These are excerpts from the New Empire Daily Mail.

  The following are transcripts and fictionalisation of audiovisual recordings taken from an old Company warehouse at the Suriapur docks, 7 pm GMT +5, 17th of November, 111 NMT (New Monarch Time). All below is true. Any questions regarding what you are about to read or regarding the original audiovisual recording should be sent to the offices of Lord Admiral Westfield, P.O. Box number one, Protectors Avenue, Londinium, Mainland, New Empire.

  Cast away resistance, glory to the king.

  Transcription begins:

  “Dear lord, Your most humble servant beseech at your feet,”

  The old Company dockyard is the only region where the warehouses are not sprawling with life and wares at all times of day. They serve as a reminder of what was.

  “Guide my soul in servitude and guard my heart from thoughts of disarray,”

  “Fuck sake,”

  Two men are sitting in this warehouse, one deep in prayer, one deep in his third pack of cigarettes. His hands shake, but from his smoking or from his state of mind, it is hard to say.

  “Stay my hand in acts of disloyalty, and lead my tongue in fealty,”

  “The protector's prayer?”

  There is no furniture, only two old barrels, the bands long since starting to rust, with a door, paint chipping off, resting on top of them. The makeshift table is filled to the brim with various accoutrements of ne’er-do-wells.

  “Such that the wrath of Him is never brought upon me,”

  The smoker breathes out heavily, resting his head in his hands.

  “Do that one thing that can stop Him, and stop me from taking actions that can anger Him,”

  There is the sound of a cane tap, coming closer. The smoker looks up only for a moment, then folds his face back into his hands.

  “Amen,”

  “Fool,” comes the word from the old man as he joins the two.

  “No man can do anything but accept his fear,” the prayer does not meet the old man's gaze, but speaks defiantly enough. The old man sits.

  “And to pray antithetical to your chosen actions, is that accepting fear or portraying foolishness?” the smoker ventures from behind his hands.

  “So better to fill your lungs with smoke and brain with poison,” the prayer has stood up now, defiantly staring down the smoker, “Face it, we are soon to see o-”

  The old man’s cane crashes into the table, and one of the old rusty bands snaps away from the barrel. “Do not speak his name, nor speak to me of fear of a man you have yet to meet,”

  “A man is a man, and a name is a name, why-” the smoker tries

  “Then call him something other than a man,” the old man thunders, turning to him. “I saw him thirty years ago, and I saw him only yesterday,” the old man seems to be drawn into a memory, but snaps out of it. “Perhaps not a man,”

  The smoker stands. He grabs his empty pack, opens it, sees it's empty, puts it back down. “Fuck,”

  “Perhaps-”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “No, we must,” answers the old man.

  “Suicide then,” the smoker searches his backpack.

  The prayer turns to the old man.

  “With purpose,”

  “Still,”

  “Still,”

  “Soon daybreak,”

  “Soon time,”

  Now they all stand, the smoker has retrieved another cigarette.

  “Are we sure it will help?” The prayer is the one to ask.

  “No,” says the smoker.

  “Yes,” says the old man.

  “So?”

  “Die thinking it will,”

  The smoker shakes is head but doesn’t answer.

  The old man looks suddenly confused, he looks at the smoker and grabs the cigarette directly from his mouth.

  “What the-”

  The old man holds the cigarette to his nose, smelling deeply, looking rapidly around, takes another deep smell of nothing but air, and runs.

  “Where..?” the prayer looks after him, looks at the smoker, looks at their half-finished plans.

  The smoker fishes another cigarette out of his pack, “whatever, what help is in an old cripple, we have the plan dont we?”

  “Would you stop that?”

  The smoker lights a match slowly, holding it beneath his cigarette, mumbling around it “No.”

  The cigarette falls to the floor, barely lit, as the two hear gunfire. There is first a quick, irregular fire, like a man pressing the trigger on a semi-automatic pistol as fast as he can, though not skillfully, then a louder bang and silence.

  Seconds do not pass, only the briefest look between the two men, not a word or question, before they both throw themselves at the table, chasing their own tools to the ground as the barrels break down.

  Hurried scurrying, but a semblance of skill, you can tell the two men have been in stressful, perhaps life-threatening situations. The smoker focuses upon the struggle of throwing on his plate carrier, while the prayer lugs the heavy door towards a pillar, heaving it upright as cover. There is much running, much making ready.

  “Here,” The smoker hands a rifle to the prayer as he struggles with his own plate; the smoker already has his own.

  “Police?”

  “Have you ever known us so lucky?”

  “Army then,”

  “One can hope,” there is a thick smell in the air of tobacco smoke.

  The prayer looks at his gun, something so normal, seeming so wrong in his current situation. “Perhaps foolishness,”

  The smoker looks into the middle distance. “Perhaps fear,”

  Again, the sound of a cane getting ever closer, and in a voice that is almost that of the old man, “Perhaps not a man,”

  The smoker looks at the man he has antagonised the whole night, his friend, “It was a good fight, brother, we tried.”

  “Centre mass, brother,” the prayer has tears in his eyes, “perhaps,”

  The smoker throws himself around to see what is beyond the door. In the middle of the room he stands, head cocked to one side, eyes of unlit charcoal portraying the potential fire of brimstone, long heavy coat and tall anachronistic tophat, leaning on his cane. It was Him.

  Action flows as molasus as the smoker fires his first shot, and as the shot makes solid impact with the chest of the man as he stands with complete lack of urgency. He staggers, the smoker holds his breath, the man coughs into his hand, the prayer dares look around the edge of the table, the man looks up at them, and there is blood on his hand as he straightens once more. Gunfire turns general.

  Shot after shot finds its target unmoved, and then he, it, starts walking, with direction, into the gunfire. “Fuck,” the smoker reloads, the prayer looks skyward, then runs. The eyes of the demon track him, but focus back upon the smoker. He stands now within hand's reach.

  The prayer looks behind him in time to see the table get sent scittering across the room, and he turns and runs again.

  The sound has stopped, his steps echoing like the only sound on the planet. He hurries to a place to hide. What else can be done? He clutches his gun, not by the grip, for what purpose would that be?

  Minutes pass, then tapping echoes through open halls and narrow walkways, from everywhere, unplaceable.

  The prayer looks up at the wall in front of him and sees there a camera, looking down the hall. What would he give to see through the eyes of those cameras? The small motor within whirs around to point directly at him, and he thinks. Then he laughs

  Who put cameras in a warehouse that's been abandoned since 14 years before NMT?

  His laughter echoes.

  This concludes the transcription.

  Cast away resistance, glory to the king.

  Dear lord, Your most humble servant beseech at your feet

  Guide my soul in servitude and guard my heart from thoughts of disarray

  Stay my hand in acts of disloyalty, and lead my tongue in fealty

  Such that the wrath of Him is never brought upon me

  Do that one thing that can stop Him, and stop me from taking actions that can anger Him

  Amen

  The protector knows, and he will find the seeds of dissent.