Ex-Archdeacon Of The Order Rants About Coming Doomsday .
Ousted Archdeacon of The Order of St George, Anton Pythagoras, now the self-proclaimed leader of the occult group Sons of Pythagoras has recently courted internet infamy after uploading a five-minute video in which he vehemently 'warns' about the supposed end times. . .

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In what could only be described as an energetic rendition of carefully selected quotes taken out-of-context, Pythagoras claims he had been visited by the very spirit of St George himself, the legendary forefather of the Sanguineii and first Living Flame. Pythagoras claims that according to his "very real" vision, the Saint himself appeared the night before while he was brushing his teeth and bequeathed him a vision of a world in flaming ruins. The "chilling" vision was so palpable that according to Pythagoras he'd felt as if his "soul had been wrenched from his body". [Author's note: The Ex-Archdeacon has had a history of cardiomyopathy and has historically denied the ailment despite being examined by physicians.]

In a quote transcribed directly from the video, Pythagoras claims that: "the fall of men comes as surely there is hot and cold, life and death. For in our mounting sin, we begged to be punished. We have forgotten our place in the universe, thinking we knew better. That we were above it all and could achieve all on our own, not acknowledging the hand that fed our mouths when we were hungry. In our selfish ambitions, we have become like an obese glutton, and for our hubris, we shall be brought low. Our world will burn as forces beyond our comprehension will ravage the land and we shall be helpless before it.."

While the quote paints vivid imagery, it is not the first time the Ex-Archdeacon has come forward with a 'vision' since his forced retirement. His first such attempt to stir controversy was proven false when the sky did not rain blood as of last December. Accordingly, he predicts 'Doomsday' to happen by the end of this year. Interestingly, this aligns with many reknown economists' predictions for a fall in the stock market due to the growing tensions in trade regulation between the EU and the United States.

As of writing, the video has garnered over 13 million views though many of the comments seemed directed at the almost comical expression plastered on the former Slayer's face as he recounts his vision. Nonetheless, many voiced concern over the man's health and sanity and have-

A screech of metal caused the brunette to look up from her perch on one end of the bench. Hazel eyes scanned over the mostly deserted carriage as the train rumbled along through the darkness of the subway. The lack of crowds wasn't unusual, it was the morning twilight hours after all. The odd space in time when even the busiest city in the world had a lull in activity. The time when the nightwalkers were just about to head back and the daywalkers had begun to awaken. Brielle liked travelling during this time. The feeling of moving through vast empty spaces usually filled with suffocating crowds and enjoying the sound of her footsteps. It was therapeutic in its own way. Of course, she could always wake up later and ride along with Desmond on his bike. She did not loathe human interaction, but working at one of the busiest kitchens on one of the busiest streets of the city meant that you would savour any chance at quietness like a Frantzen truffle french toast.

The train will be arriving at Pillar 6, Arcology Two Union Square. Please remember to takzz-

The recorded voice distorted into a burst of static moments before the train lights flickered and suddenly went dark. The witch started with surprise, in the midst of twisting her lip balm out from its socket. The train rumbled and then the dreaded dying whine signalled that the carriage had lost all power as she could feel the automatic breaking system bring the whole line down to a gradual stop. Gasps and shuffling footsteps padded over the metal floor. Dim emergency lights flickered to life, casting the carriage in a dull white glow.

"The fuck?" Someone called out from one of the cabins, voice travelling easily through the sparsely occupied public transport.

Brielle let out a brief air of annoyance, reaching for her phone and applying her balm from the faint reflection of her face on the black glass.

"Hey look, someone's out there!"

A puzzled frown creased her brow. Craning her neck forward so she could look down the long line of trains, she noticed a man in a hoody peering out the glass of the lead train into the relative darkness of the subway. A handful of other passengers had gotten up curiously in an attempt to see what the guy was looking at.

"Hey!" The man had begun waving, "Hey AAAAAAAH-!"

