“That’s a terrible idea,” Aela said to her brother the day he told her what his newly blessed Prophet weapon was.

“Ah, come on. No one’s ever done it before,” Darren replied.

“And with good reason. It’s contradictory in its very nature. You can already do what it enables you to do. It’s redundant. It’s—”

“It’s flippin’ sweet is what it is.” Darren flowed energy into his weapon and lit his face with the glowing red gun. He balanced the blessed weapon in his palm and looked down the sights. The black pistol now had little red lines etched into it, making it look like the metal was bleeding. “Wanna watch me shoot it?”

“Don’t point that at things.” Aela pushed the weapon away from her with disgust.

“Why? It’s no different than if it was a dagger. I don’t even have to put new bullets in it because they’re blessed too, so I just reuse them. I don’t know why no one did this before.” Darren put the pistol in the leather holster he’d made for it, examining himself and feeling very satisfied with the look.

They stood in the common area of the Pinnacle, dozens of Prophets strolling between the houses of the three colors. A few gave curious looks to Darren’s weapon, to Aela’s embarrassment, but most hurriedly walked to their many destinations in the headquarters of the Sevens Prophets.

“No one did this before because now you can only be seen on Sevens, Home, or Prosper. If you’d blessed a more versatile weapon, you’d not have limited yourself,” Aela explained.

“Oh, like a shield is more versatile than a gun?” Darren asked, and tapped his wrist against Aela’s Gold weapon, just above the v-shaped ridge going from its edges to its center.

The metal, circular surface clanged and Aela pulled it away from her brother’s reach. “It is much more versatile, thank you. There are no aspects of my abilities that are limited by this, whereas I’m sure your killing powers are hindered by not having any way of cutting with your weapon.”

“Meh.” Darren shrugged.

Aela clasped the ridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I am so looking forward to being on another planet than you.”

“Ah come on, big sis.” Darren put his arm around his sister and smiled, tightening his grip when she tried to walk away. “Think about it. We’re going to be Prophets. You and me, working together, shield and gun leaving Sevens for the big—”

“I’m going to Home,” Aela said, and used just enough of her power to shove her brother off of her. A little golden wave of energy shot out from her shield and nearly knocked Darren off his feet as his sister walked away.

“Hey, no blasting me unless I get to shoot you. Wait, you’re going home?” Darren said, and ran after his sister. “But I thought you had some big assignment somewhere.”

“I do, on the planet Home.”

“Oh, right. I wonder where I’m going.”

“Prosper, if I’m lucky.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Darren smiled weakly, putting his hand on his holster to reassure himself.

Aela noticed the motion and stopped. “Look, Darren, I’m really proud of you for becoming a Prophet. I really am. But being a Red is no laughing matter. It’s very risky.”

“Awe. You actually care about me staying alive.”

“Course I do. If you had sense you’d have become a Gold, but I guess we can’t all be perfect,” Aela said with a smile.

“If by perfect you mean boring,” Darren replied.

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“Just take care of yourself out there, little bro. And keep in touch. If you ever need anything, I’m just a White Prophet’s shift away.”

“Same here. You ever have a situation where you need Gladys’s blast…” Darren pulled out his gun and twirled it around his finger, tossing it back and forth and holstering it again. “Just call me.”

“You named it?” Aela couldn’t help laughing.

“What, you didn’t name your shield?”

Aela rolled her eyes and walked away, chuckling.

The blast of the explosion ripped the building to shreds, killing and burying all inside.

“Up front! Whites bring the shields forward!” Hendar called through the roar of the planes. The man held a red halberd high above his head, its crimson-lined glow mixed with the fires of the city burning around him.

The whistling of the bombs as they fell gave a signal for the Prophets and soldiers gathered to find cover from the explosions. As the bombs hit home, they blasted around the city like fiery pounds from a tremendous hammer. The city of Gradennes had been reduced to ruins and rubble, skeleton-like structures the only remnants of a formerly strong and industrialized port city.

