Chapter 18—Salvation

In Sector Four there was no congregation bigger than the House of God’s Prosperity. They gathered this evening as they had done before, coming together in prayer to share their deeds. They believed that God rejected them for a good reason. It wasn't because any of them had failed, but because they had a mission to spread prosperity to everyone else. The other Rejects needed them to act in God's place, doing what they could in tandem with the other Sectors to make the lives of their neighbors better. The house of God's Prosperity bore more than a thousand people, and their Pastor believed that more was to come. He had one message for all of the people. God was good, and in time, they would get their chance before him again. He shared that message now and closed it with an Amen, ending their silent prayer for yet another night. The Pastor was patient and knew his people were too. Even when he was gone they'd still pray, informing God of their every good act. It would be worth it, he was sure. He brought God's word to them, and he’d guide their words back.

"Amen, my brothers and sisters!" He called to the ceiling. The congregation repeated, and a door suddenly came together behind him. He turned with tears already filling his eyes. Was now finally the day? There was so much more work but it seemed that God was ready!

The door flew open and he held his chest at the vision on the other side. The Cerulean Arbiter stood there, offering the Pastor his hand. He reached out and knew his congregation did as well. Looking over his shoulder one last time, he beamed, gesturing to the door.

“God has always been good.” He would lead them all by taking this hand first. Doing just that, he froze as fingers wrapped around the Arbiter’s body. “God?” He froze and god was ripped away.

The door slammed shut in his face, and he dropped to his knees—heart aching in his chest. They were all so close, and now God was gone. This wasn't just a rejection, he felt it like a yank as something took god away. His eyes dropped to his chest, where a blue light stuck out like an arrow. Turning to his congregation, he saw the arrow sticking out of them as well. Accusatory arrows… pointing at everyone their bodies faced. He knew his congregation wasn't behind this though—all of them were good. If they faced the same direction the true culprit would be pointed out. They were somewhere out there, where no other arrow pointed back. They’d find the ones at fault for this sacrilege, and right this accursed wrong. The color faded from his people's skin, leaving bodies gray, save for the arrows. There was a thought on the Pastor's mind, slowly fading away. It was what he had to say to the culprit when he found them; the justification for their punishment. He said it to his congregation so they knew what they should do.

“Your Fault!” He cried, and a chorus answered back.

The House of God’s Prosperity stampeded into the streets, and other congregations followed. Their arrows resonated with each other, forming an invisible web through the Sector. They could feel where lines didn’t connect and knew the culprits lived among them. The House of God's Prosperity crashed through the doors of a nearby apartment, banging on each one until they came down. Some people were gathered, watching old shows. Others rose from their sleep, terrified by the noise. The House of God’s Prosperity saw each of them without the light and cried out their shriek as they pulled the arrows from their bodies. They stood long like harpoons and the congregation leaped, plunging them deep into the culprits' flesh. They filled each body until the harpoons could gather no more, and left them mangled as the arrows grew back. Maybe these people weren't enough? Maybe others stole god away? They cried out as they left the apartment, leaving only blood-soaked rooms behind. Back out in the street, they moved from one building to the next, following other congregations as they slaughtered their way away from Sector Three.

Rashawn returned to Four by landing on a house. He wanted to say he was getting used to falling to new places, but he was too quickly distracted by the massacre. A small body was crushed on a nearby street, and he swallowed a dry sorrow as his eyes followed the procession of lights. What the hell was happening? Today had been a hell of a day, but there was no way it should have ended like this. How many blue arrows were currently tearing through his home? How many people would end up like that child, killed in the street for no reason? Following the sorrow, he swallowed his rage. It burned in his chest, and he sneered as he looked down.

“I don’t got time to figure this stuff out.” He looked at his sleeves. His hoodie was glowing now—spotted like the painted dogs. He was hoping he could talk to Peter, or King and Micaela again, but the lives lost weren't a worthy price. "I need you guys to go to anyone you can! Make them understand the rule! Follow the Golden Painted Dog!" He said to his hounds and they shot off like lightning. His eyes moved to the horde below, and he tried to think of all the things he knew. Between the witch, Peter, and the two in the lab, the one thing that constantly came up was how the light could affect the body. Were these things like the Grays the lab duo mentioned? Could he make them into Radiant Acolytes, or were they all a lost cause?

He fired beams from his lantern into the horde. Some of them stopped as they were hit, but the others marched on. He kept his attention on the ones he could, feeling the place where the arrows stabbed out. Were they coming from their Luminance? It was like something had latched on and pulled until it was misshapen. Taking hold as he bent his light into fangs, he tried to fix them and his targets shrieked. He tore them apart instead and the bodies dropped. Maybe there was a way to save these people, but he wasn’t the man for the job. Slaughter then? Could he even call it that? One way or another, people were going to die, and he'd rather it not be the ones cowering and confused. The horde was almost upon the next street. If this was how Painted Dogs story started anew, he wouldn’t hesitate to put the words to the page.

If his light could be fangs on the inside, he reasoned it could happen on the outside too. Making the lantern glow brighter, he shaped the light, forming four heads in its orbit. The first fired, and its effect was instant, catching a straggler, taking a chunk out its body. The others continued; Rashawn fired more, moving the light to tear off their legs. The horde stumbled over each other and he fired his last two to rip jaws free. As he brightened his lantern again he learned on the fly. The heads wouldn't last long away from its glow. There was resistance in the bodies that made them dissipate after a few bites. This could work though, he just had to get a rhythm going. Summon the heads. Send them to hunt. Summon more and let the cycle repeat. Under the control of their blinding rage, it didn't seem like his foes would fight back. He could definitely do this, though he had to do it fast. There was the sound of ruin in the distance; this group was only one of many.

