Dark Messiah

The underground chamber was dimly lit, flickering candles casting trembling shadows against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with fear, each breath of the hundreds gathered within heavy with desperation. Rows of people knelt on the stone floor, their heads bowed, hands clasped tightly together as they whispered prayers to a God they hoped was still listening.

Among them, a group of nuns moved silently, their habits brushing against the ground as they placed trembling hands on shoulders, murmuring words of comfort that did little to ease the palpable terror in the room. The chamber seemed to pulse with the collective plea of its occupants, the whispers of "Deliver us, O Lord," barely audible over the muffled roars from above.

BOOM.

The sound of Extractants slamming against the iron doors reverberated through the chamber. It came again, louder, more determined, the metallic groan of the barrier bending under the relentless assault sending fresh waves of panic through the crowd. A child clung to their mother, burying their face into her side, while an elderly man began to weep silently, his voice cracking mid-prayer.

A low, rhythmic rumble began to accompany the chaos—a deep, thunderous sound that seemed to shake the very foundation of their sanctuary. It wasn't the frantic assault of the Extractants; it was something deliberate, measured, and impossibly heavy. The rhythmic booms grew closer, like the footfalls of a god walking above.

The prayers faltered. Whispers of fear rippled through the crowd. "What is that?" someone muttered. "Has God come to save us, or is it another monster?"

Thoom… Thoom… Thoom.

"What is that?" one of the nuns whispered, her voice trembling.

"It… it's almost like footsteps," an older nun replied, clutching her rosary so tightly her knuckles turned white.

The rhythmic thooms continued, the sheer weight behind each step rattling the chamber, causing dust to drift from the ceiling. The prayers faltered, the crowd looking upward as the sound resonated through the stone walls, shaking loose bits of rubble. It wasn't the chaotic frenzy of the Extractants; it was something else, something deliberate and terrifying.

The iron doors above suddenly fell silent. The absence of noise was deafening, and the stillness only heightened the dread that gripped the chamber.

The prayers became quieter, more uncertain, but one voice held firm—a nun, her hands clasped tightly as she whispered fervent pleas for deliverance. She couldn't bear the silence any longer.

"I have to see," she said, her voice trembling but resolute.

"No, Sister Lydia!" another nun whispered harshly, grabbing her arm. "You'll bring death down upon us!"

But Lydia shook her head. "We must know what awaits us. We cannot remain in ignorance."

She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the paralyzing fear that coiled in her gut, and began to ascend the narrow stone stairs. "Hail Mary, full of grace…" she began, her voice faltering as she ascended. The steps seemed endless, each one heavier than the last, her whispered prayers her only source of strength.

The stairs curved, and soon she stood before the iron door. It was massive, scarred with deep gouges from the Extractants' attempts to breach it. Her hand trembled as she reached for the heavy latch, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it might drown out her whispered Hail Marys.

She pushed.

She placed a trembling hand against the cold metal and pushed. It wouldn't budge at first, something heavy pressing against the other side. Summoning every ounce of strength, Lydia pushed harder, her shoulder straining against the cold metal, she shoved harder until it finally gave way with a grating screech.

What she saw froze her blood.

The once-grand hall of the cathedral was a grotesque battlefield. Extractants lay scattered in ruin, their twisted bodies piled high against the walls. Black ichor dripped from shattered pews and stained the stone floor, pooling around the mangled remains of the creatures. Limbs twitched spasmodically, the last vestiges of life draining from their grotesque forms

Lydia's stomach churned, and she clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the bile rising in her throat. The grotesque scene seemed to swim in her vision, the air thick with the stench of burnt flesh and decay.

Before she could take another breath, a wet, gurgling sound came from the shadows.

Her eyes darted to the side, and there it was—a hideously elongated Extractant, its sinewy, wave-like body coiling unnaturally as it emerged from the rubble. Its malformed head split open to reveal rows of jagged teeth, its drooling maw twisting into a horrifying mockery of a grin.

