The PulseTeam, Book Two: Evolution

Epilogue

The Monitor | Cleveland, Ohio
Monday, July 19, 2038 | 13:58 EST

It's been nearly three and a half years since Domenico Berlusconi orchestrated that seven-year pact with Israel and took power, and it's been hell ever since. About a week into Berlusconi's reign, he passed legislation that outlawed all religion, the consequences for breaking that law is imprisonment, and the only way to circumvent prison time for this particular offense is to convert to autotheism and take the Mark. At least, for every other religion except for Christianity. For Christians, the penalty for getting caught is brief incarceration followed by death via guillotine, unless we convert to autotheism and take the Mark. In recent months, Berlusconi passed new legislation that rendered the Mark mandatory, under the guise of being "standard identification", and if one refuses to take the Mark, regardless of whether or not they follow a religion, the penalty is immediate death.

We've had to turn the Monitor into a floating mobile command center/safe space for other believers. Dad and the rest of the PulseTeam had to make quick work of the PulseCave, doing the same thing to it that we did to our base. Aunt DEELEX is the only link that we have to the Cave. And because Aunt DEELEX is an evolving xenocomputer, that is the only reason why she hasn't gotten hacked into, yet.

Dad, Uncle John, Rick, and I have also had to develop specialized, individualized nutrition patches for Uncle Ky and Asune, because a world where a necessity such as food is scarce for speedsters who have no legal means to get it, and have supercharged, hyper-accelerated metabolisms is a dangerous world to live in. And also because we live in a time where--as fast as they are--instead of eating, their time would be better spent in action.

Dad had to blow up Allen Manor, because Berlusconi actually figured out that Dad and the others were the PulseTeam, and he sent his forces to try to capture them and Mark them by force. And the only reason why we know that we're susceptible to recieving the Mark is because we captured a deceased Marked One and ran an extensive analysis on his physiology. The autopsy revealed that the technology these people use works on a subatomic level. The triple-six tattoo is not ink. It's a burn injury. On the subatomic level. With a neurotransmitter in it. I mean, seriously, how twisted can one get?

Oh, yeah: Christians are now known as "radical extremists" and "fanatical terrorists". We have been accused of everything, from blowing up school buildings full of children, to shooting entire neighborhoods of families dead in cold blood. And my father has gone from being one of the most loved superheroes in the world to one of the most wanted men in the world. And one of the most hated.

As of this point, we're in hiding, and we've had to form a resistance movement comprised completely of Christians. And no one in this resistance has lifted one finger in anger or violence, though some came close, many times. And the reason for a philosophy of such adamant pacifism? "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places (Ephesians 6:12 KJV)."

The most we've ever done to somebody is that Vulcan Nerve Pinch thing. And that's only for peaceful, harmless incapacitation.

All the while, up to this point, we've lived through all seven of the Seal Judgments, the first of which was the Antichrist's rise to power, all seven of the Trumpet Judgments, the rise of the Red Dragon, the Second Celestial War, and the cold-blooded murders of the two Witnesses at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.

Oh, and Alexa and I actually finally tied the knot. Yeah, I proposed about a week after she turned eighteen, and we got married about a month afterward. During that time, for whatever reason, in top of the month before we said our vows, she also decided to get both of her nipples pierced. And I'm not complaining. But her time would've been better spent doing something, anything, other than that. Fortunately for Berlusconi, there's time for at least one honeymoon night during the Great Tribulation, and we took the opportunity to consummate our union. If we couldn't have at least one night together, I, at the very least, would have been sore displeased. And Berlusconi would've sorely regretted making me displeased by giving me blue balls.