II. Gods and Monsters

Armoury

It dragged it's damaged arm into the cave, the enchantments placed on the stone hiding the entrance from humans foolish enough to stumble upon it. Metatron tossed the arm to the ground, raising its hand to a small, sharp stone jutting from the wall of the cave. A small push set tumblers and cogs in motion, peeling back a section of wall to reveal the pristine marble beyond.

"Lilian, prepare the chamber, repairs are essential."

"Yes Metatron," the AI replied.

"And allow me full access to my armoury, I intend for this battle to be Hades' last."

"It shall be done."

A futuristic operating table rose from the floor, appendages similar to those in Heaven rising up around it.

"Chamber ready, you are clear to proceed."

One limb reached outside the room, retrieving the detached arm as Metatron lay back against the cool surface of the table.

Sparks flew as the damaged metal was stripped from both his arm and his body, the wiring slowly knitted back together. Metatron let out a pained sigh as molten metal was poured into the gaps, covering the wounds as if they were never there. Any dent, scratch, gouge and imperfection was worked out of his shell by the various tools employed by his mechanical surgeons.

Once their tasks were complete, the arms retracted.

"Reconstruction complete, running diagnostics."

Metatron waited as each component was tested. Each digit bent, as did the wrist, elbow and shoulder. Each weapon unfolded, their capacity to fulfil their deadly purpose assured. Metatron rose, his newly rebuilt arm folding into its deadly rifle form before he turned and obliterated a section of nearby wall.

"Diagnostics complete," Metatron stated, "Open the armoury."

Behind him, the wall rose, revealing another section of his hideout. It was one room, adequately sized to hold all his weapons on all three walls. Except one.

Metatron strode towards the centre of the room, where a single sword protruded from the ground. Its blade was buried in stone, the hilt facing towards the sky. Unlike the rest of the weaponry in this room, the sword seemed very traditional: its blade was an ordinary silver colour, as was the hilt, the symbol of the Trinity etched into the flat of the blade. The handle was wrapped in ancient leather for the comfort of hands long since replaced. It was this handle that Metatron clasped with both hands now. He wrenched the sword from its resting place, swirling it around until the blade faced the sky. As it moved, it cut through the air, humming as it did so.

"With this blade, I took one. Now, I take the other."