Title: Tyrants' Road: Kingdom Hereticus
Featuring: Violence Jack
Date: 12/22/2010
Location: Wyatt Manor

THE BLACK TESTAMENT


The Black Testament is an occult grimoire reputed to have been pieced together over a long period by Bruce Shanahan, leading occultist and founder of the Sect of Black Wisdom cult based in the northeast region of the United States. As of mid-December 2010 the volume is yet to be released, but will be done so independently by Shanahan and his organization on a limited basis. Copies will reportedly be restricted to less than fifty and knowingly distributed to only those who maintain contact with the reclusive Sect of Black Wisdom.

Specific content is largely only speculation as of now. The book will feature a host of writings from Shanahan himself, who acted as the primary editor, and a variety of prophecies, dark histories and philosophical musings from obscurely-recognized occult writers worldwide, both living and deceased. It will be presented in a style mirroring the scriptures of traditional holy books, specifically the Holy Bible of Judaism/Christianity and the Quran of Islamic faith, essentially appearing to non-believers of its text as a heretical parody of such works. Shanahan has recently claimed that The Black Testament will "usher in an era of dark truths that exposes the fallacies and lies of its ancient predecessors, thereby replacing the hollow rhetoric of the previous Old and New Biblical Testaments. This shall become the new divine manual, and the unmatched text for those walking in the shadow of immortals."

Several selections have been leaked to the public and can be found across the internet in a 'viral marketing' fashion to spread knowledge of its existence. The reason for the campaign given the volume's limited pressing has become a topic of controversy and further speculation. These include excerpts from various writings and 'gospels' of particularly loathsome occult minds, as well as scattered musings from the Requiems and the Dirges, which appear to be collections derived from multiple writers and run parallel in nature to the Biblical 'Wisdom books' (Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, etc.) as opposed to claims of history.


--Excerpted from Wikipedia; entry inexplicably removed within past 72 hours



* * * *



Date: December 21st, 2010
Time: Dusk
Location: Wyatt Manor, upstate Vermont



The masks had again been donned for the disciples of the Sect of Black Wisdom. With Wyatt Manor rebuilt and fortified with the strength of a king's keep, the organization again chimed with fervor and ambition. Long had it been since morale was so high, the faithful's membership so strong and daunting. They were wild, jubilant, and ready to renew their infernal campaign.

Shanahan did not share their feeling of triumph. Not yet. Proud though he might be, a great obstacle still loomed ahead before they could reengage mankind in their psychological and spiritual wars.

"Silence!"

His voice boomed across the chapel, dictating quiet. He had it, and their full attention, nigh instantly. They knew better than to defy him; the populaion of the mansion graveyard testified to such, coming to house so many of the noncompliant over time. The man known wide as Violence Jack leaned forward on the pulpit, clearing his throat.

"This order is young as pertains to the passage of time. But in our existence we have done what all thought unthinkable, unachievable. For it was earlier this very year when we had the world on its knees, a proverbial sword to the throat of it's very essence and core. We were moments away, mere fleeting seconds, from executing the bastard creation of the False Ones, and forging a new society amidst its spilled blood."

Assent from the members, punctuated by crazed whoops of joy at the memory of the Sect at its most powerful. The days when natural law reeled and the Earth heaved in its death throes.

"But humanity's ultimate fate was averted. She came, a present-day Joan of Arc wielding the sword of Heaven, champion of the False Ones. She was victorious, and on that day we fell."

He grit his teeth, feeling the storm raging in his heart. He didn't even want to voice the name. "Desade, unknowing whore of their false king, emerged a demonslayer. Unknown to all but a few for the heroic feat achieved that day."

His fist crashed onto the pulpit, trembling as a flood of hateful memories accosted his thoughts. Vivid in his head were the dramatic near-falls of the bout, the crowd with its fury and passion, the dualing chants as they poured their hearts into Desade and Garbage Bag Johnny vanquishing he, the devil after their hearts. For a passing moment he'd felt the rush of victory as he'd dashed the latter to the mat with his coup de grace Anthem, waiting with baited breath for the third count as he'd made the cover. Ultimate victory slipped through his fingers as that bitch had sailed in for the save, ending his dream minutes later.

"Revenge," he hissed. Appropriately, his tongue flickered between his teeth like a snake's for a second as he mulled over his next words. "That is what we're after. Though it would be a mortal sin to overlook Nitz Donnelly, one cannot deny the consequences of what would occur if redemption could be found later that night at King of Kings. If the whore's perceived superiority were to be thwarted, and this time she would be upended by we, the apostles of the Old Ones, what could that mean for our ambitions? How much of our strength could be restored in our retribution?"

