Redemption Lost

By Shadowcat

Prelude:

Faith. Faith is more powerful then anything else in this world. Nothing surpasses it. Not love, not hate, not even fear. In order for anything at all to exist it must first be believed, and conversely, anything is true if it is believed entirely. A lie becomes the Truth, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

What would you say if I were to tell you that two thousand years before you were born, you were told a lie? And that before you took your first breath this lie became reality? I wouldn't resent it if you were to say I am a liar or insane. In fact, I would have felt the same way a thousand years ago.

The tale I weave before you is only one of a myriad of possibilities. In the era to come many will tell you that there is only one "Truth"; and that you must believe what they are saying. But if you don't believe any of what I'm saying… at least believe this- Faith is your strongest currency. Be careful what you believe.

-The Last Bible, 2175

Chapter 1:

December, 2009- Purgatory

“If we confess our sins to God, he can always be trusted to forgive us and take our sins away. If we say that we have not sinned, we make Him a liar.”

—John 1:9-10

The bombs never stop falling in Purgatory. A steady stream of them cascade from the heavens, destroying houses, streets, and vehicles without abandon. Although they never actually kill anyone, it’s common to have an entire limb knocked off by the flying debris; leaving a stump in its place, a stump that will bleed for the rest of eternity.

It was around Christmas the day the Traveler passed through. The sky was gray with thick clouds that never seemed to move, and the streets were covered in a thin fog. They both meshed with the smoke and debris from the bombs. Positioned on a high ridge, the Traveler patiently scanned the horizon, seeking the only detour in his long journey. Finally he caught a glimpse of blazing neon among the fields of gray- a sign that read “Always Open”. He smiled grimly.

Proceeding down into the sludgy streets he grimaced, it always happened around Christmas. First, a light dust of snow would blow in. It was really not enough for sledding or snowball fighting but it was plenty to cover the ground, where it quickly transformed into dirty gray-brown slush. Although this slush was hardly more than an inconvenience to the Traveler, it actually posed a strong threat to the Refugees. Often their clothes were merely rags, and if they owned shoes they were almost always made of cloth. To catch pneumonia in Purgatory is to be sick forever.

And with the bombing there were lots of Refugees. Although there were far worse fates one could spend eternity with, he couldn’t help but pity the tattered eternal-refugees. As a few little ones scattered past he couldn’t help but be reminded of the orphans in his own city, all those years ago. He had never spared them even a passing glance.

Turning a street he gasped when an eerie wail sounded, but he quickly remembering that it was only another strange quirk of this plane. In reality, there is very little for a Human to wail about in Purgatory. Not only is it hard to feel pain or fear, it is simply hard to feel in general. Even after only a few hours, the Traveler had already begun to feel the numbing melancholy that seems to creep in along with the fog.

His feet began to ache. Catching a slight whiff of coffee he smiled for the second time that day. Turning a final corner in the maze of streets, he finally found The Angels’ Burn. Purgatory has the odd effect of rendering all recreational drugs useless, even alcohol. But not even Hell can thwart the power of Espresso. Considering he was in Hell, it hardly seemed like the time to ignore one’s cravings.

As he opened the door a bell sounded loudly, although even that seemed far off- the sound was too hollow, too sharp. The interior of the shop mirrored the exterior perfectly; it seemed cold and desolate just like everything else on the damned plane. Where there should’ve been ten tables, there were a total of four. The few people that were scattered about the room looked extremely weathered and spoke in hushed whispers, as though speaking at a funeral. By the second chime of the bell all eyes were firmly fixed on me, with the exception of the barista at the counter.

The Traveler walked briskly to the bar, his boots clacking unpleasantly on the floor, and rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Hey! I want some espresso here, pronto!” he shouted, despite the barista being barely a foot away.

“Jesus-Christ! I’m already here! What the Hell do you want?” the barista responded in kind.

“Oh the regular,” the Traveler smiled playfully, slouching down on a stool and unzipping his leather jacket.

The barista chuckled, starting the espresso machine up with a whir, “Been a long time, what’re you calling yourself now?”

“Too long, Roger,” the Traveler affirmed. “Just Johan.”

“Johan? Whatever happened to Johnen?” Roger asked, amused.

Johan laughed, “Started sounding too much like ‘Johnny’ in my mind.”

“So what brings you to these parts? Last I heard you were going up to the Eternal Battlefield, something about a premonition. Usually what comes up doesn’t come back down… willingly that is.”

“Oh you know- business… interested?” Johan asked, dropping to a whisper and casting a dark look around the room, which hadn’t ever regained its mute hum.

Roger’s smooth face suddenly seemed older, almost angular. He delivered Johan’s espresso in silence and sat on the opposite side of the counter. “What sort of business are we talking about?”

Johan spoke calmly and at a normal volume, cradling his blazing cup, “Revolution.”

“I was afraid of that,” Roger responded warily, wiping sweat from his eyes. “The Order is quite a farse to be reckon with.”

For the first time Johan looked surprised, “Those certainly weren’t the words you would’ve said twenty years ago.”

Roger stood up quickly, resignation plastered on his face, “I was a new-borne then, what did you expect?”

“Why? What happened to your fire? Your passion? Your hate?”

“Hate is a funny thing,” Roger smiled grimly, leaning over the counter and speaking softly, the slightest edge of resentment creeping into his voice. “It comes from a desire for retribution- a desire for change. That is exactly what this place drains from you.

“Tell me Johan, do you know where the bombs come from?” Roger spat, growing more hostile by the second.

As if in a dream, Johan only was able to shake his head.

Roger took a deep breath; unclenching the fists he didn’t remember clenching. “We are told they are sent from Heaven, the beginnings of an eternal volley which would destroy Hell if it could,” Roger paused for another deep breath. “But that’s a lie. Each bomb comes from Earth… Whenever a Human thinks a good thought about one of the inhabitance of Purgatory, another bomb is dropped.”

Johan sat rigid as a tombstone throughout the tale, even through the explosions off in the distance. As it drew to a finish the shadow of a smile fell across his face.

Not noticing Johan, indeed not noticing anything at all, Roger began to sob, alone in his own world, “Every time my son thinks of me, another one of those infernal bombs is dropped upon my life! What did I do to deserve this? What is my Sin?”

As if as emphases a bomb landed nearby, knocking over most of the cups and rattling the machine. Johan just smiled, untouched. “You believed too much, yet not enough.”

Roger took a moment to register these words, before his face contorted into that of a demon, “And you! You waltz in here with your plans and your games, thinking you can fight against everything! Tell me how can you fight against that? How can you fight against this!”

He leapt from his stool and undid his pant-leg and his prosthetic leg, which fell to the floor with a loud ‘CLANG’; revealing a bloody stump. “Tell me: How should I fight my son’s love?”

Johan continued during these few moments, “You were a good man Roger, I really could’ve used your company on my journey. However, you have lost your drive, and that is something I cannot restore.

In a single motion Johan stood up, swept up his coat, and casually splashed his searing espresso into Roger’s angry face. “Goodbye my friend."

The bell clanged hollowly again, although its sound was drowned out by howls of agony and the clash of bombs. In Purgatory, they never stop.