Before she could scream, she felt a warm liquid trickle down her forehead. She instinctively flinched, her hands flying to her face. When she opened her eyes, she barely registered the creature lunging toward her.

A massive hand shot out from the darkness, seizing the Extractant mid-air by its neck. The creature's screech turned into a sickening gurgle as the hand tightened, bones cracking under the impossible pressure. In a single motion, the hand crushed its throat, and the creature fell limp.

The sound made her snap her head to the side just in time to see it—a serpentine Extractant, its sinewy, slimy body undulating as it lunged from the shadows. Its jagged maw opened wide, rows of needle-like teeth glinting in the faint light. She didn't even have time to scream.

A warm liquid trickled down her forehead, and for a second, she thought it was her own blood. Her eyes fluttered open just in time to see the creature gurgling, its head caught in an enormous armored hand.

The hand squeezed.

The crunch of bone and the wet squelch of ruptured flesh echoed through the cathedral as the creature's body went limp. Without a sound, the massive figure hurled the corpse aside, the Extractant hitting the ground with a sickening thump, black ichor splattering the floor like ink.

She followed the arc of the body's fall before looking up—and froze.

Standing before her was a towering figure clad in olive-green armor, its surface marred with ichor and gore but still radiating an aura of unyielding strength. The faint glow of his visor, an intimidating two slits of purple light, stared down at her, exuding an otherworldly presence.

She didn't know what struck her more—the sheer bulk of his frame, the impossible calm with which he had dispatched the creature, or the faint aura of controlled destruction that surrounded him. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

The air in the chamber shifted, the faint echoes of distant movement from above drawing the attention of the other nuns. Two of them, older and more resolute in their fear, finally summoned the courage to ascend the stairs. Whispering prayers under their breath, they climbed cautiously, their steps echoing softly in the confined space.

"Lydia?" one called gently, her voice trembling. "Are you alright?"

They reached the top just in time to see her standing in the doorway, and then she tilted.

In one impossibly swift motion, the massive figure clad in olive-green armor pivoted, his bulk filling the doorway like a living wall. His massive hand shot out, shoving Lydia backward with surprising control for such a behemoth. The force sent her stumbling back toward the stairs, and her world spun as she lost her footing.

At the same moment, with an almost effortless sweep of his other arm, the armored figure slammed the iron door shut. The sound reverberated like a thunderclap, drowning out Lydia's startled gasp. She hit the stairs with a thud, her breath leaving her in a sharp exhale, and as she slid, the older nuns reached out instinctively, catching her before she could tumble further.

"What happened, Lydia?" one of them cried, her voice filled with panic. "Are you hurt? What did you see?"

The other nun clutched her arm tightly, her eyes wide with fear. "Who was it? Was it—was it one of them?"

Before Lydia could catch her breath, a new sound ripped through the air above them—the deafening roar of gunfire, steady and unrelenting. The walls trembled faintly, dust raining down as the battle resumed above them.

"I—" Lydia stammered, struggling to find her voice. Her mind swirled with everything she had just witnessed—the monstrous creature, the crushing hand, the figure cloaked in violence and salvation.

Her fellow nuns bombarded her with questions, their voices overlapping in a chaotic tide of panic and curiosity.

"Did you see anything?"

"Was it one of those monsters?"

"Who was that? Was it… was it someone helping us?"

"What did you hear? What's happening up there?"

Lydia tried to answer, but every word she began was drowned out by another question. Her heart raced, her mind barely able to process the events that had unfolded mere moments ago. The faint smell of gunpowder and ichor still lingered in her nostrils, the image of the towering figure and the crushed creature burned into her memory.

"I—I think he's…" she tried again, but the words failed her. What was he? A soldier? An angel? A demon?

The relentless questions continued, her voice drowned in the rising tide of their panic. All she could do was look toward the iron door above, her thoughts consumed by the sound of roaring gunfire and the silhouette of her savior.