It was difficult to make out details under the dim lighting, but what she saw sent a bolt of freezing ice up her spine. One moment she was looking at the man tapping against the glass pane, and the next, a dread crash of shattering glass. Tendrils of deepest shadow shot in from the outside piercing the man through as he was lifted, struggling into the air. The frontmost cabin was in an uproar as its occupants screamed in terror. Then in almost excruciating slowness, the tendrils twisted around the man's limbs and tore him into two.

What. The. Fuck.

His screams grated on her ears. She'd never heard anything like it before. Then the ripping. Oh god, she could hear it.

Brielle's mouth hung open and as she sat transfixed to her chair, watching as the ripped halves of the man was cast to the side, crimson blood splattering all over another passenger. Then a huge black mass charged through the remnants of the front window and that was all it took the break the spell. She grabbed her handbag and ran in the opposite direction. Her mind was still reeling from trying to comprehend what she had seen, but it was as if all the alarm bells within her consciousness had been set off at once. An intense feeling of terror and fear propelled her legs as she fled from cabin to cabin. Puzzled faces of other passengers looked quizzically at the white button-blouse woman as she fled, unaware of the terror that lay ahead.

A hand reached out and grabbed her arm

"What happened? What's going on?" The grab was so sudden Brielle nearly crashed into the benches. Stricken hazel eyes gazed into the gleaming aureate irises of a sanguineus in a business suit. She could see the fear in the man's eyes, but also confusion. Her mouth opened, but the witch couldn't find her voice. Lips moved, but no sound was heard.

"I-I don't know. I-I'm sorry." It was dumb. Her mind screamed for her to warn everyone to run. But the ringing in her ears was too much. She wasn't in control. She could only shake her head, as if in denial as if she pulled away. The sanguineus' grip loosened and she turned and fled.

There were perhaps seven cars in total and it didn't take long for her to reach the final one. Bursting through the connecting corridor, her mind finally caught up as she ground to a halt, leaning against one of the railings and panting heavily. There she thought she saw at least two others seated on the benches. By now the whole line of trains was in an uproar but due to a bend in the tunnel, there was no way to see what was going on in the front carriages without moving forward. And there was no way she would do that.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember what she should do in emergencies such as these. Heck, who even knows what to do!?

Call!

The thought flashed through her mind even as she fumbled through her bag for her phone and erratically tapped out the emergency hotline.

"Come on! Come on!" She fought against her rising panic, heart skipping a beat the moment the beeps changed to a voice.

"911 What is your emergency-?"

"Magic!" Brielle blurted out the first thing that came to mind, cursing herself for her bumbling speech, "I-I mean I don't know! I saw. . . there was this black thing. Tendrils. I'm in the subway. The train lost power, it stopped then someone saw something outside then the glass broke and they were torn apart-!"

"Ma'am, slow down. I'm going to need you to speak slower. Where did you say you were?"

"S-Subway! O-On the way, n-no. In between Arc Three and Two, Union Square stop-" A gurgling scream drifted down into their cabin, so loud that Brielle had to clench her teeth, "-S-Send someone quick! Please!"

"Don't--"

The line went dead.

She looked at her phone in disbelief. Dialled the number over and over again to no avail.

"My line's dead too." Someone was speaking to her, it was one of the other passengers. She could only nod numbly in acknowledgement. In a daze, her eyes drifted over a poster on the window:

'Telestar, Sign Up Today & Enjoy Complete Coverage! Even In The Subway.'

It seemed to be mocking her.

Then the window beside her shattered as a clawed arm grabbed her face.

It happened so fast she couldn't even scream.

The witch barely managed to grab at the arm before she felt the floor fall away from her feet and then a sharp pain at the back of her head. Then all went black.

The scene unfolds not unlike the latest blockbuster thriller showing on golden screens all across the globe. A city coming to life in the early morning twilight hours. Dour and cloudy marking a gloomy day as two armoured trucks careened through the growing traffic, lights flashing. They ran the colours of Victorian Blue and the crest of a roaring lion.

Armoured knights to slay the dragon.

The scene might shift, focussing on a gloved hand as it gripped the butt of a rifle, a silver chain coiled around calloused fingers as it shook and rattled to the rhythm of the road. Grim, like the clasped hands of a priest, anointing warriors in oil as they head to war.

