Fall of the Faithful

Libria.

What a blessed name. The way it rolls off the tongue. The way it inspires pride in the knowledge that we have conquered that which has kept us in fear and suffering for so many years. Human emotion has been conquered. Pain has been conquered. Father has led us to victory on infinite levels.

I am called Deidrick Keith. I am a twenty-three year old male.

I am a Grammaton Cleric.

All my life I have fought to be where I am now. When I have gained more experience, perhaps in even a few short years, I will be promoted to the Tetra Grammaton. I can only hope. That is, if all EC-10 hasn’t been completely eradicated by then. But I don’t see that happening anytime in the near future. The Nethers is constantly rebuilding itself. We kill twenty members of the Resistance; fifty spring up in their place. No, my kind will always have work to do.

In fact, that is one of the only things in life I do not understand. Why do people throw away their lives for color? Why do they risk everything for a few old, moldy painting? What is the appeal, the allure of rebellion?

Surely they realize what they’re doing. They’re risking everything that we as a society have worked so hard to achieve. Do they want war? Do they enjoy suffering? I do not understand.

But then again, that isn’t my job. My job is to find them and to stop them, by any means necessary. It is the Father’s will. And Father is not to be questioned. There is a reason why he is supreme ruler and you and I are not. The Resistance must die, not simply because of their heinous crimes but because Father wills it.

Boom!

An explosion sounds in the distance, thrusting me violently from my thoughts. The shuddering blast causes the gray plastic dishes in my kitchen to rattle violently in the aluminum cabinets. I tear the front door open and run into the street. People are running in every direction; showing no fear—of course—only extreme alarm. I swivel wildly, trying in vain to find the source of the explosion. My entire view of the city is blocked by tall apartment complexes. Thinking fast, I pound up the fire escape, taking two steps at a time. Breathing easily, I reach the top and place my hands on the ledge, a slight breeze ruffling my hair. The shimmering beauty of the cityscape is lost to me, my eyes focused blindly on Equilibrium.

No.

The gears in my head struggle to comprehend what I am seeing.

Not possible.

The huge complex is completely demolished, a billowing cloud of fire and noxious smoke hanging above it. I watch in shock as other smaller explosions detonate. Equilibrium and all of its outposts around the city are destroyed. How can this be possible? This is completely unforeseen. This is hell.

Without Prozium . . .

I am standing in a pool of the miraculous drug. Somehow I had managed to walk all the way to Equilibrium without realizing it. My reflection wavers in the yellow fluid at my feet. I turn my head and a flash of sunlight glares brilliantly off a small vial on the crumbled cement. Crouching down, I pick up the single interval and roll it around slowly in my gloved hand. A shot rings out behind me, followed by another, and another. I don’t move. I simply stay crouched on the ground in a puddle of Prozium, staring at the small glass vial in my palm. The Resistance is coming. They are trying to overthrow Father.

My hand closes around the interval resolutely. I know what I must do. Standing swiftly, I inject the drug into my neck, my eyelids sagging faintly as all nagging, doubting thoughts in my brain fade away.

I turn my head slightly. In my peripheral vision I can see Resistance members, twenty strong, closing in. My head down, I flick my arms; twin pistols fall into my hands. With the press of a single switch, large nail-like protuberances jut out of the bottom of the magazines. I close my eyes, listening to my breathing, listening to my heart beat, listening to their footsteps.

Father’s will be done.

The first wave of Resistance fighters stands no chance. My arms flash out in expert perfection, my modified Berettas simply extensions off my wrists, as natural as if I were crushing their skulls with my own hands. The first wave is followed by a second, then a third, then a fourth. Blood is pouring in a small river out of a wound on my temple, the warm liquid leaving a metallic taste on my lips. One of my legs is dragging along the ground, the portion below my knee hanging at an odd angle thanks to the butt of a carefully placed rifle. A bullet sinks into the soft flesh of my thigh and I wince.

The man who shot me stares into my face with a look of exhilaration at my reaction and I promptly lift my arm and shoot him through the forehead. His head snaps back and as he falls out of my line of sight, he also falls out of my stream of consciousness and I immediately focus on the next assailant. I know I won’t last much longer; my blood loss is too excessive, too continuous. I feel my hands beginning to shake against my will. During a lull in the fighting, I examine my hand. The skin is translucent, the veins bulging out of the papery skin. I watch as the bulging lessens, deflates, tapers off. There is the smell of gunpowder and an excruciating bolt of blinding agony rips through my skull.

I fall to my knees.

Forgive me Father.

AN: It was completely finished to begin with, but I hope the added couple of paragraphs give the story a bit more closure. Sorry I've taken so long to post it. Please tell me what you think. :-)