[Suzerain of Sheol]

As the earth explodes out to the horizon, Thomas wastes no time in letting his soldiers loose upon the encircling horde.

The five hulking, power-armored forms brace themselves back-to-back, hefting their grenade launchers and waiting just a moment for the blasphemous creatures to form into a tight-packed mob before opening fire. In an instant, the silent yard becomes a cacophony of erupting barrels and automatic fire, incendiary grenades bursting among huge clumps of the attackers, filling the air with the reek of chemical murder. Hundreds die in the initial barrage, before the enemy pushes too close, and the soldiers -- as one -- switch to their massive, six-barreled autocannons, beginning to spread a fanning line of streaking, supersonic lead in an arc across the cemetery.

Thomas adds his own automatic fire to the ruinous hail, but it is not enough. None of it is enough. Thousands of the abominations lay unmoving, but thousands more still advance, at a dead sprint now, and as they draw near, each reaches within its own mouth -- grasping fingers reaching impossibly into bulging necks -- and draws forth a burning bronze sword, immediately casting the graveyard in an incandescent glare.

They make no warcry, their eyes remain dead and void of the passion of life, but nonetheless, they come, flailing in fury with the mighty warswords even as hundreds die every second.


Diogenes follows the standard procedure for engagements, breaking away from the main group and launching himself from tombstone to tombstone, backflipping and cartwheeling and spinning in midair, landing perfectly each time. With inhuman eyes, he aims both pistols in his leaping flight, firing with perfect precision, destroying the creatures and never letting a single one come close to touching him.

When both magazines are empty, he lands, and sprays fire from his flamethrowers to clear himself a path, then unsheathes his khukri, and pauses for a second. Breathes. Focuses his mind.

And attacks.

A streaking blur of black cloth and black steel, his moves among the fiery specters, cutting and slashing and severing: limbs and heads, again and again. Every foe to draw near is dismembered before it can begin its first lumbering swing. His free hand lashes out, open-palmed, and collapses chests, explodes skulls, a fatal telekinetic resonance thrumming audibly from his entire body.

It is not until he finds himself broken free of the seeming-endless horde, surrounded by darkness broken only by the distant gleam of still thousands of burning blades, that he takes a moment to breathe. He reloads both pistols and sheathes his blade after cleaning the gore from it. Expending himself in a single burst like that was daring -- dangerous, and the fatigue he feels now is near-crippling, though he knows it will pass. Gasping for breath, he watches the slaughter unfold, content with the seven-hundred-and-ninety-four he laid low.

Even still, there seems to be no end to their swarming ranks, even as he watches from afar. For every dozen to fall, a score more rising from the devastated earth.

The priest was right, he muses. We are in Hell.

His weapons readied, the killer advances once more into slaughter. Two-hundred and forty rounds remaining, the batteries in his flamethrowers half-depleted, and a dozen nicks along the edge of his blade, and the night is only barely begun.

This will not last....