Raven dark hair, steely umber eyes. The camera now aimed at the leader of the pack, with his strong brows and light fuzz of 5 o’clock shadow lending him a kind of lupine look. There were several others with him, though there were three of note. Stanley Jansson, Masaru Kobayashi and Quill Hamerstadt. In the second truck, four were named. Alpheus Cheng, Damien Harte, Ven Gomez and Katya Belov. Eight in each team, sixteen total. With the rest, whose names lie insignificant, for such is the way of records.

Alpha Leader was speaking, addressing both Alpha and Omega Teams as they hurtled to the MD Zone. Each specialist had an eyepiece, relaying information and images as was necessary for their harried briefing.

An attack in the subway.

At least seven confirmed dead. Six civilians likely missing, according to ticketing records.

First responders sent two patrol cars of NYPD officers with one H0und drone.

Four officers total. All humans.

Video feed from the H0und verified that the officers had tracked the MD suspects to an abandoned utility passageway along an older stretch of the subway.

The officers breached with no resistance. But at minute forty-seven, there were screams and gunfire. Not much could be seen in the darkness despite the H0unds night-vision. Not that it mattered as the feed cut soon after.

Possible radio disruption.

The two trucks abruptly split, as the second truck abruptly turned tyres screeching the sidewalk as it picked up a different heading.

Omega Team will pick up the hunt via the subway.

The first truck was now alone. Weaving in between traffic until it arrived under a towering Arcology. Traffic cones had already cordoned off the area, allowing the truck access to the basement parking bays and the lower levels of the gargantuan structure.

Alpha Team had a different scent.

Analysis showed that the abandoned utility passageway led through a series of underground passageways that led to the neighbouring Arcology. It exited on the lowest levels, into another yet another abandoned warehouse deep in the basement of the once thought sealed off area.

NYPD officers had already cordoned off the area. No breach was attempted.

A den of suspected cultists.

The hunt was on.


“Safety’s off, equipment check.”

They were finally here. Hugging the walls close to the large double doors of the abandoned warehouse. They might have been scores of feet underground but still the roof of the sealed-off zone towered high above their heads.

“I’m on point. Quill stick to me after the breach we clear right,” the werewolf glanced briefly at the newly graduated vampire before turning to the others, “Stanley, Tanya, Jackson and the rest, fan out.” At this point, Lars was just repeating himself for the benefit of the newer members of the group. Their roles had been set, drilled over and over until it became second nature. He turned to look across the hall from the entrance at a police barricade and nodded to their marksman.

Masaru, take position directly opposite the doorway. We’re expecting heavy fire. The PHALANX drone will initiate breach. Once through, I suspect its barrier to hold no longer than five seconds. Once it’s down, secure direct line of sight. Once you have confirmed dominion, join us. The police will take over.
Lars tapped on his earpiece and check his grip on his breaching shield, “Alpha Team ready.”

He waited for an affirmative from Alpheus on the other side. It didn’t take long.

“Breaching in 3. . . 2. . . 1. . . go!”

BOOM

The PHALANX drones were the latest advancement in urban conflicts. A hulking bipedal mechanized robot with point-blank ballistics capable of breaching almost any door that wasn’t tougher than a bank vault. Once through, a perspex glass barrier is immediately deployed, shielding enforcers from incoming fire whilst enabling them to identify enemy positions. Ever since their deployment, fatality rates during initial breaching have gone down by almost eighty percent.

With a single blast, the heavy doors of the underground warehouse exploded inwards. Almost immediately a hail of gunfire erupted. The sound as it hit the PHALANX barrier was deafening. Lesser men would’ve turned away.

But not Division 13.

Hefting his shield, Lars charged in after the drone. The warehouse was a large open expanse, perhaps fifty feet wide by hundred feet long. In between were stacked crates and shipping containers which the cultists used for cover. His shield rattled and pinged as he moved deeper in, through a peephole, he saw a couple of cultists attempting what could only be called a spray and pray.

