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lordkaho -> RE: Sacrificium- The Last Saint (3/1/2013 9:36:59)
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Chapter 1- Hope Spot
Three years earlier.
Nomansland-810, MIs-01 SEA.Ph
Atop a flat piece of rubble, stood an officer in grey. His uniform bore a striking resemblance to the dreaded Waffen-Schutzstaffel of Germany's Third Reich. Heavy breathing was heard
through his metal four-tubed respirator, with bulging veins spreading out from his mouth. Thin strands of pale blonde hair ran down the sides of his broadly chiseled face. He studied the lonely
swaths of earth and the clusters of ruined structures erected before him, some of which were long-abandoned shopping malls and office buildings. There were also traces of fighting that had occurred here; battle scars that were left by intense firefights and bombardments. One particular sight was a wrecked American M46 'Patton' Medium Tank, with its treads heavily damaged, that sat near the central plaza; it had seemed like the proud machine and her crew probably fought to the last second defending her post. After some time, he pulled up his left sleeve to check on his silver watch.
The clock showed that it was 20:21. They had been waiting for roughly an hour.
The old 12-hour format had been long discarded in this dark age where day and night have lost significance. Everything was just a perpetual lifeless hue of monochrome colors. Long gone were
the lush vibrant greens and blues. The sky, however, was tinted various shifting shades of red with few dark, gray patches of smog that now replaced the clouds. The resulting imbalance in the
atmosphere has also led to clusters of floating specks of debris and rocks above, making the landscape look like something out of a bad dream.
Behind the officer were twelve artillery batteries, ten of which were manned by four-man crews and the last were operated by five. Two auxiliary groups also remained behind as well as a handful of Pzw. III Ausf.B support vehicles. There were six 57mm Infanterieabwehrkanone-36's, abbreviated as 57mm InK's which were essentially Howitzers that shoot high-speed fragmentation rounds, four 32mm Twin-barreled Sturmwinds, a self-propelled autocannon, and two Großmutter Bertha Naval Rocket-launchers.
These men were from the 241st division of the Kanoneschrek Artillerie Korps, a branch belonging to the Infantry Army of the Reichsmacht whose sole function was to spread terror-inspiring propaganda. The Reichsmacht in question, was the general armed forces of a state referred world-wide as the 4th Reich or 'The Empire of the World-God', commonly known as Das Kreuz. It was a nation that encompassed most of central Europe and was governed by strict military doctrines that propagated intense religious fanaticism. This Totalitarian regime had no set constitution, but rather, was founded under the principle of "...Durch flammen und stahl." or "Through fire and steel". It was this principle, widely worshiped as an existential code, that had led to their horrible ethnic cleansing of races believing that, hopefully, only the strong would remain to revitalize the Earth.
Now their planetary scourge had led them half-way around the Earth to the South-East Asian isles, and in this particular excursion, Artellerie-Hauptmann Gunther was officer-in-command of 'purging' some stray dogs. The latter was of course a derogatory term for infidels, and in most cases, splinter groups of the remaining 'Forlorn-Faithful' or simply the Faithful. They were considered to be one of the longest religious movements in history, and the most influential of them, called the Universalis, had their seat of power in old Rome. But during the Great Mystery, which resulted into the current Age of Tribulation, most of the Faithful inexplicably vanished from the face of the Earth. Das Kreuz has since then sought to either integrate all that remained of humanity into their new unified government or destroy them should they resist.
Hauptmann Gunther glanced at his watch once more. It had been thirty minutes since he last checked. Not one of the Faithfuls had ever scampered out of their make-shift bunkers and hiding holes to surrender. He estimated about at least a thousand hiding within the dead city. To send a death squad of foot soldiers would take hours to scour every building, and not to mention perilous. His last encounter with these 'harmless' refugees, three artillery squads under his command got pinned down into a corner by a few 'magicians' shooting bolts of light at them. The situation would have escalated into a tactical disaster had not a handful of snipers from the 19th Jagertruppe arrived. It had seemed like propaganda has led the Riechsmacht to forget that these Faithfuls were once part of the strongest religion in the planet, but so far, these particular group had been in-hostile.
