14:03PM
Outside the tower, it was a scene from an apocalyptic war, evoking No Man's Land from World War One, that greeted the surviving militiamen. Only now, with the threat of a horrible death averted, could they now take in the result of their defence. Tens of dozens of cloaked bodies laid still in the mud, riddled with holes from their weapons or torn apart by the awesome firepower of the Centurion. In the rain were also the remnants of the base's army personnel who were going about the gruesome business of clearing up the dead and searching for survivors. The dead cultists were simply being hauled and dumped into a large pile while their weapons were requisitioned back to their originally intended owners.
The Spec Ops marines, of which it was evident that there were two squads instead of one, were being very thorough in their searching, checking each and every body for any intelligence that could be ascertained. And any survivors they encountered were apprehended and hauled off to be interrogated. Those too wounded were simply dispatched with a clean shot to the heart or more cruelly through strangulation. An impromptu hanging so to speak.
And there were many wounded to deal with.
Further in the base, the prisoners that had wisely been left in their cells were freed with medics tending to them. Most of the colonists were thankful to have lived through the battle. The militiamen and marshals were thankful that they were not executed soon after when they were caught. Though they had no doubts that they may have been executed in some grand scheme.
"Why in the fuck do they keep running into bullets?" an army technician muttered, hauling a mangled corpse perforated with pulse round wounds onto the already massive pile.
"They're fanatics." A Spec Ops marine said with contempt as he dumped another pulse rifle against a wall. "They think their faith will deflect harm. And a real help that was in the long run." he
"Thank god it's autumn." another technician praised, holding an increasingly damp cloth to his mouth. "If it was summer, the stink would put the Aurochs to shame."
Reaper had by now reached the bottom of the stairs with his entourage and in the tower's foyer were the rest of Reaper's squad. Each of them were busy checking their gear and, for two of them, cleaning their swords. Each of them were dressed in the same manner as Reaper, but with different symbols on on them that denoted to their call-signs and also to their nationality. The polish captain, whose call-sign was denoted by his shield emblem as Guardian, was talking to the OSIRIS agent of Intelligence Division.
Intelligence Division is the main body of OSIRIS, tasked primarily with the acquisition of intelligence and technology for the defence of Earth and her colonies by any and all means. Aside from their main goal, Intelligence is also tasked with conducting espionage and other acts of a clandestine nature such as sabotage and assassinations. On critical operations, such as insurrectionist uprisings or blossoming xenomorph infestations, agents are often accompanied by Spec Ops squads and have the authority to requisition aid from any of the armed forces. Other times, when such a course of action was not required or the situation too volatile for armed force, they operate as part of a small group of operatives when a military presence would arouse too much suspicion.
The OSIRIS agent, a woman in her late twenties with olive skin, athletic build and shoulder length black hair, clad in a formfitting armoured bodysuit with a ballistics mask with tactical goggles that was hanging on her chest and a long hooded trench coat. The OSIRIS symbol was on her left sleeve and on the right was the Eye of Horus which one of was Intelligence Division's chosen insignias.
Each symbol represented their duty in keeping a close eye on unfolding events and also their quest for knowledge. One could say they could relate to different sections of Intelligence Division.
As Reaper led the militiamen and army troopers to his squad, the Spec Ops captain turned to him.
"Reaper, I trust you enjoyed yourself." Guardian greeted a nod.
Reaper simply hefted his axe off his shoulder and planted the blade on the floor with resonant clang. He then looked back at the pile of bodies behind him.
"Not one of my best." he humbly admitted. "Still, did the job nonetheless." He then looked to the OSIRIS Agent. "Agent, here are the militia for their debriefing." he introduced, indicating said individuals in question.
"Dismissed, Reaper." the agent ordered with a wave of her hand.
Reaper hefted his axe onto his shoulders and rejoined his squad, but not before going outside into the rain to wash off most of the blood on him. This left Militia Squad Beta and the army troopers of 3rd platoon to introduce themselves which they did with a bit of professionalism. Even in their battered state, they had a sense of decorum to uphold. Especially in the presence of a woman who held a position of high importance.
"Agent Olenna, Intelligence Division of OSIRIS." the agent introduced herself, before waving a hand behind her. "Please excuse the noise."
She was of course gesturing outside to the ongoing clean up. The pained yells of mercy from a wounded cultist was heard before a gunshot silenced him. Then the fresh corpse was heaved onto the pile and a loud tally was heard accompanied with a smart remark.
"Surrender?" a Spec Ops trooper scoffed, holstering his sidearm. "That fucker had the nerve to ask for surrender?"
"Didn't stop them from killing stragglers." one of the surviving marshals pointed out, kicking the fresh corpse with contempt. "That one slit a militiaman's throat after he surrendered. Even laughed as the poor sod choked on his blood."
Agent Olenna returned her attention to the militiamen and the army troopers. Another shot rang out as another extremist straggler was executed.
"As I was saying, excuse the noise." She repeated. "It has been a long and trying day. For all of us."
Despite that observation, she wasted no time in getting down to business. To the point of their presence on this frontier world and the unfortunate side effects it had brought. But first some congratulations were in order.
"Well, Militiamen and troopers of the Colonial Army, it seems you have proven your worth." Agent Olenna praised. "I have never seen so much carnage caused by some amateurs and garrison troops."
The agent then pointed to the remains of the Centurion which was now nothing more then a pile of scrap that was littering the foyer's floor. One of the Archangels, a burly Norwegian with a big red beard with the callsign 'Messenger' on his helmet, was sifting through the wreckage to pass the time. Every now and then he would throw a useless part over a shoulder and place an intact part into a neat pile.
"Especially the one piloting the Centurion." she singled out.
Llewellyn inwardly puffed his chest with recognition of his exploits. If not for him, the attack would not have succeeded as well as it had. It was a pity that the Centurion was completely blown to bits in the end. He had just gotten used to piloting it.
Maybe there was a chance for another Centurion?
"What was the death toll, Scribe?" Agent Olenna asked, not turning her eyes from the militia.
An Archangel, American as his flag told and the squad smartgunner with a pistol grip customised smartgun holstered on his servo harness' back, came walking up with his eyes locked onto the datapad he rapidly typing into. The parchment and quill symbol on his helmet was considered ironic regarding his position as a support gunner.
"Over two hundred dead cultists in a rearguard action." Scribe quickly calculated without taking his eyes off the pad. "Not a bad effort for civilians. The Centurion certainly gave them the edge."
"And the fact that you managed to send out a distress call at the same time showed quite the level of initiative." Agent Olenna added. "Highly commendable."
Hendricks stepped forward holding a hand up.
"Agent, with all due respect, what about the siege at the command centre?" he asked. "Did the Colonel survive?"
"Colonel Franz is perfectly fine. Considering the circumstances." Guardian assured. "Your sortie on the tower caused a lull in their attacks that allowed us to lift the siege and come for you."
"You should have seen him during the initial fighting." Scribe said, recalling the moment with clarity. "Cultists breaking into his office and there he was with revolver in his hand and calmly dropping them with one round to the heart each."
That was a source of relief and also pride to the army troopers. The sight of their commanding officer kicking ass in their minds was a significant morale boost.
"Of course he would, he's an Infestation Veteran." Hendricks added. "Hardest motherfuckers there are."
Indeed, the fact that anyone survived the Infestation of Earth, be it from the first outbreaks to Operation Extinction, was a testament to the survival instincts of the human race. Such individuals were highly valued for their experience in fighting xenomorphs and surviving against them. Many 'Infest Vets' have been found in positions of tutelage in the armed forces and beyond in the hopes that their skills would rub off on the younger generations.
Colonel Franz's posting to Amaethon IV was one such venture.
And while many soldiers would be lucky enough to survive an infestation afterwards, only those who survived the Infestation of Earth could rightly claim the title of 'Ultimate Badass'.
Hansen at this moment chose to ask a question himself. One that was about the insurrection in question and those who played the part of instigators.
"Are you going to tell us who these extremists are?" Hansen asked. "I've fought these zealous bastards many times in my thirty years in the Corps. But, I'm not familiar with this group."
The OSIRIS agent looked at the veteran with a stern look as her eyes locked onto him. Delving into sensitive information about one of humanity's most persistent thorns to it's side was against OSIRIS protocol. And also a cause for a 'visit' from the authorities.
"This cult is but a splinter of one of the main extremist groups we have eradicated three months ago."Agent Olenna curtly informed. "That is all you need to know."
And that was as much information that they were going get on the cult they had been fighting. But it did serve to inform them that at least this was not a massive cult. So there was no worry about suddenly having more fanatics appearing. They were facing the cult's full strength the moment the insurrection erupted.
"And by eradicated, you mean... him?" Angus asked, pointing to Reaper outside. "We saw him mopping the floor with them on the security monitors."
The marine had now removed his helmet to allow the rain to seep into his hair to wash out the blood encrusted strands. Surely, as much as anyone knew, such a ridiculous hair length was against regulations. But it did not appear that he was ever reprimanded for it. Maybe because of his skills that the infringement was simply set aside. And it certainly did not seem to impede him in a fight. Especially when he was carving his way through dozens of cultists up a tight stairway, wielding an axe nearly as big as him.
"For the most part, yes."Agent Ollena confirmed. "Reaper does tend to get carried away with his work."
'Carried away' was describing it lightly. 'Blood crazed' was a more accurate term. That provoked some unconvinced muttering from the group.
"But, as you are probably already aware by now, they had managed to send out a freighter containing ovomorphs, that's Eggs in layman terms, to this planet." Agent Olenna continued. "Unfortunately, it appears they chose this world on account of it's low military presence. Other worlds, in it's flight paths in other conditions like yours, were presumed to have been their target."
"So they outsmarted you?" Hansen asked credulously. "They outsmarted the brain boys at OSIRIS?"
"Misled." Olenna clarified with a slight tone of annoyance. "Too many variables. They covered their tracks too well in this instance."
"Though you should count yourself lucky that this was not the Brotherhood of The Flesh." Guardian praised, pulling his balaclava down and revealing a prominent scar stretching from his left cheek to his chin. "Those bastards are fanatical, even by extremist standards. And the closest to xenomorphs without actually fighting them. What with augmentations and all."
The Brotherhood of the Flesh was one of the most fanatical and most dangerous of all the Xenomorph Cults. Believing that the human body is impure, they take stride in replacing their 'corrupt flesh' with augmentations resembling xenomorph physiology or for the lowly zealots extensive tattoos and skin pigmentation to match the jet black sheen of their messiahs. And their method of operation was one of total destruction and death. Striking without warning and leaving none alive. None that was not used as hosts, that is.
The fact that they were so dangerous, even by extremist terms, meant that a specialised group known as Task Force Myrmidon was formed to combat them.
An Archangel came walking into the foyer at that moment. This one was evidently their sniper as his armour was festooned with camouflage panelling, a hooded cloak on his shoulders and an array of bullets, of various munition types, dangling from his belt and strapped to his thighs. He carried a large anti-material rifle on his shoulder, bolt action from its design, and the symbol on his helmet was a compass with an oversized arrow in the middle pointing north.
"Guide."Agent Olenna greeted. "Report."
Guide set his rifle's stock between his feet before lifting his visor. Sharp aqua eyes scanned everyone in the room before he gave his findings to the Agent.
"I spotted some stragglers hobbling deeper into the colony." Guide reported, russian by his accent. "It's safe to assume that they now know we're here and that will mean ambushes along the way."
This information led to a quick conclusion from Corporal Hendricks.
"They'll be bunkering down at the town hall." Hendricks guessed. "That's where they have hostages as hosts."
Agent Ollena turned to him, interested by what the trooper had to say on how he acquired such information.
"You are certain?" Agent Olenna asked.
"Oh yeah, my squad was posted outside and right in the thick of it when the shit hit the fan." Hendricks revealed gesturing to his trooper squad mates. "The four of us were lucky to get out of that death trap alive."
"And we were lucky to be right on the edge of the fighting." Hansen added, gesturing to his militia squad. "Fortunately, we had only the dregs to deal with. We stashed up our dead and wounded before heading deeper into the Caer."
That brought up thoughts from the militiamen about whether or not their squadmates had been discovered since their departure.
Agent Olenna nodded at their stroke of good fortune. They were fortunate that, unless under specific circumstances, xeno extremists couldn't hold the same candle to xenomorphs when it came to ambushes.
"Which is where we ran into them." Llewellyn added, pointing to the army troopers. "Saved our asses from being spotted by a patrol."
"Fortunate." Agent Olenna "But how did you come to acquire intel about their plans?"
"A visitor." Hansen said. "We had one cultist who was 'willing' to divulge their plans. Picked his brains so to say."
It did not take much for everyone to know what the veteran was suggesting from those choice of words. Especially when Hansen petted his empty knife sheath. Even the OSIRIS agent got the idea.
"And, after picking said brains, those plans are?" Olenna asked.
"Well, from what we were able to piece together, they intended to take the Caer when the garrison is on manoeuvres and away from the Caer. Attacking when opposition was lightest." Hendricks began. "Then, they would start gathering anyone they didn't kill and and offer them up as hosts. Then when the weather clears up, send them out on the freighters, the freighters will be turned into hives on their way to other worlds and that means an instant infestations upon arrival."
"And which was the reason for our plan." Hansen concluded. "If we get a distress call out, the Garrison would be alerted to the insurrection and return to deal with it."
But in the meantime, until the garrison returns, they would have to deal with the extremists in their own way.
"In which case, we have our work cut out for us." Guardian said, slipping his balaclava back on and hefting his pulse rifle in his shoulder. "Archangels, assemble!" He ordered, walking out into the rain.
His squad followed after him as they regrouped with Reaper, who had now slipped his helmet back on. The captain then briefed him on their next move and Reaper answered with a confirmation in a language that was unfamiliar with anyone. It sounded like ancient greek mixed with another dialect. The identity of which was a mystery as it did not sound like any language used in Federation Space.
One could only assume that it might be some kind of battle language.
Guardian also ordered Scribe to bring up a manifest on the freighters to determine their intended destinations. In order to send a warning to those worlds who were at risk. Just in case the cult launches any in the immediate future when the fighting resumed. If the extremists were playing it smart they may have a coven or two at the spaceport, waiting for the word.
Agent Olenna, foreseeing that the battle to come would be the bloodiest, then initiated a commonly used protocol whenever OSIRIS was in need of some muscle on such short notice.
"As of now, I am initiating the Conscription Protocol." She declared. "All remaining Colonial Forces personnel are now under my jurisdiction for the duration of this insurrection."
That assuming of command for an entire Caer did provoke some objections from the army troopers.
"What about Colonel Franz?" Hendricks asked. "Isn't he joining us for the fight?"
"Unfortunately not. He was wounded during the siege." Agent Ollena explained. "Broken leg from an I.E.D., nothing major but he cannot move on his own. But he had told me to "Give them hell'."
That reason was simple enough. The Colonel was unable to assume command due to injury so the OSIRIS Agent took the reins via Conscription Protocol.
The Conscription Protocol is one such power that OSIRIS possess. As the name implies, OSIRIS Agents have the authority to requisition military personnel and assets in their mission to ensure the safety of Earth and the colonies. In such a case as this, an Agent could practically conscript an entire planet if the situation calls for it. But there are certain exceptions to the rule.
Owing to the Militia's status as civilians and not professional soldiers, this did leave a loose end to tie up.
"What about us?" Hansen asked, indicating his squad.
Agent Olenna looked to them with a soft smile on her face. It was a rather reluctant smile. The kind that one would give if they had to do something that they would rather not. In this particular case, the agent would rather have professional soldiers for the task ahead. But, considering the circumstances, the Militia would have to fill in the gaps.
"Seeing as you had done so much already, you may sit this out. If any of you militia wish to join us for the push, by all means join us." she offered before she held a finger up in stern warning and her smile vanished. "But, and this is clear, you are not to interfere with our mission. The Patriarch is OUR target and we are going to be the ones to apprehend him, dead or alive."
That was a simple enough warning. It was not wise to be in the way of OSIRIS and their objective. They have leave to 'eliminate' any obstacles that they deem a threat to their mission. But, even with this subtle threat of death aimed towards them, the militiamen were already making up their minds.
"Been through the shit since it hit the fan." Hansen said, puffing his chest out with marine bravado. "I'm sticking through to the end."
Glenn on the other hand being full of shrapnel was in no shape to continue and Dane was reluctant to join in any more fighting, still shaken by the butchery that Reaper had unleashed, but was urged on by his squad. Angus however was willing to continue the fight, saying that this was the most excitement he has had on this ball of mud since day one. And Llewellyn was in the same state of mind.
"Since this was suppose to be my day off, might as well make the most of it." Llewellyn joked.
"Perfect." Olenna praised before addressing Hendricks. "Corporal Hendricks, consider your squad reinforced. And under Sergeant Hansen's command."
Hendricks confirmed with a salute. Now, his squad was reinforced past fireteam strength and was now in the hands of a veteran soldier of the Marine Corps. Not to say that he was upset by the sudden change in command but he'd rather be promoted to the position then fill in a gap. Like cracking an egg to plug a leaking radiator instead of properly sealing the hole.
"In which case, we need to requisition some fresh gear." Hansen asked, holding up his empty sidearm. "Not going to get far on empty mags."
"There should be more then enough outside."Agent Ollena assured, no doubt referring to all the recovered cultist weaponry. "Take your pick."
"Any chance of another Centurion?" Llewellyn asked, hoping for another shot at being a badass again. "I mean, we could use the extra firepower."
At that moment, Messenger came walking back into the tower, his back mounted comms unit buzzing with activity. The receiver was up to his ear as he was listening to a coded transmission.
"Unless you can retrofit a powerloader, you're out of luck." he answered as he approached Agent Olenna. "If they didn't blow this one to bits, I would've fixed it by now."he then focused on her. "Agent, incoming message." he reported, handing her the receiver. "Army wavelengths."
Agent Olenna took the receiver and held it to her ear as Messenger relayed the message. As she heard the coded transmission, a faint smile creased the corner of her mouth. She then handed the receiver back to Messenger.
"The air force is on their way." Olenna revealed to everyone. "It seems that the army had received your distress call. They will be here within the hour."
She then began to walk outside into the rain, followed by Messenger as she left the newly reformed squad in the tower's lobby.
"You have ten minutes to gear up." she briefed the newly formed mixed squad, pulling up her hood and donning her mask. "I suggest you start now." she advised, her voice synthesised by her mask.
And with that, the remaining military forces of Caer Styfnig prepared for their long overdue counter offensive.
14:20PM
"It is time!" Benedict praised loudly, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "Time to commence our ascension to paradise!"
In the atrium, final preparations were being made for the blessed ritual of implantation. More platforms had been constructed around the hall's pillars for the hosts to come. Candles have been placed at specific points all around the hall and bowls of burning incense released sweet aromatic fumes into the air. A ritual of purifying the hall to its transition into a hive.
Already some of the the hostages were being man handled up onto the platforms before being bound against the nearest pillars. Mostly the fittest adults along with a few younger souls for added purity. They knew what what going to happen to them, having seen the mayor subjected to the same process. And of whom the facehugger was still attached to his face and pulsating almost in anticipation of new hosts about to be implanted.
The most resistant colonists required more cultists to hold to the pillar and a few had suffered injuries such as kicks to the face and even a bitten arm. Eventually, they had started resorting to binding them up like unruly cattle. The most resistant had to be physically knocked out.
"Resist all you like. It won't do you any good." Benedict assured. "Your duty calls and God must be obeyed."
"Fuck you!" a defiant colonist shouted back, only to be silenced with a punch to the face.
Benedict waved his hand dismissively as the dazed colonist was shoved against the pillar before another cultist rushed in with rope and bound his arms outwards in the cruciform position.
"People these days are unappreciative of the gifts they're given." Benedict lamented as the colonists were being strung up.
Another scuffle was seen as a colonist managed to break out, kicking the cultist stringing him up in the teeth and began running for the door. Despite shouts of encouragement from his fellows, a couple of cultists managed to blind side him from their hiding positions by the door. Grabbing him by the arms, they dragged him back towards the plinth for his intended calling. But they got no further then a few steps as a shot rang out and the colonist's chest was blown open by a pulse round. Both cultists jumped as they got sprayed with blood before dropping the now dead resister.
And this was not a show of authority. Rather a misguided attempt to take the initiative by quelling a potential uprising.
Benedict muttered under his breath as he turned behind him and he saw one cultist with a smoking pulse rifle in his arms. The smoking gun in all it's glory. The cultist immediately realised his mistake when Benedict rushed up and cracked him over the face with his cane. The strike sending him sprawling to the plinth floor, his weapon skidding off the plinth and then the patriarch was on him.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Benedict shouted at the cultist, continuing to brutally bash him with his cane. "We need every host we can get! HAVE! YOU! FORGOTTON! THAT!?"
The cultist was battered, bleeding and half curled into the foetal position by the time his beating was over. Benedict, though tempted to use his dagger on this ingrate, wiped his cane on the cultist's armoured vest and stepped back before waving his hand in summoning gesture.
"Get this worm out of my sight." Benedict sighed. "Assign him to the Martyrs and let him redeem himself. Can't possibly fuck that up."
Martyrs, A.K.A. suicide bombers, were often used by cults to dispose of any undesirables or overly eager members who may jeopardise the cult's stability. Depending on the size and nature of the populace, there could never be a shortage of 'volunteers'.
As two cultists rushed up to take their half conscious brother out of the Patriarch's vicinity towards his new calling, Benedict looked up to the heavens and held his arms out in a pleading measure. Beseeching God for some good news for a change.
"Oh Lord, Please shine some light on us?" he prayed, bordering on desperation. "Bring us good news?"
He was about to get his answer almost on cue with the sound of shifting wood.
The doors opened and a ragged band of cultists came limping in. Numbering around seven, they were for a lack of a better word 'Fucked Up'. Their clothing was mud encrusted, blood streaked with both their blood and others, and they were all wounded to some degree. The masked Praetorian in the front had a huge burn covering the right side of his body, his right arm was singed and blackened with the armour blasted away. Evidence that he was caught in a fiery blast. His ballistics mask was littered with scrapes that marred the intricate markings and a huge gouge at the edge from a lucky hit.
Benedict's mood immediately brightened when he suddenly remembered. He had heard that the gunfire and explosions had ceased over twenty minutes ago. That could only mean one thing.
God had answered his prayer.
"Ahh, our brothers have returned from their holy mission!" Benedict praised, holding his arms and cane up high. "Come, let us hear the news of your victory."
The battered cultists came hobbling up to the plinth. One clearly lagged behind, his right leg twisted at the knee and bound by a crude splint. The others looked as banged up with plenty of cuts, bruises and torn clothing and armour. The hostage colonists could see that things seem to have gone badly for them but Benedict was too caught up in his own excitement to notice.
"I expect to hear that the Militia has finally been eliminated." Benedict asked with earnest, eagerly rubbing his hands together. "You had the numbers to do it, I trust."
The cultists bowed their heads at the mention of their mission as the Praetorian stepped forward onto the plinth. Benedict could sense behind the mask that the Praetorian was nervous. However, he assumed it was just on account of his wounds.
His silence was starting to rub his patriarch the wrong way.
"Well?" Benedict asked impatiently, waving his hand with impetus. "Did you succeed?"
The Praetorian gulped inwardly as he gave his report.
"That centurion was taken down and we had taken back the tower. The militia were holed up in the comms station awaiting judgement." the Praetorian reported, wincing from his wounds. "But... things got out of control."
Benedict's smile left his face and was replaced with a grimace of annoyance with a dash of simmering anger. He took in a deep breath, holding his hand over his mask like he was rubbing his jet orb eyes.
"I'm sorry?" Benedict asked with malevolent intent, lowering his hand as he walked closer to the cultist. "I didn't quite hear that, say it again." he ordered, holding his hand to his ear for emphasis.
The Praetorian gulped audibly before he repeated his answer.
"It got out of control." he repeated before telling his leader the reason. "OSIRIS is here. Their Butcher wiped out everyone. We were slaughtered. We're the only ones who managed to get away."
God had just given the patriarch the big middle finger.