“Reform the line!” the Red Prophet Hendar called as he tried to get the Prophets back in order after the Torin counterattack. “At the edge of the square! Form up!”

With this, the second great invasion to push back the Torins, the Prophets found themselves suddenly alone against a much larger force. And while the bombs fell and the bullets ricocheted off of steel and flesh, men and women shouted in desperation and fury.

All day it lasted as the forces of Ieral sent waves of troops into the city to help the Joya Union fight the Torin troops. The Prophets believed that a decisive victory for one side would bring an end to this war. That decisive victory was quickly falling away, and reinforcements from their chosen side were nowhere in sight.

“Where are those troops! Edratta! Where is that white — Edratta!”

“Hendar,” Darren said as he ran up behind his commander. “No one’s seen her since we fled the Elder Bridge.”

A wave of bombers flew over the gathering Prophets and blasted the roof off the old Hersh department store on their side of the Gradennes Central Square. Debris fell, bouncing off the invisible shields protecting the remaining Prophets.

“I need to contact the Ierilan command. Where are the troops, tanks…” A Torin tank entered the square at the opposite end of the street and blasted at the shield protecting the Prophet line. “Anything!”

Behind the massive shields of the Whites, the Gold Prophets held the front, healing and pressing forward amidst the unrelenting battle as the Reds killed as many as they could.

Initially, the hundred Prophets sent to bring this victory pushed the Torins with ease, sending them back to their trenches outside the central district of the city and even across the wide Thelga River. But hours of fighting off constant attack had worn down the Prophets’ defenses, and the bullets and bombs started taking their toll, dwindling the hundred down.

In the late afternoon, under an orange and pink sky and a setting sun, the Torins made a massive counterattack with no less than ten thousand troops charging headlong into the Prophet lines. It was too much, and the Prophets scattered, only to barely reform under Hendar’s battle presence.

The rifles and tanks of the Ierilans and the Joya Union were silent and far away. In fact, the only noise of a gun on the Prophet’s side came from one individual.

Darren leveled his pistol at the tank that had just appeared, concentrated his power into it, and fired. The bullet shot out of the barrel glowing bright red as it pierced the thick steel of the tank and passed through into the magazine holding its shells.

“Yes! Take that!” Darren screamed as he watched the tank burst into flames. “Gladys strikes again. Second tank of the day!”

“I got a few more for you, buddy. Prophets! With me! Charge!” Hendar shouted as thick crimson blasts shot out of his halberd and into the advancing mass of Torin soldiers.

Moments after Darren joined in the charge, Reds and Golds and Whites using their powers in unison in a terrifying force, a second wave of bombers dropped their payload. As the bombs descended and the Prophets charged, the faint poompf-poompf of artillery firing echoed through the streets.

“Incoming!” Darren shouted as the bombs and shells burst into the shield. He stopped and turned his weapon skyward, firing off as many shots as he could and aiming with practiced expertise. The bullets flew into the air and struck the bombs and shells, detonating them before they could hit the shields.

Standing up against the Hersh department store, he aimed and fired and suddenly heard the click-click of his gun, out of ammunition. “Oh jeez,” Darren said, and concentrated on finding his bullets. They were scattered all over, save the one that had blown up the tank. With a brief amount of concentration, he reached out with his mind and pulled the bullet toward his glowing gun as a bomb fell toward him. “Oh jeez.”

Darren grabbed the bullet. “Oh jeez,” he said as the bomb whistled nearer. With a click of metal, he withdrew the pistol’s ammunition clip and slid the perfectly intact bullet into its spot. “Oh jeez!” He fired upward and hit the bomb before it could land on him, detonating it about a hundred feet above his unshielded head.

While the blast didn’t kill him, it demolished the top three floors of the Hersh building. “Oh jeez,” Darren said as his Prophet friends ran off to chase the Torins, and the Hersh building collapsed on top of him.