one fell swoop.

“Angel befallen. Corrupted.”

There was blood.

“Damned.”

***

The Hunter blinked.

He breathed.

And to his dismay, found himself very much so still alive.

His arms were his own once more.

And so was the rest of his body.

The blood, however, was most definitely not.

Human blood was red.

Not gold.

And there was gold everywhere.

On him.

On Wrath.

On Hades and Sangria.

On the floors and walls and ceiling above.

On Beauford, especially, who had a devious smirk plastered from ear to ear.

“John?”

John spat.

He didn’t think its blood would taste so sweet — be quite so thick.

Like honey.

“Here.”

Click, click, crack went Director Beauford's tinted shades. Click, click, crack went the frame and the lenses and the rest of it altogether, disintegrating right before his very eyes. And drip, drip, drop went the blood, gushing and spilling and pouring from a dozen new holes in the old king's body, coating the altar floors in a magnificent gleam.

“Would you kindly collect your team and evict the premises?” the order came through. “Immediately, please.”

It was a tall order, granted.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could barely see past two feet.

Let alone stand and fight.

His eyes were a blur and his mind was having a war of its own.

And his body —

Seems like the years of neglect finally caught up.

“Huh?”

“Kindly collect the members of your team and exit the castle at once.”

There were no protests this time.

There were no complaints.

The Hunter simply clawed his way from the floors up, shook his head clear, breathed, blinked, coughed, then returned to the task at hand — the task at hand being, terrible, terrible death incarnate.

Within mere minutes of its entrance, the Creation had fully managed to incapacitate Vanguard and Primary in its entirety, and disabled Wrath — arguably the Foundation's most powerful weapon yet.

The ace up their sleeves.

A Divine.

And he had been done away with one word.

A single command had brought the Foundation to its knees.

Which meant, conclusively —

This was beyond the capabilities of any living Hunter in Eros alone.

This was beyond the capabilities of any living Hunter in perhaps the whole of the Heimer Republic.

And the one thing standing between Jonathan Wicker Abhrams and certain, gruesome death was the director — in his usual crimson wear.

The director, and perhaps his crystalline, stream of flowing reds that seemed to have magically emerged from the ground up and turned the king to a pin cushion. The Creation was gone, blood was everywhere, and there was a massive, gaping hole in the chapel wall — that which was never there before — which led Jonathan Wicker Abhrams to make quite the educated guess: in came Beauford, and out it went.

And he was right, it seemed.

Because something from beyond the rubble — from beyond the dark and debris — had started to stir once more.

“Wrath, Hades, get Sangria,” Jonathan Wicker Abhram's throat stung, though the pain would have to wait. “Red, get up, come on — we have to go.”

And slowly, the chapel began emptying out.

Wrath went first.

Then Hades, cradling an unconscious Sangria in his arms.

And finally Little Red, who was bleeding quite profusely from the head.

“Beauford, come on.”

Jonathan was by the door, shotgun in hand.

The wind was picking up.

And the eerie red glow had receded.

Out went the dark.

And in came the flare of candlelight, breathing life back into the chapel once more.

“No can do, John. It'll catch up.”

“We're fast.”

“It's faster.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

The rubble shifted.

“You're not fucking considering—”

“I'm beyond considering. I've already made my mind.”

“Beauford, it's going to kill you.”

“Oh, would you calm yourself.”

The director turned, smiled, wove a hand.

“I'll be quite alright.”

Jonathan hesitated.

He swallowed, hard.

And he caught a glimpse then — the faintest glimpse of gold shining from way beyond the hole in the wall.

And so he went.

As fast as he could.

He didn't need telling twice.

“Now then,” Beauford stepped forth.

The stream of flowing reds retreated to his feet at once, swirling and whirling much like a living, breathing pool of blood.

Which was exactly what they were.

His own blood.

Given form, life, and purpose.

He stretched an arm.

Folded one in.

And bowed.

Long and hard.

As a tear came to his eye.

“It's been a while, hasn't it, Atlechia?”

