Today was the final siege. A 20-something story building on the north side of town, serving as the Timberwolves' headquarters and last bastion. This last time I didn't go in alone. Not because it's suicide, but because I decided that this last battle was more for the better of the group than my own personal gain. I lead a platoon of several dozen coworkers in a direct assault against the building. To tell the truth, it was quite a sight, both from the front lines and from inside the fortress. The mottled army forming the attacking lines, and the masked army defending. The images of the gods interspersed throughout the struggle, influencing the rabble one way or the other, with no one side ever gaining a true advantage.
This was the chaos they wished to sow, and for now it was working in my favor. I knew where to go, where the leader was hiding, and with the battle outside distracting the footsoldiers, I made my progress relatively unimpeded. When I reached the floor I was looking for, I chanced a final glimpse of the fray, and saw ringed around the conflict the gods that had a direct contribution to the fight. The Archangel, the Plague Doctor, The Cold Boy, and the gods that my appearance attracted stood outside and watched as my associates and the Timberwolves continued fighting one another, with the Rake, the Smiling Man, and other uninterested parties killing as they saw fit. Never once did I see one of the gods ringing the struggle lift a finger, neither to kill nor to protect. They simply watched.
With this image in my head, I walked down the hallway where in the fifth room on the left was a locked door. A swift kick later revealed a relatively old man clad in a black leather jacket and a rather nice office with a perfect view of the struggle. I crossed the threshold and rain began to fall on the strife outside. The man made many pleas for his life, and mumbled out some very amusing arguments trying to convince me of his worth as a human, of his ties to his god, of the wrath of the afterlife awaiting me for this transgression, and of his innocence with regards to my friend.
I opened the window for a bit of fresh air. The rain was falling steadily now, beginning to soak the soldiers and their gods, and the smell of the oncoming storm wafted up into the office and cleared out the scent of blood. The severed head of the leader made a delightful crack as it fell seventeen stories and landed on the filter of one of his former subordinates. I turned around to begin my descent back down to the ground floor to help finish off the last of the Timberwolves. By the time I exited the building, all the gods had left, except for the only two that mattered. When the last of the gas-masked defenders had fallen, the Archangel disappeared, and my coworkers celebrated the victory like they usually do.
I'm currently at Thomas' house, the original warzone. Nothing has changed, and I highly doubt anything will. Trash and insanity litter the rooms and the smell of death lingers stronger than ever. Outside, the battle was won, but in here it was lost, and nothing I can do will be able to change that.
I guess the best thing to do before I leave the city is put that body in the bedroom underground. Anything to help me think that Thomas is happier in the Archangel's embrace.
- Have a Nice Day