Hope & Fury (Heroes & Demons Book 2)

He strode triumphantly into the main square, dressed in garb he hated. His armour was not conducive to the plan and would, in fact, ruin the illusion, so instead, he wore the fatigues and stripes of a General – for that was exactly what he was. It had been aeons of time in the forgotten nowhere, waiting to be reborn; so long since he’d last felt the heat of battle and the bloody intensity of its ferocious truth.

He had been a war-like king, he knew. The tribes of man were no match for Atlas’ armies as each of them fell under the sway of his kingdom. His siblings likewise, though he had always been and always would be the greater – his connection to the Earth only making him far more certain of his dominion over it. He wondered when he would see them again. Wondered when the third and fourth horsemen would come riding to complete the wave of destruction.

He intended to make sure they had very little to do.

The angel marched beside him, his dark wings contained under a bulky uniform that fitted him ill. Distaste lined his face, annoyance. Neither one of them would leave the events of the evening up to chance – even with the whereabouts of the little rebellious lot unknown.

He had seen the child of water, Rick, sat upon that hillside in the snow. He was surprised, sure, but he was glad also he had borne witness to the destructive simplicity of the beginning of the end. It had been fitting somehow, right. As much as he may have masked it with his attitude, some of the pomp and circumstance of his being simply for show, he respected the man. There was a certain down and dirty streak inside him that he admired, made him a little less pathetic than the other have-a-go-heroes he ran around with.

The simple rebellious and bizarre spirit that had him knock on the front door with a motorised vehicle. Irritating but admirable. The feelings though, of the shell before he was filled, they had been pathetically quashed under Atlas’ boot the moment he’d arrived. Feelings were for the little people, the squirming worms that played around in the mud and knew nothing of true power.

He entered into the square, admiring the architecture of the church. People always seemed to put their best effort into a religious building, he’d already forgotten how many humans had sacrificed themselves for the construction of Atlantis, how many of its citizens had sweated blood to bring about the great city. It had been a shame to bury it so swiftly and so deep – but the Flood waited for no-one. Not even the Dominions.

He could feel it, the rushing anticipation of the end, the tingling feeling in the core of his being that fluttered delicately. It would inflame and become a raging inferno he would unleash upon the world, but it always began with a single butterflies’ wings.

With his army at his back, he was undefeatable, it would be simple. Pure.

He reached out with his mind, feeling through the cracks and crags of his Earth. The rock and ground more ancient even than he, the molecules clinging desperately onto one another like mother and son. Earth was the strongest, the hardest of all the elements. It was forged and shaped by fire and water, but would always remain. It did not evaporate, it did not burn out it – it went on. It continued to move mountains and shift whole countries. It was the bedrock on which reality was based and upon which his new Kingdom would be born.

There it was – a construction of pressed concrete – molecules of finely pressed sand really. That’s all it was. Strong, true, but also within his control. He knew they would be in there – there had been no way out and part of him wondered whether to simply forgo the formalities and just collapse it with a wave of his hand now. Crush the pitiful leader of a backwater nation and be done.

However, he also knew the power of vision. He could feel eyes on him now, those of his own making and those that weren’t. Crushing them down in the dark would have nowhere near the same effect as watching his men, their foreign disguises the perfect patsy, tearing down the leader with brutal efficiency. They would have no choice then but to respond, to retaliate. To end it.

So instead of crushing, he pulled. The earth shook violently around them, some of the buildings held now only together by hope began to crumble around him. His army, even though they had known what to expect, he could feel them shaking with it, some of them frightened. No matter they were pawns themselves. Useful ones but still ultimately disposable. One attempted to run but found the life choked out of him without Vetis having to raise a finger.

The world was chaos, his still form in the centre holding it together. The ground bubbled and cracked, split open like a ripe peach. The whole concrete slab of a room groaned and pushed through the earth in a monstrous mimicry of labour. He pulled and he pulled, the form coming further and further, the gap widening. With an almighty crack, it came suddenly free, the blank and blackened corridor hanging like a limp umbilical cord.

It righted itself, the moment passing and the world growing still once more. Dust and rock settled around it, the inside of this dragged out womb incredibly dark. The strip lighting that had been clinging onto light had now given up altogether. Perhaps they had already died in the shaking? Perhaps the space in front of him was already a tomb.

He knew it wasn’t true. He could feel it.

The only sources of light in the square was the cold moonlight high above and the bright, artificial lights attached to the men’s weapons. They jumbled and crisscrossed across the entrance as though waiting for a performance to begin.

“Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be…” floated a sarcastic and familiar voice from inside the darkness. There was a brief flurry of whispers followed, “…apparently that joke is in bad taste although for the life of me I don’t know why. Perhaps I should just be grateful.”

“Come out,” he commanded, his voice booming across the square – although it was more like an arena at this point.

“Did that years ago, luv,” the voice shot back. He felt the familiar swell of irritation.

“I meant…”

“Yes, I know what you meant – but can I just get assurances we’re not going to get shot on arrival?” He hated to be interrupted. “I’d rather like to bicker before my death.”

“If you don’t come out in the next minute, we’ll just shoot the life out of you anyway.”

“Fair enough.”

A moment later Rick stepped forward, holding his hands up like this was some awful siege hostage situation. Atlas felt his eyes roll. He was followed moments later by the redhead, the archaeologist, the doctor and the angel, wings spread wide. He knew the video his companion was shooting nearby would need to be somewhat edited before it went viral.

There they were, the five of them the most pathetic collection of individuals he’d ever seen. He could smell fear on them, as well as a hopeless inevitability.

“Well, well,” Rick grinned, “Isn’t this a cosy reunion?”