“Your fault!” A voice cried out as one pulled its harpoon free and found him on the roof. The others followed and drew theirs too, chucking them with the power to make the walls explode.

Rashawn escaped but his easy victory died in that wall. More harpoons came flying and he couldn't help but curse, hopping off the streets as the asphalt burst. He ran between the buildings. The horde stayed close on his tail, and he could only shred some as others threw. The passage was too narrow; there was nowhere to dodge. A harpoon came right for his eye, stopping against a burning golden light. He went flying as it ruptured, bouncing heavily against the ground. He had to stay down after that, but the horde didn't believe in time-outs. They at least gave him the courtesy of not throwing another. Or perhaps it was just that they preferred impaling instead.

“Your Fault!" A few leaped through the air. He pushed himself to his feet but did not have the strength to run.

Something like lightning suddenly ripped through them. Bodies dropped in two pieces; his painted pups had just made it back. He'd pet them all later! As harpoons were reeled back again he fired his ammo, leading his beasts to hunt. Arms were ripped free and weapons dropped as fangs sunk into faces, necks, and stomachs. His dogs fed and he fired again, taking out the ones that aimed for them. In turn, they tore his attackers off their feet. Together the four of them shrank the swarm, stopping only when the last body dropped and sweat ran rivers down his face.

“You guys need names after that!” He ran up and pulled them into a hug. “Bear. Spot. Shimmer.” The last was the one that saved him before; he could still see a crescent-moon spot beneath her right eye. He petted them one more time and stood up, looking down the road. It wasn't like he was counting, but there were only about two hundred of those things. He had a feeling that wasn’t even scratching the surface. If the dogs were back, the people he could already save were currently in hiding. The rest of his night would be about bringing this massacre to an end. He looked the other way and saw a harpoon coming at him like a comet. This one would go through him; he could see it in the ferocity of the throw. All he could think was, “Shit!” Then suddenly a glass hand caught the missile.

Not a glass hand...one garbed in armor like King. This must have been one of his friends. Rashawn was starting to like these guys. When this was all over, he thought he'd hang out with them. This one was strange though. His armor covered his body with a horned-skull helmet. Rashawn kind of expected a full set, but didn't expect it to look like this. Who was he to judge? He was wearing a wooden mask. He shrugged and smiled under it.

“Thanks for the save man. What do they call you?”

Pieces of the armor begin to break away—large shards shattering against the concrete. It looked like it was empty on the inside, and as it broke more it took on a distinctive shape. The skull helmet made sense at that, and the hollowness did the next moment as a light ignited and filled the form. Rashawn wasn't the type to judge, but nothing human was standing beside him. How could it be, after all, with a black glass skeleton housing a burning crimson form?

“Corrosion,” It said with a breathless growl. “The Crimson Prophet.”

⁘⁛⁘

Valerie Klein stepped onto a pedestal in the cathedral. She brought her hands together, reaching with her mind to the priestesses in their rooms who moved it to the rest of Castle Cerulean. She could feel the power of Francis’s plan and knew the first danger of the night was already underway. It was a shame Sector Four had to die, but she firmly believed it was important to save the lives she could. She'd offer them all a prayer when this sordid business was through. For now, though, she had her purpose in this plan. Her eyes began to glow.

“People of Castle Cerulean, though it is late, I come to you now. I had a vision earlier today—a premonition of a dangerous and malevolent force. A monster known as the Crimson Prophet has entered our home and already claimed the poor people of Sector Four. Alas because of their rejection there was no salvation to be found, but God still loves all of you and he wants you to see a better tomorrow. People of Castle Cerulean, come together with me in prayer. Today may well be the Decisive Day, and we know what the book of visions says. This too is apart of the Almighty Want. It is a trial, but we shall overcome it by trusting in God’s might. People of Castle Cerulean let us call upon it now. Pray for Peace. Pray for Protection. Pray for the Glorious Day yet to come. Pray for the future of our Castle, and show this Crimson Prophet—this falsifier of God that we shall not be taken by an intruder. We shall not allow an invader to destroy our home. Pray People of Castle Cerulean. So that when he is struck down his fall serves as a message. Enemies shall not move freely in our home! When they meet our eyes, they will meet their end!”

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice filled the silence of the cathedral. Valerie’s sermon abruptly paused, and she turned her eyes on the speaker.

Her heart skipped a beat. There was a young woman between the pews, maybe around Brigid's age. Her skin was dark, her braided hair was in a ponytail, and black glass armor guarded her form. That skipped heartbeat turned into a spread of frozen fury. The Crimson Prophet wasn’t enough. It couldn’t truly be the Decisive Day unless the Castle met its harshest threat. Valerie ended her sermon and stared the young woman down. The girl didn’t wilt, and that somehow made her appearance worse.

“My name is Fang, and as I understand you're one of the leaders here in Castle Cerulean. I hear that the Enclave is seen as a threat among your people, and I was wondering if you could tell me why, and perhaps answer some questions I have about it…"