"Alright, buddy, put the weapon down!" the Chief shouts at the back of a lanky figure standing next to a limp body, holding a thin, 16 inch blade in his hand. The damp air bounces the words against the cold, unfeeling walls of the church. "Let us help you; we… we don't want to hurt you," the Chief continues in a cooler tone of voice, as rushed footsteps of several more officers entering the building create a dancing cacophony of reverberating sound.
The figure slowly turns. He smirks.
"I think you meant to say you can't hurt me," a smooth, liquid voice responds and the bright, clear sound rushes over the decorated windows, kissing the lips of painted saints and angels, then finally enveloping the officers in a blanket of serenity.
A calm moment languidly evaporates and the Chief makes a quick hand gesture to the other officers to move in. The figure makes a step and raises the blade, which instantly consumes the room in an blinding flash of a thousand thin beams.
The Chief blinks away the sharp pain as his vision slowly returns. His breathing, accelerated by the commotion, detects the smell of seared flesh. A drop of sweat rolling over his lips stifles a yelp of horror, as cauterized chunks of human flesh piled around him stare back, as silent as the condemnation of the saints on the walls. The figure closes in.
"The heart of Hell itself is not a punishment severe enough for those who desecrate the Holy House of The God," the Chief castigates the figure.
— "God? Which god?"
— "The God"
— "The are no gods. There are only the men who invent them and the fools who belive in them. One day—you will accept that."
The Chief feels the blade inexorably move through his jaw, his cheek, his brow. The cracking of the bone both felt and heard for a few moments before the pain sets in—as sharp as the cold piece of metal now sitting a hairwidth away from his right eyeball. In a soothing stream, the warm blood rushes down the Chief's neck and chest. With surprising strength, the figure raises the Chief several inches above ground, causing the fragile skull to start to tear apart.
The pain. The pain. The pain.
Then, the vat.
— "So that's how we died, boys"—the Cheif proclaimed, putting away the tablet
— "Yeah, brutal!" a voice from the middle of the group jabs. "I feel like going for some BBQ! Anyone else? How about you Chief? Or would you rather go for a kebob?"
The group laughs.
— "Not a laughing matter," the Chief responds sternly
— "Fine. Fine. So did anyone get this guy yet?"
— "No. Along with us and the priest, there were ten more victims," the Chief pauses. "Six had clones"
Silence envelops the room for a few units.
— "And this ain't no crazed ruin rat with a dagger either. They call themselves The NGS… The No Gods Syndicate"—the Chief pauses, rubbing the pristine skin on the right cheek—"And they will be coming back."
"They always come back."