He spills out of the elevator with his pistol pointed firmly in front of him. There are no targets, just darkness in entirety. A path, supported by no form of structure, appears to float upon nothingness. He squats down and pokes it with his gun, confirming that somehow, it's solid. Logic abandons him as he places both feet on the path, feeling completely confident that it will not collapse under his weight. He walks towards the large double doors in front.
Entering in, he finds himself standing in a green field.
Children run around him. Mothers and fathers feed bread to the ducks. The sun shines.
"A park?" he muses.
The serenity is soon torn asunder, the calmness of a midsummer's day replaced by screams of horror. On the bank in front of him, a man looms over a little boy, scared, curled into a ball. Jones catches sight of two weapons: a serrated knife and a police baton. A dead dog lies in the path.
"Put your hands up!" Jones demands.
The offender spins around and looks at the Detective.
"No…" Jones gasps, "… Crispin!"
The sun fades and he finds himself in a tiny white room, not even wide enough to allow him the full extent of his arms. He cries out for help, growing agitated.
A deep feeling of angst rushes over him, as he pounds on the featureless white door. He strikes the metal surface until his fists hurt. Exhausted and broken, he slumps against the wall and sides to the ground.
"What's happening…?" he murmurs.
The door opens.
More darkness lies beyond, with stairs descending into the empty void. Without a second thought, he presses on until reaching another door, just like the first.
Inside there's a rectangular room, white walls, bars on black windows, silver desk, chairs. The scent of a fresh kill catches on. He turns slowly and eyes the bloody mess in the corner, torn and cut up.
"No…" he sighs desperately, falling to his knees.
Even amongst the blood and the gore, the mess some monstrous creature had left behind, Jones still knew the face. It was Doctor Cole. Crispin had got to him first.
"Bastard!" he blurts, striking the ground with his fist.
He goes into a fit of rage, throwing chairs and knocking over tables. He's failed. For the first time in his life, he's failed at doing his job.
He looks up sharply. Crispin stares at him through the window on the door.
Jones points his pistol but by the time his sights line up with his target, the milieu has again changed. He now stands in a rusty, metallic chamber, dimly lit by dying torchlight over an altar.
Crispin stands on a ledge above, and begins to walk away into the shadows.
"Freeze!" Jones demands.
The multiple-murderer does not comply. Jones wastes no time, firing a shot which tears through Crispin's right shoulder blade.
Jones crashes to his knees, wincing in pain. He scans his surroundings, desperately searching for his attacker but spies no assailant. A smoking bullet wound reveals itself upon Jones' right shoulder.
"What the…?" he mutters, bewildered.
He goes down again, as Crispin flashes by. He's slick, he'd have to be to get away with all those murders. But Jones had caught him before.
This time, however, it seems different. He doesn't seem to have any control. Either he is weaker, or Jack has grown stronger. Powerful blows crack against his skull but he can't raise his arms to defend himself. What's this, hands at his back? He finds himself hurtling forward towards the altar in the centre of the room. His direction switches, and he helplessly collides with a glass mirror hanging on the wall. It shatters into a thousand pieces as the cuts open up on his forehead.
He steadies his blurring vision and pulls himself up onto his elbows. Jack is gone, nowhere to be seen. He leans further until he's sitting up. Blood fills his eyes but he can't deny what he sees.
He lifts a large piece of the broken mirror closer to his face, examining in bewilderment. He looks like him. He feels like him.
"I am…."
Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones….
The man pulls himself onto his feet. Shaking his head, he wonders where on earth he is.
"A moment of clarity?" the familiar female voice asks.
"The Gillespie woman?" the man asks.
"Didn't you know?" Myshella wonders.
He doesn't respond.
"You are a strange one. He'll have a hard time cracking you. But I have promised him you will be compliant,"
"Will I? I'm not sure what I want,"
"He'll show you,"
"Yeah?" he questions, "Well that's one less thing I got to worry about. What about you?"
"I will continue my work," she halts, rephrases, "Our work,"
"Why do you do it?" he queries.
"Hmm… no one's even asked me that before,"
She leans on the altar and considers the question.
"Back in the day, I always found mother's methods to be… harsh, overly so. But I understand why she did it. It's not her fault she was weak. She lacked the ability to teach us. How she treated my sister was… inhumane. But I understand why she did it,"
"Go on," the man urges.
"In my youth, I couldn't fathom it, couldn't understand all the suffering. So I left. But you see… the outside world is so repulsive, teeming with unnecessary people. It didn't take long for me to realise what needed to be done. I knew I had to continue mother's work,"
"The town acts as a gateway, for him to pass through?" the man asks.
She nods, "And when he gets here, he will recreate the world in his image. Suffering, sin, avarice… all such things will be relics of the past,"
"Does this God have a name?"
"As humans, it is beyond our comprehension, even mine. God evolves. He changes with the times. Why, you wonder? To ensure he is best prepared for the day of his rebirth,"
"I can feel him, you know," the man says.
"Of course you can. He's inside you now. Your strength will help him grow,"
"How many have come before me?" he asks.
"Hundreds, maybe thousands," she sighs, "I lose track. Everyone has their cross to bear in this world. Only he can cleanse us, make us whole again. You won't be the last,"
The man lets out a defeated sigh, "How long will it take?"
"I cannot give you any measure of time. When he is ready, he will let me know. He will plant his seed. I am the walker between worlds. I am his Queen. I will birth him when the time comes. This task once fell to my sister, now it shall fall to me,"
"Just one more question, before I go," the man requests.
"Of course, my child," Myshella grants.
"Why does God want us to suffer?"
"My child, your concern is understandable," she sympathises, "Know this; God is neither here nor there, stuck in limbo between our world and the next. In order to provide that link, to make that connection he needs to guide his path, a strong emotion must be forged. The suffering, the hate… it is symbolic of our world. It keeps him alive, keeps him focused. He will use this negative energy until the time comes to change places with it, smiting misery from the face of this earth, marking the dawn of his resurrection!"
The man nods, relatively satisfied with this conclusion. He doesn't fully understand it, nor does it matter. All is done.
"Rest," Myshella says, placing a hand on his heated forehead, "Your deeds will not go forgotten. Sleep within thyself, where no further evils can harm you. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,"
She smiles at him with all the warmth in the world, and for the first time in all these years, he is at peace. She kisses him gently on the hand, before rising up and disappearing into the darkness.
The dank room seems like home. He looks down at the pistol in his hand. It feels cold when he presses it against his temple. The words of the yellow clad mechanic echo through his head, 'There is only one way to escape,'
He pulls the trigger, but there's nothing but an empty click. He looks at the wound in his shoulder. My final bullet.
He can see something sitting atop the altar, a blade of some sort. He attempts to crawl over towards it but his body has long since given up.
"Can't even…" finish his sentence.
And then, a sudden realisation strikes him…
Fool, heathen! Escape is cowardice. Escape is blasphemy!
My destiny is more than sacrifice, it is enlightenment. God will take my soul upon himself and God will…