The Church - Part Three
A shuddering sound echoes through the chamber of the church as its rotted double-doors come to a close. In front of them lies The Ghost Killer, now in full view of Alasdair.
For a moment, neither figure moves a muscle. The two men simply stare at each other through their respective helmets, taking in the atmosphere of the solemn sanctuary for perhaps the final time.
Though Alasdair cannot see the Killer's face, something about the murderers movements tell him that he's seen this place before— walked through these pews once in the past only to promise never to meet them again. The notion bothers him.
"I was hoping I'd meet you here. There's something liminal about this place, can you feel it?"
Alasdair's voice cuts through the tense silence in a matter of moments, his calculated drawl weaving in and out of the air like a special kind of song. The demon standing at the other end of the room simply stares at him.
"Never mind that. Come forward, killer— face the outcome of your karma."
The Ghost Killer takes a slow step towards the knight— not enough to close the distance by any means, but rather as a threatening gesture. Alasdair's right hand lights up in a sudden blue beam, and with it arrives a retributor.
"So be it, Heretic."
As you inch towards The Heretic, hands motioning for your blades, the doors of the church swing open once again.
A fiery woman storms through the entrance of the building, pointing a strange-looking device at both yourself and the threat ahead of you.
"I got you now, fucker—"
Her voice is desperate and tragic. Her eyes show a fury you've never witnessed before.
When she finally takes position next to you, you can't help but notice the robe with which she dons.
It is off-white in color, lined with stripes of bright blue. A faded logo rests upon the back of the uniform. Your stomach churns as the realization sweeps across you:
She is The Last Follower.
"Didn't think you'd see us again, huh?"
My enraged words echo loudly amidst the silent ruins of my former home. It feels wrong for me to be here again, although I know fate must've allowed it to happen.
The man in the rusted armor twists his weapon towards me, though his gaze is still fixated on the killer.
"Who on earth could you be? What is your business with this beast?"
As he begins his needless queries, I notice the small symbol which rests on his chest plate. Though there was clearly some attempt to remove it, my mind is more than capable of recognizing an Eyes Of Argos seal when it sees one.
The Ghost Killer's rough voice interrupts my train of thought, his words scraping my ears like sandpaper:
"I told myself I'd never visit these halls again, though it was not because of pity nor remorse— it was because of confidence. I had considered our cleansing operation a success, yet here you remain.
"Your operation? You and your cultists commit crimes against my kin, and you dub that a mission?"
I turn my weapon from the Killer and to the other man in the room.
"And you— I could recognize the symbol of Argos's soldiers even if I were blind. You must be no better than this thing standing near us!"
The knighted figure moves his head back and fourth, scanning the both of us and seemingly weighing his options. The Ghost Killer unsheathes his knives. The score has been set.
"I know not of your quarrel, nor of your kin, nor of this place. But if you will not listen to my reason, then I see no need for words."
The knight takes a step backwards.
"A knight of Argos can speak no reason."
I copy his actions, broadening the distance between the three of us as I anxiously consider which target I will choose.
"Then our weapons speak for us."
I land my shot right on the Killer’s left shoulder, smashing him into the corner as his armor detonates into flame. His death is instant and satisfying.
The cannon clatters to my feet, destroyed. Just one left—
You manage a perfect throw, embedding a knife right into The Heretics neck. It’ll be more than enough to take him out forever.
You are about as fortunate. The woman’s firearm shreds you apart before you can react.
A vengeful flame— courtesy of the Followers of Jerry— ignites your broken body and begins to decimate your remains.
Alasdair fires his Retributor at the woman’s head, killing her right as she withdrawals from her attack on The Ghost Killer. She dies without so much as a whimper, giving Alasdair the notion that she was satisfied with whatever she’d accomplished in the end.
Soon thereafter, a knife belonging to The Killer pierces Alasdair’s throat. For a moment, he tries to brace himself on a nearby podium, but collapses in defeat not long afterwards.
A stray piece of shrapnel from the woman's device strikes the ceiling, shattering a small portion of glass and allowing the light of the outside level to shine through. As it pierces the air, it illuminates the small particles of dust whom glide amidst the quiet church corridors.
There is something about the moment that placates. Something impeccable that aims to calm Alasdair. It's not an awful memory to take to the grave— far better people have been given far worse endings, after all.
With such a revelation, he accepts his fate.
As Alasdair dies, the fire which engulfs The Ghost Killer's corpse begins to spread— at first to the nearby pews and floorboards, but then to the walls and ceilings, and so on and so fourth. The church does not put up a fight against the inferno, but rather caves with it.
It shatters into a pile of cindering ash, burying its last visitors with it forever.
