Parallel Manifest

The Proxy admired the corpse of the fallen Mechanic for a moment, then bent down next to him, clacking open his balisong. He gently slid the knife into the flesh of the Mechanic's chest, and with delicate care, scrawled his Mark.

With a final stroke, he stood and clicked his knife closed, sliding it into his robes. Around him, the ship was in chaos. The Mechanic's lackeys ran to and fro, brandishing weapons, fighting, screaming and dying to the Kine. As he watched, one worker, a human carrying a large spear, screamed in rage and grief, then charged the Proxy. The Proxy merely stood, watching from behind his iron mask, as one of the Kine swooped from the sky above and struck the man in the side, sending him screaming over the edge.

The Skysailor lurched suddenly, dipping several feet. The Proxy inspected the ship for a moment, then turned and drew a Mark in the air. It flared to life with burning hatred, then split into a wide hole in the air, through which the Proxy stepped, letting it snap shut behind him.

He stood on the ground far below, within the flaming ruins of the city, whose name was already forgotten. Distant flashes of light permeated the gloom, followed by deep rumbles. Evidently the Prophet of Danforth lived past even his expectations, the Proxy mused. He's more powerful than any of us expected.

With a final look at the explosions on the edge of the city, the Proxy turned away from the Prophet's carnage and started into the city. His steps were sure and swift, and they carried him to his destination, a large building near the center of town. The Gardener's building. He took the steps leading upwards, ascending quietly, yet quickly, until he reached the door leading to the Garden. Sliding the latch open, he entered.

Inside was a dark and twisted garden, heavily laden with the sickly sweet scent of decay. Trees drooped overhead, the leaves rotting on the branches, while underneath, bushes rustled, despite the lack of wind. Near the northern edge of the Garden, the Gardener stood, admiring a particularly rotted rose. She turned as he approached, and her face stretched into an unnatural smile. "The Pond is calling for you, Proxy," she said in a husky, low voice.

"I'm sure it is," the Proxy replied, his voice echoing oddly as it reverberated outwards from the iron mask. "Have you spoken with Him since last we met?"

She shook her head. "It has not called for me," she said, losing interest in him. "Go talk to it if you need to, then leave this Garden. It is mine."

"Of course, madam Gardener," the Proxy replied with a graceful bow. This is one foe I do not want to anger, he thought as he straightened. With a final nod, he turned away, moving towards the Pond. The Pond was the only one like it in the world, as far as the Proxy knew. It was large, about fifty feet by fifty feet, and the moon was reflected at all times in it, even during the day or when the moon was not visible. It was always completely still, even if a rock or something of the sort was to break the surface.

As he neared the Pond, the Proxy went to one knee. "I have come as you commanded," he whispered.

The Pond rippled, and the water rose to form a man-sized figure of pure black water. The Devil, for thus the figure was, seemed to regard the Proxy for a moment, then spoke. You have done well for me, it whispered, yet the whisper was as deep as the rumblings of distant mountains. The Mechanic was a thorn in my side, and you plucked it out. For that, you will be richly rewarded.

The Proxy bowed himself lower. "It was my duty as your humble and worthless servant," he said, meaning every word he spoke. "You commanded it, and thus it was done."

Nevertheless, the Devil replied, it was well-done. Receive your reward. The last was spoken as a command as the Devil stretched his hand forward. A thread of darkness flared from his hand and struck the Proxy in the forehead.

Darkness.

Rush.

PAIN.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The Proxy rose to his feet, and to his astonishment, part of the Pond rose with him. Water is my domain, the Devil murmured into his ear. And I have granted you power over my domain. The watery, shimmering figure rose from where it had knelt next to the Proxy and turned back into the Pond. There is something else you can do for me, the Devil whispered.

"Anything, Dominant One," the proxy replied, dropping his gaze to the withered grass below. "Name it."

The Prophet of Danforth is perhaps the largest problem we are facing at this time, the Devil replied. Though it had no face, its gaze seemed fixed at the distant explosions marking the Prophet's stand against the Kine. He is one of the few things stopping us from reaching Gods' Home and ending the bulwark of the Theocracy once and for all. It turned and regarded the Proxy once again. End him. Remove that servant of the vile god, and you will become the most powerful of my servants, beyond even the Advocate.

More powerful than the Advocate? the Proxy thought with astonishment. Aloud, he said, "Of course. I will do as you command."

Then rise, and go forth, my Proxy. The Devil seemed to dismiss the Proxy from his presence, and once again turned his gaze to the distant battle. Go, and do my will. As the Proxy watched, the water seemed to lighten, and the moonlight filtered through once again as it dropped into the pond, which settled into unnatural stillness once again.

The Proxy rose to his feet and stood numbly, processing everything that had just happened. Above him, it started to rain. He glanced up to see that a heavy cloud cover had formed while they spoke. The rain seemed to bend towards him as it fell. He marveled at this as he exited the Garden. Outside, the city had mostly stopped burning, though several large fires still crackled and hissed in the rain, creating a rather strange mixture of blue tinted darkness and orange painted light.