The Kanoneschrek was the only option viable as there weren't any V-5 Missile Silos constructed yet in this region. It was simply the easiest route to take if they wanted to raze down a target of this size.
He ran his gloved hand across his sweaty forehead out of exhaustion and anxiety. He saw no point in waiting in all this. This is just a stalemate that will eventually end in bloodshed, he thought.
He breathed heavily again as his respirator echoed out metallic noises. With the temperature at eighty-eight degrees Celsius, the air was suffocatingly stifling. If they were to hold on longer in this
hellish Nomansland, his crew and the refugees would have died by then from the merciless heat and the unforgiving weather conditions. However, it was like this for centuries now and he figured the
human body would have evolved to live longer in such environments.
The man had scouts confirm the identities of the people inside the buildings and had sent out many Order For Surrender signals, and yet all of them refused. He couldn't understand his superiors' demand
to have them alive, as he lacked all the empathy to let them live either way. Gunther's growing anxiety was finally getting the better of him.
He couldn't understand why, but he held great hate for these people even if his outward emotionless expressions denied them.
Was it because they reminded him of a past that could not be brought back? Or maybe because they clung to such modes of escapism, such as turning to faith in times of darkness that he believed was ultimately fruitless in the grand scale of things?
Nevertheless, beneath his metal mask, he bit his lip in seething hate and tightly clenched both fists. But suddenly, as if remembering something, guilt further burdened his mind. He gave a long, breathless pause. His widened silver eyes trembled to the point of tears. His black leather gloves gave a sharp rubbing sound as he clutched his hands even more tightly. Snapping out of his remorse, he raised his hand, signaling all crews to load their cannons. He was now Artellerie-Hauptmann Gunther, and he had a duty to fulfill. To have heart was a worthless aspect in war. He
had been doing this for nearly a decade. Now was not the time to grow weak in the face of extinction.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if in solemn prayer, and with his hand still high in the air.
"FEUER!!" The captain shouted at the top of his lungs as he brought down his arm.
Immediately, the dull, gray air was lit ablaze as every artillery at their disposal poured every round at the targeted buildings. Blazing steel shells came tearing through the wind, shrieking and whistling
loud enough to crack windows, and then slammed and pounded hard into walls of concrete. The tremendous force from the cannons sent tremors across the landscape, and tall clouds of dust and smoke began to creep up towards the key, cloaking the entire sector until nothing could be seen but a dark sheet of smoke. The shelling run was so brutal that Gunther turned around to see some of his own
men suffer signs of shell-shock. But, that was what the Kanoneschrek Corps were designed to do. No one could have definitely survived this unscarred.
For a minute, everything went silent, and the crews were still clearing up the smoke from their own engines. Some were busy waiting for their guns to cool off, which had gone almost red hot from the
intense firing.
"FASTER! MORE FIRE ON THEM!" Gunther demanded, but his head was still held low, not wanting to see the horror he had just committed.
The cannons would then resume to fill the air with smoke and ear-splitting noise, and would send another wave of destruction to rain upon their defenseless victims. This would rage on for fifteen more
minutes until Gunther eventually ordered them to halt. He then carefully assessed the damage as the thick blankets of smoke began to recede. The landscape was seriously devastated, even more
than it had originally been. The buildings themselves seemed as if they were hit by a nine-magnitude earthquake. There were countless craters everywhere, and all the spent ordnance had more than
proved its dreadful power. Rounds from the 57mm ImK and the 32mm Sturmwind chipped off huge portions of steel and concrete from buildings down to their basic frames, but the Bertha left
even more gruesome marks. One naval rocket struck a 5-storey structure so hard that can only be visually described as 'effectively decapitating a building '.
However, a midst this, perhaps by sheer amount of luck, one building had managed to last throughout the firestorm. It was all that was left of a skyscraper, but the base and the 2nd floor still survived in remarkable condition.
