The skies
over Libria were a dark grey against which the buildings stood, each as
regimental and as uniform as the other...this was the world that
mankind had created from their over indulgence in the past...shaped by
the actions, wars and a typical petty nature of most of the species.
But there
were those that had forsaken Father's word, those who were turned from
the blankness of his face and the lack of lustre in his voice. They
called these, Sense Offenders.
And it was
they who threatened to overturn the perfect world that Prozium had
created, by refusing to take the drug and deaden their hearts and
minds...they were a dangerous foe and had to be stopped.
To this
end, there were the Clerics.
Deep
within the Tetragrammaton's dark and forbidding halls, they practiced
the arts of the Gun Katas...not one Kata but many, each focussing upon
a different form of gun combat, combined with a strict regime of
martial arts training they had become Father's long arm against the
Sense Offenders.
There was
no emotion only direct action...a prediction of mathematical precision
that would ultimately lead to only one result - the elimination of all
their opponents, with the minimum expenditure of ammunition and the
maximum death toll possible.
While the
Clerics trained in the deep shadows, another made his first steps into
the outside world. The Nethers were a place that the Sense Offenders
gathered, where they collected their treasures and trinkets...where
they tried to be human once more.
In
Father's law, to be human was to be an outlaw, an offence punishable by
death.
Today,
Cleric James Stretton would learn to make his final judgement call as
he graduated from the Tetragrammaton's methodical regime and
training...today he would learn how effective his art truly was.
The wind
once more blew dust into small swirls as the figures that surrounded
the Cleric, melted out of the shadows, he took note of each and
everyone of them. Not their faces or their looks, but the position of
their bodies and the possible location of weapons.
All it
took was one to raise his arms and the circle of death began, before
the offender could even draw a pistol to aim, a bullet impacted with
his throat and blasted out of the back of his neck. He scrabbled
backwards, hands coming to try and staunch the flow, he was
white-wide-eyed and dead before he hit the deck.
A cry went
up and another fell as his knees were ruthlessly torn into by the
Cleric's weapon, round after round splintered bone and shattered his
kneecaps.
And the
circle continued, each motion was designed to put Stretton far from
harm and bring to bear those deadly weapons in a balletic display of
protracted violence - death was the only outcome and it came swiftly
and did not ride a pale horse.
One by one
his assailants fell, red mist blew into the air, as their bodies were
penetrated by the expended perfectly aimed bullets. The Cleric
continued to move, body almost still, legs slightly apart and his arms
automatically finding the correct position, hands following...both guns
trained as an extension of his will - the will to kill these who had
affronted the Father's law and the Father's own will.
As smoke
trailed a lazy whisper from the ends of those guns, he brought them
into the final position and the bodies of his foes were nothing more
than broken ragdolls, bloody and tattered on the floor.
A shadow
stepped from the carnage, perhaps where he had been hiding.
"Excellen-t
work Cleric, welcome to the Tetragrammaton, I am sure you will do well."
A guard of
leather clad, black cycle-helmed 'Sweepers' entered the area, weapons
moving to cover it.
"This test
is over, a performance to be proud of."
It seems
that he had made the correct 'Judgement Call' after all.