He paused and let his words fall over the fellowship. He could feel it all, their emotions rising and falling, washing him like the tide of the sea. Their souls were tumultuous yet hopeful, warriors swayed to march again on a once-dead crusade. Faintly smiling for the first time, his fingers brushed over the elaborately decorated, leatherbound tome set before him.

"I present to you the new gospel. In time men will clambor for what lies within its pages, and they shall destroy and corrupt one another in their race for its truths. Just as we showed the world the power of our faith many months ago, soon shall our faces again grace their television screens, their newspaper pages, and their most prominent digital dominions."

He held it aloft and basked in the wild adulation of the congregation. To date it was his preeminent work, an accumulation he'd searched far and wide to gather, halting in his lengthy quest only to battle in GTT7 and attain what he then felt was his destiny.

"This work shall one day replace all existing works of professed divinity and destiny. No more will the Old Ones' works be defiled and condemned to obscurity. With the release of this, the Black Testament, and the destruction of Donnelly, Desade, and Sentinel, the world will know its true kings. And it shall be a kingdom reigned over by fear and tyranny. My friends..."

He lifted his arms, exuberant. They hung on his every word, puppets dancing to a frenzied tune of madness.

"...Mortality may be fleeting, but the Old Ones truly are forever."

A familiar figure danced among the revelers, moving in rhythm with the celebrants to avoid suspicion. Like the others, he was masked, but unlike them, this wasn't his party wherein to be jovial. At least not yet.

He spun his head, making the briefest of eye contact with others in similarly designed veils. An exchange of gestures and they prepared to make their move.

Then an explosion of gunfire, and the door to the chamber splintered. Darting between exasperated Sect cultists, he and his comrades disappeared into the surging crowd.



* * * *



"And lo appeared He, the Crawling Chaos, His face a pallid mask, his form cloaked by a living blackness as dark as the deepest void. Men quaked with terror at His presence and the angels of Heaven retreated from the summit, for even the vain armies of the False Ones knew better than to war directly with Him, the messenger and harbinger of the Outer Gods. But even that offered not refuge, for His peals of laughter shattered the heavens and sundered the stars. The False Ones shuddered as their servants were broken, for even in their limited wisdom they knew that their thrones would assuredly fall as well before They, the Old Ones, the Ancients of unhallowed Eons."

---Gospel of Marin The Acolyte 6: 12-20; 'leaked' passage from The Black Testament



* * * *


They were soldiers, black ops men garbed in camouflage. The way some fumbled with their weapons, it became quickly obvious to Shanahan that these men were a far cry from the now-deceased Marcus Stryker in their combat prowess.

Regardless, with so many roaring masked men charging their positions, it was difficult for even a novice not to cut them down. Shanahan was impassive as he watched the interlopers send a hail of bullets into his throng of followers, slaughtering them and gashing the decor of the cult's sanctuary with stray fire. They died in a wash of blood, soaking the floor. Several hoisted their weapons level with the motionless mastermind, intent on righteous murder.

"Hold your fire!"

The intruders line parted to allow one of their own to take the lead, stepping up to face the malefic cultist. It was in that moment of silence, the first since they'd stormed in, that Shanahan noticed a peculiar attribute of their uniforms. Among the standard camo pattern were emblazoned crosses, and other holy symbols of the Christian faith. Similar indicators were fashioned on their weapons, along with engraved passage quotations.

"Of course," Bruce said, spitting in disgust at the sight. "Blackhelm. The guns of the Vatican, dogmatic lapdogs of the Rome elite."

The lead man looked around at his team. They were many, far more than the mastermind was used to with the elite teams that he usually dealt with. "Lieutenant Savage of the Tragic Sons. Bruce Shanahan, we, as agents of the Blackhelm Coalition, hereby order you..."

"Hush, boy," he interjected. He was snide in his address of the soldier. "I know why you've come. And it's not to kill me."

"And whatever makes you think that? Given your crimes against humanity, nature and Heaven..."

"I don't believe in Heaven, mongrel."

Savage broke from his snarling demeanor to actually smile, lowering his weapon to his side. "Ah right, I forgot that you take pride in your damnation. Either way, let's call a spade a spade. You're right."

"Smart boy. I'm sure they feed you plenty of nice treats back at the kennel, pup."