Gunther scrunched his thick brown eyebrows. Something felt amiss, he thought. Quickly, he ordered everyone to reload their cannons, but picked up three squads from the reserve troops to scout ahead for possible survivors. Armed with light machinengewhr-z23's and a few Blitzkarabineer-16 Assault Rifles, the group moved out.
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"Here, they come Father." Spoke a young boy in tattered clothes peering into the broken windows as he hugged a huge black book towards his chest. He was shaking, but his face showed some
happiness to it. He then sat into a corner and began reading aloud some verses.
"In famine He will ransom you from death, and in battle from the stroke of the sword. You will be protected from the lash of the tongue, and need not fear when destruction comes." He mused.
A priest, Father Patrick Silva, rested his back against a broken column. Over his clergy issued black shirt, was a heavy leather trench coat that dangled down just over his shins. Father Patrick was a
huge man; standing at seven feet and four inches, he towered over the poor souls cuddling up around him. However, after living such a miserable life on the run, he now looked more less a dignified
holy man and more like a drunkard, with a rough stubble under his chin, saggy, tired eyes, and a messy blonde mop that ran down to his shoulder.
He caressed the soft head of a young, brown haired girl sleeping so comfortably beside him. He then set his eyes outside. It wouldn't take long before the shelling would return. He gave a brief, caring
look at all the children sleeping so cozily, despite of death being so near them.
"Bishop Aleksander..." He turned to an aging old, man deep in prayer just beside one of the windows. He was dressed in white robes, though smothered with dirt and had suffered some cuts
and tears. Looking up, the Bishop put on his glasses and recognized Patrick's presence. "Perhaps...Now is not the time, young Patrick. Our Lord is one who waits." said Aleksander.
"And He is also one who leaves us open for second chances. The enemy has once again sent another party towards us. Please let me negotiate with them."
"There is no reasoning with the Devil, Father. I'd rather us all die here in our penance rather than be near any of those sinners" argued Bishop Aleksander.
However, Patrick turned his back, dismissing the frail Bishop's words.
"Don't be foolish Patrick. Think of the helpless children you will be leaving" warned the Bishop.
"No. Clearly this is a sign of deliverance from Our Lord. One cannot just sit all day and pray for salvation. Deeds, not words, Bishop Aleksander" spoke Patrick, with defiance in his tone.
His eyes shone like silver in the gloomy dimness of the wrecked building.
"Are you sure about this, Patrick? They will definitely kill you irregardless. I KNOW these peop-...No, these demons." a hint of worry crept behind the Bishop's weary voice.
Patrick smiled then began to walk off into the darkness.
"Take care of dear Gabriella for me.. I can't let these children remember me as the loser who has always been running away."
"G-Gabriella?" wondered the Bishop, who then turned at the brown haired girl earlier.
A young boy approached the Bishop, he was still half-asleep and yawning all the while rubbing his stomach. "Papa Aleksi, where is brother Patrick going?" He asked with a tone so full of
bliss and without a hint of fear. For a brief moment, Aleksander was left dumbstruck, still clouded with his thoughts but then broke out into a gentle smile as he looked down at the boy playfully
tugging unto his robes.
"God has sent Patrick on an important mission, little John."
"Will it take long? He still didn't keep his promise of playing army with me."
"He'll be back...Now run along, child. Sister Linda has some snacks for you down in the kitchen."
The Bishop once more peered into one of the windows and saw Patrick calmly approaching the heavily armed search team. For moment tension and fear took him by a tight grip, but he clasped
both hands and closed his eyes. Trying to calm his nerves and empty out the growing worry in his mind, he breathed softly.
"My Lord...Please preserve us."
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The scouting group was initially taken by surprise by the bold priest's courage to confront them. They couldn't believe that someone could have still survived the bombardment. One of the men
threatened to fire at Patrick as he moved closer and closer. But Patrick had no interest in them. His eyes were dead set on someone else.
In a fearless act of confidence he waved at another man also approaching the group from the blurry mists of the Nomansland.
"Hey, Gunther! It's been a while..." grinned Patrick as he waved with casual gesture at the Das Kreuz Captain.