A growl erupted from his throat as the werewolf felt his primal instincts kick in. Muscles tensed and he surged forward, covering a dozen feet in almost an instant. There was a blur of metal as he swung the shield, slamming one of the cultists crashing into the other. Then without skipping a beat, his A-M20 was out.

BLAM. BLAM.

He might have yawned any other time. Not out of boredom, obviously, but exhaustion. Quill didn't exactly work well on less than seven hours of sleep, and it was even worse when then sun wasn't up and you'd already worked a full shift. He was looking forward to getting home, lighting a candle or two, maybe getting something to eat. Problem was, this wasn't any other time. It was now. And now was a little more chaotic than a quiet night (morning?) at home.

The armored truck rattled and bumped down street corners. The vampire rubbed his eyes under his eyepiece, which left translucent spots in his vision. It was awfully dark, and despite the hum of the engine, very quiet. It might have been a good place to fall asleep, but anticipation and adrenaline was slowly working its magic and turning his system back on. Quill was seated between two of his other colleagues; someone's elbow dug into his shoulder as they leaned over to fix their boots. He shifted, a little uncomfortable but somewhat used to the lack of personal space on these kinds of outings.

A feed of information flashed across his eyepiece. A rough map of their destination showed that they would be doing a frontal assault; there would be little to do in terms of tactical maneuvers. Another way of understanding it was that they would just be busting in, guns a-blazing. Of course, they would have the PHALANX drone to cover them, and Quill had no doubt in his teammates' abilities. As for himself, he hadn't quite decided yet. He'd made it this far, right? Lars had recently dubbed him ex-rookie.



Muscle memory took over. Quill took the handgun from his thigh holster and pressed the little switch to turn it from "just for show" to "all business." His twin batons were next; although he'd checked them hundreds of times, he flipped them on for a moment, satisfied to hear the familiar buzz of electricity humming at their tips. He hesitated; his grip was tight, almost cramping. This anticipation was the worst part, worse than the fight or anything that came after. It was the wonder, gruesome and raw and uncertain, that left you thinking about who would still be standing after all this. Or crawling. Or maybe just laying in fatigue. Bleeding out.

As the truck began to grind to a halt, Quill ran through the layout one more time. Stick with Lars. Keep that shield up, wait until you're close enough to land blows you know you won't miss. Don't miss. Locate the cultists; if you've worked with Lars at all, you know what he's going to do. His breaths turned deep, and he could feel precious oxygen flooding through him. Muscles tense, he locked his eyes on Lars' glowing eyepiece and told himself not to forget anything he had ever learned.

The signal was hard to miss. An impossibly loud crash meant that the PHALANX drone had busted through. In the next instant, Quill was in the warehouse, one baton in his left hand and a shield in his right as he charged after Lars. God, the werewolf moved fast. If he had been anything other than a vampire, Quill was sure he would have lost the man already in the chaos. A splatter of bullets left a patchwork of crisscrosses on his shield, and Quill's face turned stony. The patterns were disorganized. That was good.

It was impossible for Quill to keep track of the rest of his team. The plan was stick with Lars, so that was what he was determined to do. The older man's ferocity was still bone-chilling, no matter how many times Quill had witnessed it. But then, he didn't really have time to admire technique.

The pinging of bullets against concrete pulled Quill from his focus. He looked at his feet -- there was a splatter of holes next to his foot -- then up. He could see something moving just out of view on top of a shipping container. Without hesitation, he leapt up onto a lower stack of crates just beside it, but immediately ducked down as another spray of shot flew past his ear. He fired twice at the edge of the container, took a deep breath, backed up, and made a jump for it. His shield dropped to the ground beneath as he just made the jump, landing flat and pulling out an electric-tipped baton to jab it into his assailant's surprised foot. The shock gave him an opportunity to grab his handgun and pump two shots into the tremoring body.

Breathing hard, Quill peered down over the container to see Lars below. He trained his firearm toward the clump of cultists, but felt a hand around his ankle. He immediately dropped and twisted to his back, not hesitating to fire a shot straight into his attacker's outstretched body before he could even register what color their hair was.