***

King Atlechia stepped from the shadows and unto light, heaving along whatever had become of his oversized greatsword. The Creation was missing whole patches of skin, entire rows of flesh, bones altogether, and perhaps one too many arms, and still it carried on existing — still it carried on lumbering forth, all whilst the blood spilled from every wound and added to the puddles of gold dripping and dropping and splish-splashing down the alter stairs in one fine, magnificent ornate display.

There was an unnatural amount of blood, or so Beauford thought. The king may have been somewhat vertically inclined — somewhat freakishly tall — in his past life, though that alone would not have explained how his body was capable of holding such incredible volumes of liquid within.

Unless, of course, it wasn't.

Something else was.

Something not quite obeying the laws of nature and construct.

“My liege,” Beuford stood before it, tipping his hat back. “Long has the earth been graced by your presence. Without you, these walls are nothing more than brick and mortar, no longer fit to be called a castle.”

There was no answer.

Nor movement, from it.

“I would celebrate your return to the world of the living. I would celebrate your return at once—”

Still no answer.

Still no movement.

“Had I not the displeasure of having buried you myself before.”

And then came the answer.

And then came the smile.

The grin.

The simper.

“Beauford.”

The director managed one as well.

Even through the tears in his eyes.

“Yes, my king?”

“You have not changed.”

“Time has. . . Little effect on me. I am blessed with longevity.”

“Blessed?”

The director squeezed out a laugh — dry and long and loud.

“Cursed, I suppose.”

“I see.”

“And you—”

A single tear rolled down the side of his face; Beauford didn’t bother wiping.

“What have they done to you, Atlechia?”

The blood jumped at once — all the reds and none of the gold — twisting, contorting, spiraling in flight, turning from liquid to solid, turning from simple blood to crooked tendrils of scarlet hungry for Creation flesh. They stood by and behind Beauford, an army of his own making, like good, loyal soldiers awaiting their general’s order.

“You dare,” the director raised an arm. His eyes were teary no longer; they were dark and empty and vengeful. “Take his image and spin this disgraceful imitation?”

Beauford snapped.

The tendrils ducked forth, stabbing and slicing and ripping skin and flesh from bones and body.

The king fell, bloodied and all.

“How dishonorable, Creationist scum.”

Another wave.

Another onslaught.

Its body was reduced to cadaver.

“You think — you think because this mock creation stands before me, I would hesitate? You think conjuring this puppet would award you any form of advantage?”

Beauford coughed.

Blood spilled from his lips.

Still the slaughter persisted.

Stabbing and picking and separating rotting flesh from frail, ancient bones.

“I applaud you for your daring and bravery! To take something so near and dear to me, and create such perverse masquerade of his image. Hah! I should thank you personally!”

The director raised a fist.

His army ceased its offensive at once,

And he was bleeding out the eyes.

“You are listening, I take it,” he said to no one in particular. “So this, I promise you, Creationist. Wherever you are, whoever you are — I will find you. I will venture the depths of hell and the heights of heaven, and neither gods nor devils nor all of Escardia itself can possibly keep me from tearing you asunder.”

The silence fell.

The candlelights flared on.

The wind picked up.

Beauford wiped the blood from his face.

And kicked the bits and pieces of flesh from his boots.

He faced whatever was left of King Atlechia.

Its corpse was still a corpse.

And the mount of flesh and bones Beauford had reduced it to was still, unsurprisingly, a mount of flesh and bones.

The director sighed, long and hard.

Turned.

Went.

And heard the heartbeat.

The voice.

The whispering in his mind.

And he felt the sweat start to run.

“Heaven.”

***

“Where’s Beauford?”

“He’s. . .”

“John, where’s Beauford?”

“He’s — he’s holding that fucking thing off, Wrath.”

“Alone?”

“Quit your worrying; he’ll be fine.”

“Fine? Did you see that thing? It’s—”

“Something he can fucking handle. Now listen, and run.”

***

“Do you remember?”

It came from anywhere — everywhere — all at once, almost as if the director’s mind was speaking to itself.

He turned, eyes darting.

And saw nothing at all.

No dancing shadows.

No crawling, living mess of flesh.