"Patrick... You fool. You look even more less than a priest now." Gunther's own silver eyes glowed inhumanly like fog lights set against the dark.
"You've changed quite a lot yourself.." snapped back Patrick, with a rather provoking smirk. The air between the two was starting to grow heavier and heavier.
"And just what do you think are you doing? There is no use asking for mercy now... If any of you had a working brain, you should have done it earlier.." Sneered Gunther in his rusty,
metallic voice, as he drew out his Field Mauser Pistol and pointed it at Patrick. He also cocked his head for the others to ready their weapons. The Captain had decided, and it seemed
no amount of history between him and this man could have swayed his views.
"This is perhaps...the only option I could do to help ease your misery." said Gunther, still holding the surprisingly aloof Patrick at gunpoint.
"You can still change, y'know...It's not yet too late. Come'on, we'll kick back the fun into this world. Just like old times, brother!" Persuaded Patrick. He was about close in and place a good
slap on Gunther's back when the awkwardness was cut short by a loud bang.
"I have always hated your guts.." Grimly scorned Gunther, while smoke came puffing out his Mauser. The rapid metallic rattling of the Machinengewehr and powerful automatic
fire of the Blitzkarabineer-16 soon followed as the soldiers peppered Fr. Patrick with a hail of bullets. The latter dropped to the ground in a matter of seconds, limp and motionless. Gunther
moved closer to the unmoving Patrick Silva, and emptied his Mauser cartridge with a few well placed bullets to the target's head.
After a bit of reloading, the group pressed on towards the building the Faithfuls were seeking refuge when suddenly the supposedly-dead Patrick stood up from the ground in a very lax manner.
Stretching up and flexing his arms, he batted an annoyed look at them.
"Nuts...That hurt a hell lot! He complained, completely unfazed from his wounds.
"Kill him...Again" muttered Gunther; he too, sharing the same uncaring attitude as his adversary.
The riflemen began to press their triggers, only to have their weapons shot off their arms. Astonished on what had just happened, they gazed in awe at Patrick Silva's smoking bright-white
hand gun. It was about a foot long, and the shining metal casing, which was adorned along the length of the barrel with various elegant rivets and curving lines, was devoid of cuts and flaws.
It boasted a delicate sense of craftsmanship that was otherworldly. The gun itself seemed to emit a holy, sacred aura. Etched on the silver gun were the words 'Have A Nice Day'.
"Run away now, you oafs. This is between me and this guy." Immediately, as if the gun were enough to convince them, they ran off scared out of their wits back into their flanks.
Gunther spoke nothing, but reached for his silver watch. His glowing white eyes also gave Patrick a sense that he, too, was serious. The Captain took a step forward and his left hand out stretched
into a fist.
"Great...
LET'S DANCE!"
Quickly, Patrick ran his finger through the trigger in rapid succession, already placing five bullets at Gunther. Each time his gun fired, it made a sound unheard of any firearm. It made a deep, bellowing
growl similar to the heaving of tectonic plates. Gunther swung his left hand just as fast as Patrick, with his watch also possessing the same silver glow as the latter's weapon. Each of Patrick's bullets
stopped in mid-flight, then began rust away into dust. The gun-slinging priest fired more shots into him, his barrel blazing as he twirled the gun on his hands in with such energy.
Gunther touched his watch then traced a line in the air with his hand. The path materialized into a shimmering crystalline blade, with jagged edges reaching outward. The sword however, unlike
Patrick's, was oozing a scarlet sludge that seemed ethereal in composition. He sprinted forward, covering several meters with a single leap, and slashed across the air, swiftly cutting through bullets
frozen in place with relative ease. Captain Gunther's movements were followed by blurry ripples, and the priest's projectiles seemed to have no effect as long as he was mobile. Quick to draw, he plunged
his pulsing, translucent sword into Patrick but the latter parried it with his own gun, which he followed by a cartwheel kick into Gunther's shriveled face. But his heavy leather boot was likewise blocked by Gunther's right arm.
