At last, the room is still once more, the writhing of serpentine forms at last brought to cessation. Scanning the chamber with his meta-sight, Diogenes sees Thomas stalking back down the hallway, bending to retrieve his rifle and slinging it across his back. Sees the woman Tarja standing over the ashes of dozens of the vipers. Sees Lev surrounded by blasted gore, gnashing the dead creatures between his jaws in frenzy. Sees the nameless wanderer covered in bites, bitter blood leaking from his lips, seemingly undisturbed by what must be a pint and more of hellish venom swirling through his veins.
Scoffing, he sends to the bizarre man, Lo, I was naked, Lord, and thou didst clothe me.
And sees, finally, Dante, inert, empty of thought, dying. The girl frantically ministering useless aid, failing. And, dead.
Calling to Thomas, he conveys, We've lost one. If you would be so kind, priest... assuming your tantrum is finished.
I could label you a traitor to this cause for your inaction. The woman is a heretic.
A heretic. To your cult of the dead God. Tell me, priest, where is it written, "The harmless and the helpless, they shall be put to death. Try them not upon the laws of man, for theirs is the judgment of the Lord thy God"? The girl has done nothing to harm this mission.
I could swear the neuroplasty was intended to strip the conscience from you. Such failure. The Celestrine will be displeased.
Press the matter, priest, and see how my soul cries in anguish at the terrors I wreak on you.
Terror? Pathetic.
Do you ever wonder why you are unique? Perhaps even grim Zaccheus cannot stomach the monster he has created.
We are, one and all, children of the same God.
May He be blessed, lest we all perish, eh? And needs must as the Devil drives.
You think the Celestrine's favor will defend you here? I could render your soul in bloody ruin across the night with but a thought, Diogenes. And your precious Zaccheus would shed no tears.
Dante's soul withers, Thomas. The man served us faithfully and died for it.
Very well... I am growing tired of casual martyrdom.
Crossing the room flanked by his soldiers, Thomas halts behind Kadia's attempt to resuscitate the blind man. He lays his mutilated titanium hand on her shoulder as gently as he can.
"You cannot help him." His voice is flat, without affect. "But my God was merciful, once." He kneels beside the body, almost solemn. He looks the girl in her eyes. "I will be vulnerable during the resurrection. If you mean to attempt my murder, now is your moment. At the price of this man's immortal soul."
His eyes close, and he goes utterly still.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.