The Voice of Heaven (Solo)

The detective sighed. Of course the pot was empty. Wasn’t that just the way of life? Dangling what you need and want just out of your grasp and then pulling it away like some bratty child? Course he probably wouldn’t be thinking this if he didn’t have such a headache! Jorge didn’t know why but it seemed that ever since he woke up in the morning, he had been having his persistent, light (but nagging) headache. It even seemed to be throwing a wrench into his abilities since he was having a difficult time focusing on any water sources. Usually it was simple; so much so that it had become instinctual to him over the years.

These days, though, especially today, is water senses seemed to be so muddled. As if he were picking up far more bodies of water tan he should. The detective couldn’t place his finger on the issue so instead he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure.

“You alright, Cervantes?” a voice mumbled next to him. He recognized it as belonging to a new officer by the name of Owens.

Jorge raised the empty pot. “Coffee?”

“Sorry, buddy. Last of the batch was made this morning. Cythnia went out to get some more.”

“Great,” Jorge grumbled as he set the empty pot back into the maker. He thought for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, knowing her, she probably won’t be back for awhile. I’m going out to get from the Moon Penny, maybe a box of pastries or something. You want anything?”

Jorge was already collecting his coat. Owens shouted an order to the fleeing detective, a danish, and Jorge logged that into his memory. Though the detective wasn’t the type to not trust Cythnia to do her job, he needed a break from that file. He needed air after reading everything that the Metatron had done thus far.

Coffee and doughnuts would go a long way to providing that air.

To most a descent into the darkness of the earth is symbolic of a descent into hell. But to the Metatron is was a sweet and awe-inspiring reminder of the strength, will, and creativity of God. To be within the bowels of the earth, to feel the pulse of the planet that the Almighty had made was always a delight for this servant of God. He was humbled and inspired by it at all times. That was why he held these rituals. That was why he believed so earnestly in this world and that it needed to be saved.

Trudging down the earthen steps that had been dug into the basement, the Metatron looked around and immediately spotted his flock. Ahead of him, the basement which had been chipped away to reveal the earth that surrounded them on all sides, was his gathering; men, women, children, all dressed in their tattered best and issuing the same soft prayers that he himself had given.

Joy lit up their faces, but they didn’t cease their ritual. All of them looked upon him with such reverence and peace that it brought joy to his head. He was thankful to have such a faithful group.

He stepped toward, down the parted line that his group had provided for him. They bustled on both sides, praying from their leather bound books and bowing their heads for sympathies and compassions. The Metatron graced some with a touch, and with others a simple smile and nod. There was not hierarchy here. No one received favors above the other. They all knew that. None were offended when not receiving his acknowledgement.

Instead they prayed as he walked by. With silently steps upon the dirt covered ground, the kindly, graying man, smiled as he stepped up to the altar at the head of his flock. There, his two most faithful followers stood on either side of a table. While most churches only allow the most holy upon such a place, here sat the most vile. A pair of demons passing off as humans. Wild-eyed, tightly bound people who screeched for sympathy from the crowd. But oh, they would receive none.

The Metatron came to a stop and tilted his head as he looked at the pair. They obviously knew him to be the leader since their gagged voices flew more fervently, begging him for release. Instead he only gave them a sympathetic smile.

Circling around behind them, the Metatron lifted his gaze and peered out at the gathered congregation. Instantly they quieted.

“Brothers, sisters,” he began. “As we sit upon the precipice of the apocalypse, I cannot thank you all enough for the sacrifices you all have made to wage this war. This war against the unclean who dare to set foot onto our world.” He placed his hands on both the bound people’s heads, causing them to flinch and struggle. “As you see here, these…demons…these…trespassers into the glory of God’s making have been captured. Though their numbers are many, their faith is weak. Where their savagery is strong, our faith is stronger.”

The Metatron closed his eyes and lifted his head. Fingers clenching into the scalp of his victims, the two began to panic as they felt their heads being pulled back. They flailed and fought against their bindings but it was of no use.

“We gathered under the glory of our God, nestled in his bosom as we offer ourselves, our sense of identity for the blessing to do his work. It is within these walls of stone that our voices ring out, that our work shall be acknowledged!” His fingers curled through the hair of his captives. Body shaking, the congregation watched in glory as a color shift split the man in half. The Metatron, now the left side of his red while the left turned blue, began to growl. “No longer shall we be meek! No longer shall we be victimized! No longer shall we fall to the sins of the demons that populate and poison the world around us!”

The victims screamed. In bloody horror they screamed as they felt the sharp temperature changes occur from their scalps, exactly where the Metatron had placed his hands. The woman to the left shivered and shook as a crusty layer of ice began to descend down her body, while the man to the right sweated and gasped as smoke from every burned off hair on his body wafted all around his features.

“We are the chosen! We are the faithful! We are the saviors of this world!” he shouted. Before long all he held onto was a body, pale, tinted blue and frozen stiff, and another both, blackened and charred down to the very core. Released them, they collapsed into piles upon the table, to which the Metatron lowered his gaze back to his blessed flock. “And we will not be stopped…”

The detective was floored. He simply couldn’t believe that this was the turn of events. He left Moon Penny almost as soon as the words were uttered on the other end of the line; the Metatron had been spotted. Jorge was in shock as dispatch told him that there was a sighting of a man matching the Metatron’s description in the abandoned district. Though it was hard to base anything on eyewitnesses, the fact of the matter was that the MRC needed every single lead that they could get.

While this sentiment would be true in any case, this happened to be different. The caller was in a panic. She witnessed as neighbors from across her street were taken away unwillingly. Moments later, someone matching the description of the Metatron was seen following. It was simply too many right details to be fake or misidentification.

Jorge had to try.

