Page 52 of Metatron
Having too much time led to him thinking too much, his future with Francesca being the most prominent. When he saved her—not if, never if—they’d have to decide what they wanted to do. And he didn’t mean about the war. Obviously, they had to deal with Hell and Heaven first. But once they did, should they stay or go?
Earth had much going for it. It also had too much going on. Humanity as a whole might not be ready to embrace angels in their midst. And could he really settle on one planet?
What would Francesca want? She had no family holding her here, only friends in the Templars. How did she feel about them possibly following Atlantis to a new world, a new beginning?
None of which would happen if the threats facing them weren’t handled. Starting with Hell. The scout didn’t have any information, and given Elyon’s perfidy, he had to wonder how much of what they’d been taught about the place remained true. That it was evil? No doubt. However, just how strong was its legion? Could it be that the slaves would revolt if given a chance? And what of Satan himself?
The journey didn’t give him any answers, just an anxiousness to arrive and deal with matters. His first up-close view of Hell curled his lip. Used to the beauty and symmetry of Heaven, the chaotic mix of materials and shapes proved discordant to the eye. Once he disembarked, smells added to the disarray.
Leaving Keeko to handle the ship, he strode as if he had purpose even as he had no idea where he headed. The plan had him returning to the living scout. Zilla assured him the young vessel wanted to help, meaning he had a way out once he found Francesca.
And then, once he did, he had to get back to this bay, board the right scout, escape into space, not get captured…
He had faith it could be done even as he wondered how far he’d get. Thus far, no one seemed to pay him any mind. Just another demon, of which there weren’t many he noticed as he passed from the bay to a forge and then into a more residential and commercial area. He noted lots of beings, even recognized some of them, previous inhabitants of worlds abandoned when Hell came pillaging. Flocks that they failed to protect because of Elyon’s orders.
Metatron had never understood why they didn’t do more to shelter those they shepherded. Why did they never make a stand and fight? While true the choirs didn’t have enough angels to mount a proper defense, the flocks themselves had plenty of citizens, people who would have fought if given a chance.
Once past the forge, his path proved less clear as he entered a busy market area. Stalls crammed every inch of space, as did entities. More demons could be seen here, standing out not just because of the horns and wings but their attire. Obviously prosperous, and there to shop, not work.
Seeing a pair of minors leaving a vendor, packages in hand, he followed at a distance as they entered a tunnel, no one paying him any mind, his disguise working well. For now. He knew better than to get complacent. Something would eventually give him away.
The tiny token Zilla embedded in his wrist had been pulsing since his arrival, getting strong as he neared a massive set of doors guarded by a cyclops spattered in gore. His one eye glared at everyone who passed, including Metatron. Only as he moved away from the door did the pulse slow, letting him know he’d have to go back and find a way past the sentry.
Could he simply ask for entry on some pretext? What if he said the wrong thing?
He retraced his steps and stood before the cyclops, who didn’t deign to question his presence.
He cleared his throat. “I need to speak to the Dark Lord. I have important news from the planet.”
The creature gave him a slow blink.
“My name is Marron. I’ve just returned from my post on the planet’s moon.”
The cyclops stepped to the side and let the doors swing open, granting him entry.
It seemed too easy. He stepped inside, and the portal slammed shut, which was the signal apparently.
Bodies piled onto Metatron, slamming into him hard enough to knock breath and sense. He recovered with the first blow, though, and called a shield, protecting his body from the pummeling.
Apparently, he’d done something to call attention to himself. So much for being subtle. But he couldn’t retreat. He’d committed himself to rescuing Francesca.
It used to be he prayed to Elyon before battle—God give me strength—but this time he had only himself and his determination. Love grant me fortitude.
Love did more than give him courage. A glow entered his body, strengthening his limbs, and when he shoved with his arms, the surge of strength took him by surprise. Bodies flew as if he’d become ten times as strong. When his fists swung, bone cracked. Once he’d given himself a bit of room, he pulled the weapon at his hip and fired—Elyon’s ban on projectile weapons be damned. Despite his lack of experience, the close proximity helped his aim. He shot over and over at the charging cyclops, felling them one by one until a pile of bodies mounded around him.
All dead and he remained standing, panting only slightly, uninjured but for that first blow. A glance at his fists showed the glow gone, but the awe at what he’d accomplished remained.
I fought them using suul. Or as Francesca would say, he’d used magic. But on a scale he’d never experienced before even when he had a fully charged HALO. Why the sudden change? It hit him a moment later. This would be the first time he’d used his abilities since he’d removed the ordinance. Had it been suppressing his own anility this entire time? And here he’d thought himself clever learning how to do small tricks. No wonder Elyon feared Metatron and all the others that dared counter his narrative. If the angels knew they, too, could wield God’s supposedly divine gift, would Elyon remain in charge?
He'd have been the first in line to challenge.
While Metatron ruminated, he’d crossed the room to the next door. His shield had kept blood from staining him, but he could do nothing about the bodies he left behind other than move quickly. The chances of a quiet escape didn’t seem likely, but he kept going. Miracles did happen.
He strode rapidly along the various hallways, letting the pulse in the token guide his steps when he reached branches. He paid little mind to his surroundings or even the people he saw, mostly female. To his surprise, there were few guards roaming, and no one questioned his presence or tried to stop him.
When he stood in front of massive ornate panels, the token pulsing madly. He knew he’d found Francesca—and most likely the devil. And still no one screamed about the traitor in their midst. No one stopped him from approaching those doors and pushing on them, a single portal swinging open enough to give him entry.
He entered the heart of Hell, a space of fire and brimstone, of torture and despair. A glance showed various beings attached to a variety of devices, all meant to cause pain. The dissonance of their agony brushed against him in a shiver. Those poor people. None of them would survive their injuries. The only thing they could hope for was to die and end it.