The Prophet shall fall, and once I am more powerful than the Advocate, I shall end this world as He wants. Buoyed by this thought, he started forward towards the distant sound of fighting. As he rounded the street corner, he saw the Prophet of Danforth, surrounded by a circle of ten hardened soldiers. He was a man of average height, with piercing blue eyes. He wore a roughly sewn suit and a wide brimmed preacher's hat, which the Proxy thought strange. A man of his station could wear robes of pure gold and a crown of diamonds, and the people of the Theocracy would offer to polish them with their tongues.

Yes, this is a man of power, with no need to prove his power to others, the Proxy thought as he watched the Prophet fight. The Prophet whirled away from the claws of one of the Kine and sent a burst of golden fire into the blackness, then whirled and, with pure force of will, smashed a group of the Kine into the ground, flattening them into bloody bits. A large collection of the Kine emerged from the blackness, armed with long talons and teeth, and lurched at the Prophet. He thrust both hands to the side, and formed a golden cocoon of flames around himself, which swirled about with telekinetic force into the Kine, ripping them into bloody, sizzling shreds.

A dangerous foe, the Proxy thought. But weakened. He will be easy to remove.

He took his knife from its place in his robes and clicked it open. Move in, assassinate that one with the warhammer, then stab the Prophet. With His power, this will be child's play.

Yet, before he could start forward, a pillar of light appeared, directly over his head. He hissed in surprise and staggered backwards. Where he had been standing, a figure lowered from the sky and settled gently to the ground. He, for it was clearly a male, was tall, wearing pure white robes and a silver mask, which depicted an impossible beautiful face. Pure, clear wings, which appeared to be formed of the highest quality glass, stretched from his back, extending above his head, then drooping down to barely above the ground. Nestled between the wings was a bastard sword, which looked to be carved of marble, yet he knew without a doubt was metal.

"Who are you?" the Proxy asked, assuming a fighting stance, arms crossed with the knife arm held in front. He felt vibrations emanating from the other figure, felt them tingling in his wings.

"Your opposite," the figure replied from behind his silver mask. "I am the Surrogate of the Gods." Around them, a beam of bright sunlight fell. The Proxy glanced up, seeing a break in the cloud cover. The Gods cannot let such a blatant infraction move unhindered." While he spoke, he slid a hand over his shoulder and drew his sword from its scabbard. "And now it is time to balance the match."

Before the Proxy could move, the Surrogate leapt forward, slashing his sword at the Proxy in a flash of white steel. The Proxy twitched backwards, feeling the wind caused by the sword's passing on his neck. So fast! the Proxy though in horror. Yet his fears were soothed. My Proxy, you are not armed for such a struggle, the voice of the Devil whispered into his ear. This must be rectified. The Proxy's knife grew outward, becoming slightly wider, until he held a black tinted rapier in his hand.

The Surrogate retreated and watched the Proxy. "You are further in his machinations than even I thought," the Surrogate said, sadness painted his voice. "I thought there was yet hope for you."

The Proxy snarled behind his mask. "Your words are wind, and soon that will be stifled," he growled. Without another word, he leapt forward, slashing his sword at the Surrogate. He felt dark power surge up his arm, and the blade moved faster than even he thought. Yet, fast as he was, the Surrogate was equal. His sword flashed through the intervening space and stopped the Proxy's sword cold. The clang sounded through the air with a sound as pure as a silver bell. The Proxy flinched as his arms flared with sudden pain at having their momentum stopped so suddenly.

The Surrogate flowed forward, slashing his own sword at the Proxy's neck, then dropping it low and slid it along the Proxy's chest instead. The Proxy moved to block, but was nowhere near fast enough. A line of bright pain flared up his chest, and he glanced down for half a moment to see a large rip in his black robes, which was quickly dampening with his own blood. He looked back up to see that the Surrogate had retreated, and now stood a good dozen feet away, sword held at the ready in one hand. "You could have killed me easily," the Proxy said, confused. "Why didn't you?"

"None are beyond saving," the Surrogate replied. "Some, however, may only be saved with the edge of a sword." He paused, and the Proxy got the impression that the Surrogate was smiling. "However, the main reason I stopped is that my mission is complete." He turned and gestured to where the Prophet was fighting. The Proxy looked over to see that the shadow of the Kine had been completely destroyed. The Prophet knelt at the edge of the plaza where he had been fighting, surrounded by six remaining soldiers, and the one that appeared to be their leader, the one with the warhammer, who stood above the Prophet protectively.

"Your master's taint is gone from this place," the Surrogate stated quietly, drawing the Proxy's attention back to him. "And you should be too. Be gone."

The Proxy returned his sword to his side. "We will meet again," he whispered.

The Surrogate nodded slowly. "We will. And it will be your doom."

With a final look at the Surrogate, the Proxy drew a Mark in the air, forming a rippling tear in space, and stepped through, letting it snap shut behind him. The Prophet will die. He has commanded it. Whether today or tomorrow, it matters not. He. Will. Die.