He was told to wait for backup, but the detective knew that time was of the essence. If there were people in danger, he had to act fast and hope that he arrived in time. The alternative, well, he didn’t want there to be any more blood on this psychopath’s hands. A stop needed to be put to all of this. Personal safety set aside for the moment, Jorge decided to investigate.

The first stop, of course, was to the eyewitness. Jorge did his best to speak to the frazzled woman but he was at least able to get a direction from her as to where the the Metatron had been seen. Assuring her that everything would be fine and for her to wait until the more officers arrived. In the meantime, he needed to check this out.

Back in his car, Jorge drove through the deserted streets of the abandoned district. All around him he saw nothing much shadows and the encroaching sense of darkness. If ever there was a creepier and more perfect scene for a self-righteous killer to hold up, it was here.

Jorge kept his eyes peeled as he shifted his gaze from left to right, trying to keep the engine on his car quiet as he slowed his pace. He had to find something. He just had to.

The church looked as if it were on its last legs. Jorge could only wonder how it could still be standing with every step closer he took towards it. It just seemed as if it were some behemoth structure leaning on a twigs and branches. The detective was almost afraid to breathe as he feared at any moment it would collapse within itself. But as he strolled onward, he knew that he was going to have to investigate the interior. There were hundreds of buildings in this vicinity, most of which were completely abandoned anyway so why bother with this one?

In the simplest terms…his head hurt. Jorge had been having difficulty with his water senses these last few weeks, catching pings everywhere of sources of water. The same was happening now. Which was odd considering that most of this district was dry and void of massive water sources unless they were in the sewers. Here though…he picked up several blurry ones inside of the church.

A rundown church like this wouldn’t have running water. Sure, maybe puddles from rainfall but it hadn’t rained lately, as far as he could tell. No, there was something about this huddled mass of liquid that drawing his attention.

It couldn’t hurt to look.

Moving around to the doorway, Jorge gave the rotting wood a gentle push, drew his gun, and slowly stepped inside. His training immediately took over as he began to assess the scene. Gun raised, Jorge moved slowly and carefully, peering around to the dark corners, checking his blind spots, and hiding around pillars and other debris he came across. So far it seemed like there was nothing around. But his water sense was telling him otherwise.

Another glance into the darkness and he paused when he caught that twinkle of light. In a far corner, he could have sworn that he saw the flicker of something like candle light. It may have been nothing, just a squatter, or other homeless person. But as he made ready to move in that direction, he skidded to a halt.

Voices.

His coat was pulled out from underneath the pew. Luckily Jorge had managed to slide away the rest of his clothes and gun in the nick of time, but his coat was hanging out far too much for him to stop and catch it. The dark skinned man had grabbed the part of it that was sticking out, removed it and held it up for his friend to look at. Jorge could only mentally shake his head at the turn of events. He didn’t want to face down these two, and maybe the Metatron, without back up. But he was quickly running out of options.

“What is it?”

“It’s a coat,” the shorter man said as he grinned and held it up to the light. A few quick pats and it was free of dust. Casually he slipped it on. “How do I look?”

“Like a moron. It’s too big for you,” the giant said. He thought for a second and then held his hand out. “Hand it over.”

“Nah, man, I like it,” was the shorter man’s response. “Just needs to be taken in a little.” The giant shook his head and turned his back to him, heading back towards the door which led to the basement. As he did so, the short man padded the pockets to remove more dust when he felt a tiny bit of weight. Curiously he fished into the pocket and wrapped his fingers around whatever was inside. “What is this…?” He started to ask.

His question never fully formed though. As he was distracted by the wallet and badge he just found, Jorge moved fast, out from under the pew. Dragging his clothes with him, the detective reformed within his garments as he came up behind the man and quickly wrapped his arms around his neck. The short man flailed in panic but Jorge held him fast, cutting off his arm and dragging him back behind the pew. His foot stomped one time too many but when he finally passed out, the detective breathed a sigh of relief. Carefully he hid him behind the pew as he took his coat back.

“Reggie? Reggie, where’d you go?” the giant asked from the other side of the room.

Jorge slipped away, doing his best to slink into the shadows.

The air was moist, yet warm. It didn’t have the smell of a moldy and forgotten basement, instead there was the scent of freshly turned earth and the sweet spice of incense. Jorge knew that he was close now. Similar scenarios were created at other crime scenes across the country. If there was any doubt before that he was dealing with the Metatron, it had completely evaporated now.

Jorge kept his steps quiet, held his gun high and pointed at any corners he came across. When he finally reached the bottom, even the detective found himself at a loss for words. He stepped into another room of worship, not unlike the pew lined church above him. Only this one seemed like a far perversion when compared to the one above: where a church would normally be open and airy, this was tight and closed off; where the above was open to the sunlight or the glow of the silvery moon, this was surrounded in the darkness of earth. The flaming candles that lit the walls flickered dimly, but enough to still cast an ominous light over the entire church.

He didn’t like the looks of this at all. The chiseled walls, the makeshift pews, even the altar at the very front of it all. Slowly he maneuvered his way inside and was immediately assaulted by a stench. Not of the incense or the candles, but instead of the death. He knew the smell of death by fire and instantly his panic rose up. He was too late.

Gaze moving over to the altar table, he felt his knees go weak. There, bound and gagged, were the remains of two individuals. One male, the other female, both of them locked in death; burned or frozen to death. It was a truly horrendous sight to see.

Jorge shook his head. He was too late. The Metatron had killed again and he couldn’t save them.

“You shouldn’t weep for the damned, detective,” a soft voice issued from the darkness behind the altar. Two footsteps echoed in the underground chapel as the Metatron stepped into the low light. “They don’t deserve such tears.”