Nothing shooting out of the dark, slicing and dicing.

Nothing at all but—

King Atlechia’s corpse.

Still dead.

Still dismembered.

And not quite yet disintegrating.

King Atlechia.

And his crown of thorns.

The crown of thorns.

Staring deep into Beauford’s soul.

Without eyes.

Without body.

Without form.

“Crimson King.”

Beauford took two steps back, then several more afterwards. There was an odd feeling surging through every inch of his body — an odd feeling he hadn’t yet the pleasure of experiencing recently. It made his hands tremble, and his heart thumb, and there was cold slowly creeping into his flesh and bones and making jelly of his knees.

It was fear.

Primal.

Unbridled.

Fear.

And it was most exhilarating.

“Now hang on a minute, I know that voice.”

He said to the wind.

“I know you.”

He laughed.

“Archangel.”

And laughed.

And laughed some more.

It laughed with him.

So did the candles and shadows.

“Gabriel!”

***

There was light.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could see light up ahead. He could see the large, wooden double doors, wide open, and beyond them, the castle courtyards. He could see, if just barely, the figure of a man — of a certain Administrator Grant — standing by ever so casually with both hands folded behind his back. He could see the Sentrymen.

Schneider.

And a blonde next to the lieutenant colonel, with a sword hanging by her hips.

She was giggling, and snickering, and waltzing about him with not a care in the world, and in turn, he graced her with the occasional stray glance, and perhaps a word or two in agreement with whatever dribble-drabble poured out her lips.

For perhaps the second time in his life, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could honestly say he was glad to see such a familiar — yet agitatedly emotionless — face.

“Schneider!”

The Hunter called out.

He was met with a wave.

And a blink.

And the ever elusive lieutenant colonel Schneider smile.

“John. You look terrible.”

John was indeed looking terrible.

Though, granted, his team was looking a lot worse.

Wrath was breathing hard.

Little Red was bleeding.

Sangria was out cold.

And Hades was very much so upset, for more than a few reasons.

“Heard you could use a hand,” Schneider said, fiddling with the pack of cigarettes in hand. He seemed to be having trouble knocking one loose from its case. “What's the situation?”

John told him.

He listened.

And so did Grant.

So did the Sentrymen to his back.

And the blonde next to him, albeit with a more enthusiastic grin.

“A king.”

“Yeah.”

“A dead king.”

“Yeah.”

“And one that made you all sit still like good little children.”

Wrath opened his mouth to protest.

And promptly shut it with just one glance from the lieutenant colonel.

“Right then,” the cigarette finally slipped free. “Good thing we brought the Crownbreaker.”

There was a question, from Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, and an answer, from way beyond the crack in the cavern walls.

An answer in the form of a loud and resounding boom.

Followed by the crumbling of stone.

And the settling of rubble.

And the barking of orders.

“Damn near brought the whole place down on us,” the lieutenant colonel said, looking around for a lighter.

His blonde colleague offered him hers.

A second boom.

A second wave of crumbling and tumbling and rocks being flung about to and fro.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams watched as the hole grew bigger with each flash of light — with each explosion. They were almost through and in, by the looks of it.

Good.

Backup was good.

“Courtesy of the engineering department,” Schneider said, smoke slipping from his lips. “If it lives and breathes, it won't soon enough.”

“I hope you're right,” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams felt the air shift — the temperature drop fast. “That fucking thing — it's not exactly human.”

“Neither was the test dummy.”

A third boom.

A third explosion.

A final serving of scattered rocks and debris.

One almost hit the blonde.

She didn't seem to notice.

Or mind.

“Just out of curiosity,” the Hunter pumped his shotgun ready. “What'd you test it on?”

Schneider kept quiet.

Administrator Grant answered for him.

“We can't quite say,” he leaned in and whispered. “Though it rhymes an awful lot with. . . Design.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams didn't understand at first.

And then he did.

And then he wondered how exactly they managed to catch one in the first place.

Or restrain it.

Imprison it.

Anything, really.

The Hunter looked to Wrath.

He didn't hear them.

Not one bit.

That's probably for the best.

For now, at least.