With a flick of his left wrist, he threw Patrick off balance with his sword and sent his silver firearm flying. However, Patrick managed to kick some dust from the ground at Gunther, momentarily halting his offensive advance, and when his vision returned he found himself facing down the barrel of Patrick's gun. He flexed his sword-arm for a counter-attack, but the other fired first, blowing off Gunther's respirator. The sudden intake of the unfiltered air caused him to fall to the ground in a violent coughing fit.
"You still have time to repent, Gunther...We have met today for a reason." solemnly spoke Patrick. His voice was no longer taunting, but one of deep pity.
The fallen Gunther lashed his face at Patrick, full of disgust and abhorrence. In a complete act of defiance, he spat at the priest, which was immediately followed by a loud bang. Only this time, the bullet
had landed just millimeters away from his disfigured right ear.
"I won't ask again, dear brother" warned Patrick.
Gunther sighed, and then barred a toothy grin. He slowly stood up, still wheezing painfully as the air he inhaled were like daggers to his damaged lungs, but Patrick was still carefully pointing his handgun
at him. Patrick stared at this sad shell that once called himself Fr. Gunther. They had been brothers in faith, but more importantly, they were brothers in blood. He felt every bit of pain that coursed in his brother's veins. He knew he had to. To bring back his brother was his lifetime penance.
In a stunning display, a calmer Gunther smiled back at Patrick and extended his left hand. Patrick, overjoyed by the change of heart he thought was impossible, quickly took his hand. 'Had this been
what God had planned all along?' Patrick Silva thought.
However, things were not as they seemed.
Patrick soon discovered Gunther's hand held him in a tight grip. Noticing the devious trap, he tried to pull away but his brother's magic had already taken its effect. He forced every ounce of strength in
him to move but his body was frozen in place, locked in zero-time.
Gunther himself wasn't in any good condition. The air was already killing him, something that made everyone else to be fortunate enough to have working lungs. It was only a matter time, but he spoke
once more.
"Bro...ther. This one shot...We won't be so lucky...anymore."
Patrick could only stare down at him, but he could not bring himself to hate him. This was all his doing in the first place. A price he must pay.
"FFEEUUUUUEEEERRR!" The dying Captain gurgled one last command.
An earth shaking boom rang throughout the landscape. There was only one weapon powerful enough to have made that.
The Großmutter Bertha.
It was a mere passing of seconds. The two brothers were locked in a silent standstill, but somehow, Patrick felt comfort. He couldn't change his brother, but at least, just this once he was reconciled
with him. He didn't care if he'd die believing that false lie. He wasn't so sure in the beginning after all.
"Later, Gunther."
Those were his last words. His vision went white just as the artillery shells hit them, covering the area with a massive explosion that utterly crushed everything in the vicinity to the ground into fine
powder.
Nothing else remained.
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Roughly a few kilometers away from Nomansland, the remaining Faithful managed to escape undetected from the Kanoneschrek's 241st. It wasn't an easy feat moving out a party of
twenty children and seven adults. However, Bishop Aleksander may be old, but he was certainly a capable leader of men.
He knew Father Patrick's dream was a lost cause, but he could only pray for his soul. He was a special human being...In a sense that, he was special supernaturally. He was more than a simple human. He was a gifted Esper adept in the power of the Scriptures as well as a treasured Exorcist. He alone had the strength to fend away both men and demons, and now that he was gone, he feared how long would they sustain themselves in the unforgiving wilderness of this dark world.
While walking, he spotted a young girl walking rather aimlessly along the barren wasteland.
'Gabriela' Aleksander whispered to himself. Just what did Patrick Silva mean by 'protecting Gabriella?', he thought. It seemed there was something special about this girl that only Fr. Patrick
saw.
Somehow...
..In this gray Earth of grief, this girl held a small quiet spark in her being. It was an innocent, gentle light.
The old Bishop could only gaze at her in wonder.
"Could He have sent her?" he asked himself; Such were the words that echoed inside his mind that had this lingering sense of hope. "Perhaps" he continued "We may still see a future to wake up to out of this nightmare."
~******~
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