Cultists began to rise, glaring hatefully at the men around them. Even through their blood-splattered masks it was easy to discern their resentment, their violence. One of the Sons bega to intone a litany, compelling the minions of Hell to return to the dark realm from whence they were spawned. Shanahan had to focus to block out the absurd speech.

"So, lieutenant, you came for the book. You want the Black Testament."

His reply came as a curt nod. Savage wasn't one for small talk. "Yes."

"No. I'll see myself dead before the Church ever gets its wretched hands on it."

Savage expected as much. "We're the arm of God's justice. I obey his laws, not those of men. If you won't hand it over, we'll take it by force. If that happens, you won't walk out of here. Not as easy as it was to waltz in here and muzzle your guard dogs."

"My guard dogs? HAHAHA!! Of course it was easy, vermin." He grinned, a hellish smile if ever one crossed the lips of a mortal being. "Did you really think I'd be caught flat-footed so easily, lieutenant? Or that you'd actually seen my guard dogs?"

Others appeared, materializing almost out of smoke as they had in the desert, donned in dark fatigues and faces concealed. The tables turned as Shanahan's ever-present elite guard slashed into the Blackhelm mercenaries, and the Crying Seraph butchered the unprepared rear ranks of the Tragic Sons.



* * * *



"The Leering One reared His third head, upon which a crown of obsidian rested, and a forked white tongue flickered from between its teeth. Pipes sounded in the distance, an infernal cacophony threatening to break my sanity. He offered his hushed revelations. His servitors danced and worshipped Him as he spoke the prophecy. 'And thus shall come the children of despair, and of tragedy, and they will burn the Earth beneath their feet in a path of misguided vengeance. Zealots will they be, chanting the name of the False Ones, slaying for Them and incinerating the true believers. But their hour of victory will be brief, and soon it shall become their darkest. Upon the swords of our champions they will break, for their foolishness, for their impudence. All who hail the False Ones will break thus upon our spears, our swords, our strength."

---The Book of Khadif The Cruel 3: 13-19; 'leaked' passage from The Black Testament



* * * *



Date: December 20th, 2010
Time: 5:43 PM
Location: Undisclosed



Bennett chewed his cigar as he read the landscape charts on the map. "Who are they sending in first?"

Colonel Fleming glanced at the rest of Ramsay's team. "The Tragic Sons."

"Jesus fucking..." Willis cringed at the mention of the name, pausing mid-sentence as the other members of Alpha Strike let out a collective sigh. Their new commander was admittedly clueless. Exhaling a ring of smoke, he tapped ash from the stogie into a glass tray.

"Annnnnd I assume we don't like these guys?"

"They're self-righteous pricks," Vanessa replied, a not-so-subtle hint of venom imparted on her words. "We've always been a tight-knit unit, commander, small and versatile. Nothing pretentious, no holier than thou attitudes, no bullshit baggage in our pasts that would assfuck a mission. Just soldiers with orders." She shook her head, not so much in disgust but not without a trace of discord. "That's not the Sons. None of it."

The desk beside Fleming was cluttered with paperclipped manilla folders and clasped brown files. He took the closest one and casually flicked it to Bennett, smiling as the War-Hound snatched it and thumbed it open to the front set of profiles. "The Tragic Sons are far more numerous than most Blackhelm operation teams," he began, reciting a general summary from memory. "Unlike Alpha, they recruit actively and heavily, and they're not all standard military background. Some have only the barest hint of combat training when they join the outfit. Sometimes the most meager qualifications outside of a firing range . But they all share one trait that most endears them to the Vatican and its ilk."

"Yeah," muttered Grange over the rapid-fire clicking of the communications array he rested his elbow on. "They're all a bunch of Bible-toting crusaders hell-bent on rooting out the Devil."

Fleming nodded assent. "Precisely. The Sons' essential ideal is that it's a place for the spiritually broken to seek redemption in the eyes of God. Sons of tragedy and tribulation. They all have rocky pasts, captain, down to the man. Some simply come from broken homes, fighting an ongoing struggle with anger and forgiveness. Others are alcoholics and addicts seeking atonement for their sins, fighting those they feel embody the demons that corrupted them. Others are a mixed bag. Ex-cons who turned to Christ in prison, men who killed those they love in terrible accidents, down-and-outs with nothing to offer this world and only their lives to give to the one beyond."

