She gets out of the car. A stupid move, and she knows it. But... She is drawn this lone figure, whose brown cloak contrasts with the beige of the desert landscape and the faded uniform white of the church around. The only thing it does not contrast with is the somber green skin tone of the gigantic worm-moth hybrid laying dead over the desecrated building's rooftop. It is so long and large that its head touches the ground. And here is that mysterious man caressing in the most sensual of ways the remnants of this disgusting beast, rubbig his hand over the demon's hairy neck as if... As if he cared about the creature ?
Suddenly, Alex gets a feeling. That she is in danger. And yet, she doesn't move. She hasn't moved for the better part of the last ten minutes. Standing ten feet behind the cloaked man, she is frozen. In awe, admiration ? Of course not. She despises the moth and she is repulsed by the prayer affection towards that beast. But still. She is curious. This man in the curch, he's the only living thing that's not animal that she's come into contact with over the day. It's hard to come by people these days, so when you do, you wanna talk to them. It's not rocket science.
So she does. She approaches the man, puts her hand over her shoulder and opens her mouth to say something but... A that moment, when the man does notice her presence and is forced to redirect his attention from his devilish idol and unto the girl, when he turns his head towards Alex and when she sees what's up with his face, she almost shouts. She doesn't, but she darts away from the man like he's got the pest. Perhaps he does. His face is covered whole with bandages. Both of his hands too, now that she thinks about it. How have I not noticed that earlier ?! - she cries to herself in her head.
The man has stood up. He is tall. At least taller than her. She's short.Tough but a shorty. Most men stand higher than she does. It usually doesn't bother her but... That is because she's used to males fawning over her like dogs on a leash. This man, on the other hand, the one that's standing before her now... He doesn't seem to keen on addressing her as a queen.
He raies both his arms and joins his hands together above his head. The sleeves of his brown coat slide of his arms slightly, revealing more of what should have been skin, but is indeed more bandages. The person is covered whole. A mummy. That's what he may as well be called. And then comes the moment. Where he lets out a screech. And the screech, serpentine and inhuman as can be, is answered. By a hundred voices. Coming from behind. Behind Alex. So she looks behind her. She can't believe her eyes. Dozens of cloaked men (and women as well, she believes, although it is hard to differentiate them) have gathered in the church, forming a long line aside from her. And again, she doesn't move. Why would she ? They seem uncaring about her presence. Perhaps they think she's one of them. Perhaps they do not think. Perhaps they can't think anymore. The first man, the one standing next to the dead devil, lets out another screech. More tame, more commanding. Four people from the crowd step out of line, holding a gigantic iron bowl which they come place between their leader and the corpse. And finally, the chief cultist takes out an obsidian knife from inside the foldings of his robe. He lets out another screech, onemore akin to the first one than the second, and plunges the cold steel of his blackened blade into the carcass' flesh. Black blood starts seeping out from the deceased creature's innards. And as it flows plentiful into the great bowl placed underneath the wound, the line of men standing side-to-side with Alex get on their knees and engage in prayer. They pray, they pray, they screech. For minutes, they do that. And the blood doesn't stop flowing. And the bowl is still half-empty. It is huge. Human sized. And the leader stands silent, seemingly looking at our girl. With however many eyes he's got left at least. With his black knife. And she doesn't move. Cashew's agitated. She can hear him hitting the car's windows with his tiny little paws. But she doesn't step away from the madness. She is drawn to it. There is no rationality to any of her reactions. But sometimes, reason abandons the lead for raw feelings to take it, and when they do, unexplainable events take place in a person's heart. Alex, she wants to see this strange show to its conclusion.
The blood has stopped flowing. The bowl is full. The crowd is silent. So the master takes out his cloak. And alex was right. The man is covered whole in bandages.
Two people from the crowd stand up and come to their leader. In front of everyone else, they rid the man of his white covering, piece by piece, inch by inch. Alex lets out a screech. Not one of madness, like the cultists'. One of terror. Underneath his robes, underneath his mummy apparel, what does the prayer's body look like ? Burnt, scarred, disfigured. Most of his body's outer flesh layers have been peeled out. He looks like a leper. Perhaps he is. And if he is, then what he does next mayhaps could have been expected of him then. For living life as a leper is too hard for most people on Earth. Too difficult, too demanding, too taxing, too hard both on the body and the mind.
The man steps inside the black blood bowl. He immerges himself, from head to toe, in the pool of dark fluids inside this human-sized iron cup. And when his head reappears eventually, after a minute of being plunged into the thick liquid, it has changed. Morphed into that... Of a Remaker.
