-----CAVALRY, 33 A.D.-----
The deed was done, and the stench of death hung in the air. Some of the onlookers wept, but no amount of tears could undo what had happened here. The wandering Jewish monk known as Jesus, the so-called Messiah had been executed at the behest of Pontius Pilate. Slowly, a small procession moved away from the site of the execution. Followers of the errant monk had taken down his body, transporting it for burial in a tomb more befitting his status.
After several hours of walking, the party reached its destination. One of the men, a bearded, pious Jew opened the heavy stone door. The body of Christ was laid on a stone platform, his blessed eyes shut tight. A reverent silence filled the air, and then, the worshippers departed. Jesus' body would remain here until word could be sent to his mother, the Virgin Mary, who would perform the rites of burial.
Just after the entranceway was once again sealed shut, the tomb filled with a blinding flash of white light. Without so much as a noise, the body of the Messiah disappeared, leaving no trace he had once been laid to rest there.
---LIBERTY CITY. PRESENT DAY.-----
Jesus awoke with a start.
"Careful now, you'll pull out your stitches," a voice said. Turning his head slightly, Jesus saw a balding man in his late 40s dressed in bloodstained scrubs and a surgical mask. "You gave us quite a fright, but you'll pull through."
The white light that clouded his vision cleared slightly, allowing the Messiah to make out more of the surrounding details. He was in an operating room of some kind, lying on a cold metal gurney. The clean, crisp smell of anesthetic hung in the air, not so different from the air in the tomb at Cavalry, some two thousand years earlier. Jesus got up carefully, wary of the good doctor's warning. He grabbed on to a nearby lamp for support, catching a glimpse of a spray-painted stencil as he did so.
"Property of Liberty City Hospital," it read.
"Now, I'm not sure what exactly it was you were doing out there, especially in this getup," the surgeon said, indicating the Fisher of Men's loose-fitting robes with a hand gesture, "but there is no way those wounds are self-inflicted. You'll need to file a police report."
The police? Alarm bells rang in Jesus' head. His last encounter with the law hadn't gone so well.
"I don't think so, doctor," replied the King of Kings with a cold, steely tone.
"What? You mus-" the doctor's words were cut off as Jesus pulled a Glock 17 out of his robes. He would never get the chance to finish that sentence, as the two rounds expertly fired from Jesus' gun slammed into his chest, killing him instantly.
The Son of God was back alright, and he was pissed.