Bennett snarled. "The powers-that-be decided that a forward assault on Wyatt Manor should be spearheaded by a self-help group with automatic weapons? Is this some sort of a fucking joke?" In special ops, such a move would be unthinkable. Even after looking over so many reports, he still couldn't help comparing Blackhelm protocol to that of his officially active service. "Attacking the well-defended compound of a madman and his followers hardly makes for conducive group fuckin' therapy."

Fleming shrugged, unable to suppress a smug grin. It was obvious that for all of his outward neutrality the man at least partially shared in Bennett's thinking.

"It's been anticipated that they'll need help. We're hoping their presence will have a more shock-and-awe effect sheerly based on their numbers and their boldness for attacking the Sect's home compound. But given the nature and erratic thinking patterns of our enemy, we can't be sure. Nevertheless, the Sons' top command structure is pretty normal in comparison to the zealots they command. No excess baggage or what could be considered instability. Keenan Savage is their commander, an ex-Marines major with a respectable operations history. He's pretty gung-ho, like most of them are, but not a headcase in the way so many of his team are. Ditto for Frost and Miles, his lieutenants. Veterans, the lot of them."

"Team?" Slade laughed. "They're a delusional armed mob wielding the New Testament for armor."

"Nonetheless, when you go in and make contact, it's obviously best to find one of those three. It's a roll of the dice how the others would react if the situation is messy." Fleming flashed a smile. "But, as I think you've been informed, Captain Bennett, there are few restraints here at Blackhelm. We don't deal in PR. We don't 'actually' exist to even have such a department." Ramsay allowed himself a satified chuckle at the emphasis on the word. "Get the job done. Any means necessary."

"Rock-and-fucking-roll!" Gripping his shotgun, Webb's enthusiasm was as haunting as ever. Leaving the briefing, it wasn't the first time that Grange wondered if the kid belonged more now with the Tragic Sons than Alpha Strike.

Bennett lagged behind. As he collected his orders and turned to go, Fleming rested a crippled hand on his shoulder. He'd lost half of it in a firefight years ago, in the jungles of eastern Asia, since then keeping it hidden from most.

"This won't be over in one night, captain. I know you're aware of that."

"Of course."

A nod. "Unfortunately, you have comrades who aren't so patient. You've come to know them a little, you've read their files. Alpha isn't without its own flaws. After the last campaign against the Sect of Black Wisdom, darkness has crept into their hearts. Thoughts of vengeance, a lot of suffering and grieving. Marcus was like a brother to them, even a father in a couple cases."

Bennett knew it well. He'd highlighted certain passages of the reports, the more disturbing aspects of their shifts in personality. The team had known pain and changed. "Sergeant Slade carried Marcus' body back to the extraction chopper alone. It took over sixteen hours for anyone to convince him to wash the blood off of his hands."

"Correct. He still blames himself for being too late. He wants Shanahan and Ridley dead more than anything and the man will die to see it happen. I doubt he'd risk you or the others, surely not, but he'll push himself to the breaking point, to the brink of sacrifice."

"And Webb?"

Fleming seemed oddly troubled by the kid. "He was on Death's door. Ethan Knight barely missed his heart, uncharacteristic for Shanahan's most trusted man at the time. We got him out in time and he barely survived the ordeal. Hell, the corporal was clinically dead for about 8 seconds. He won't talk about what happened."

"You think something did?"

The other man nodded again, turning to peruse signals on the many monitors in the room. It was almost as if he didn't want to reflect on the past, or entertain the possibilities it might have brought forth. Ramsay knew the feeling well.

"He said he saw something. He told our psychologist as much. But he wouldn't go into detail. Whatever it was, it unhinged Corporal Webb. Infected him..."

He sighed, fingering a pendant hanging from his neck as the other considered the odd choice of words. He abruptly turned back to Bennett, saluting, as he tried to put the thought out of his mind.

"Godspeed, captain. Bring them all home. It's crucial that we avoid more disaster. Things are happening again with Shanahan's reappearance, terrible things. I'd hate to believe them to be more ill omens."

"It shall be done."

"Dismissed."



* * * *



"We need to move. They're being slaughtered. It's Ridley's men."

"Fucking reckless halfwits." Willis shifted his carbine uneasily, grumbling. He was too used to his sniper rifle. "Savage took his men right into an ambush. Did he really think he could walk into Wyatt Manor without a fight?? Is he that goddamn gullible?!"

There was no time to construct a plan B, no strategy to alter. They moved from their support positions and directly into the maelstrom. They walked onto a killing ground.

A knife flashed. It hurtled toward Shanahan, unprepared as he watched the chaos unfurl. