Preston knows that the situation will be difficult – undoubtedly, Cleric Brandt has practiced and prepared for this day for years. His awareness is drawn back to his suit; a white dress uniform with a white sash, unsoiled by the blood and bodies that seem to have erupted around him. Odd the things one thinks of when faced with the possibility of death. A small red ribbon is curled in the inner breast pocket of his uniform; he reaches to touch it, set above his heart.
A boiling rage comes over Preston suddenly, and he lets it take him like a rip current. Use it, he tells himself. Use it! His eyes sharpen, his body tenses, his fingers clench the leather-wrapped steel handle of his katana. He's never felt like this before, but he nourishes the intense hatred that roils inside him, directing every ounce of his mental being toward killing Brandt, then Dupont, the father. They'll not survive this night, he thinks.
He understands now how, for the sake of world peace, emotions are better left untouched; these are powerful things, these feelings. But at the same time, he would rather die than give these up. Love for a martyred woman, flowing into an intense desire to tread upon all who would try to avert his assassination of the Father – these things he treasures.
Brandt says smugly, "Mind the uniform, Cleric. I plan to be wearing it for a long time." Preston hears it dimly through the throbbing of his heartbeat. Brandt picks up his katana and steps forward, and angered, Preston leaps towards him, needing no further provocation.
Three hits, Preston thinks, his world slowing to half-speed for a moment. One, two, three. Brandt sinks to his knees on the painted floor next to Preston. And slowly, Preston lifts his blade and sets it on Brandt's shoulder. Brandt's turns his head slowly to the right, and his face slides off. Three hits, Preston thinks again. All that's necessary.
Preston feels such a strong sense of accomplishment that for a moment, he forgets the Father. These emotions that he's never felt before are powerful enough to make his mind wander from his task. He comes back to the subject at hand, and he leaps towards Dupont, drawing his gun; a modified Beretta 92. Dupont comes at him, drawing the same gun. Preston notes the pattern created as the barrel of Dupont's gun flashes – the cleric cross. The bullet spirals away from him, Dupont unable to bring the gun to bear on Preston's head.
Preston's right hand strains to pull the line of the bullet to Dupont's head; but like the other before, he is unable. Back and forth – neither able to bring their gun to bear. Preston's head is spinning; any thought going into this exchange would simply slow him down. His gun kata training is all that keeps him alive. But Dupont's skill is as great as his own.
Finally, Preston's body senses the kill move and knocks the gun away from Dupont. Adrenaline races through his veins; his heart pounds; his mind reels.
"Oh!" Dupont says tensely. "Wait! Wait. Look at me. Look at me. I'm life. I live, I-I breathe . . . I feel. Now that you know it...can you really take it? Is it really worth the price? "
Preston's body trembles with the answer. "I pay it gladly." The muzzle of his gun flashes in a last cleric cross, and Dupont's body crumples to the floor. Slowly, Preston looks around him. The new morning sun flashes over the skyscrapers around him, and a zeppelin hangs, fragile, over the needle cap of a monument. A new day, he thinks, his spirit calming. The world will be different now.