Benedict's hand clenched at the mention of OSIRIS having a hand in the battle. That could possibly mean only one outcome. His order of eliminating the militia, something that should have been so easy with massive numerical superiority, before they could call for help had ended up in utter failure. And by utter failure, it was the fact that nearly every single cultist sent, over two hundred strong, was slaughtered apart from the seven before him.
The mention of the 'Butcher', a name both renowned and feared among the faithful as was his father before him, gave him reason to believe that the cultists was telling the truth. And this truth was not one that Benedict had wished to be so.
"OSIRIS. The Butcher." Benedict repeated in a ominously calm tone, lowering his hand and resting it on his cane as he shook his head. "Oh, how I hate the names."
Faster then anyone could anticipate, and in stark contrast to his age, Benedict drew his dagger from his cane and stabbed the battered Praetorian in the neck with the speed and precision of a xenomorph. the cultist fell to the ground with a startled gargle as Benedict pushed hard before wrenching the blade out. The other six cultists hurriedly backed off as they watched their superior being gutted like a fish as the Patriarch released all the stress and anger he had been bottling up all day.
"YOU HAD ONE FUCKING JOB AND YOU COULDN'T FUCKING DO THAT!" Benedict screamed, driving the dagger again and again into the cultist's neck.
The last stab severed the cultist's head entirely from his neck with a sickening crunch. The blood began to gush out from the stump as the body slightly twitched as the nervous system completely crashed. Benedict stood up, grabbing the severed head by it's mask, before looking at himself. His immaculate robes were now stained red with massive blotches of the deceased cultist's essence of life on him. The symbolism and scriptures woven upon them obscured by the crimson deluge. And Benedict was unhappy to say the least.
"And you got your blood on my fucking robes!" he strained at now headless corpse.
The Patriarch then took a few breaths as he calmed down. He thought about the positive part of the cultist's report. That the centurion had indeed been destroyed was a result at least. Despite it being utterly redundant at this point. He then gave a relieved sigh, all the tension in his body gone, as he brought up the severed head, seeing the wide eyes of the cultist's last fatal moments behind the mask.
"But at least the centurion was destroyed, so you didn't completely fuck it up." Benedict said, tossing the head aside.
He took another deep breath as the head bounced on the floor before as he sheathed his dagger without cleaning it.
"Well, so what if over a third of our numbers had been eradicated so far?" he questioned to himself. "We still have our seeds to sow. And then our messiahs will bring us the salvation we deserve."
But despite this optimism, the facts were blunt in their practicality.
Because of the failed attack on the relay tower, two hundred plus cultists were now dead and rotting in the mud. Adding this to the numbers that had already been killed or wounded at the beginning of the insurrection and from the sporadic skirmishes that have been going on all over the Caer, the cult had taken a notable and possibly catastrophic drop in it's numbers in the span of just a few hours. And this provoked a serious need to reconfigure their forces in lieu of the inevitable counter attack that was to come.
The cult no longer had the numbers to fully control the Caer and all of it's districts. Spreading too thin in attempt to maintain control over the entire Caer would only lead to a collapse of their perimeter. Then again, if they massed all their forces in one area, being the town hall, it would be an easy target. A compromise needed to be made.
Benedict addressed some of his more able bodied guards, banging his cane's point into the plinth floor.
"Send the word." he commanded. "Consolidate our forces here in the inner districts and prepare our defences. Our time of testing is upon us."
Dispatching several cultists with his orders, the extremists began to make defensive preparations. And Benedict also had the pressing need to wash the blood off his robes. Already it was starting to coagulate and bring about an unpleasant stickiness as it clung to his bodysuit. He looked to all the colonists who were still not bound to the pillars and then then to those who were bound up on the platforms.
"We will resume our ceremony in good time." he told everyone as he walked off through the main corridor. "Please take this moment to confess your sins and make your peace with God." he advised, his voice echoing off the walls.
The colonists were instead using this time to pray that their saviours, be it OSIRIS or remnants of the Caer's garrison, would reach them in time. And, if not able to save them from their fate, to send all these extremists back to hell.
It was enough to restore an ember of hope in their hearts.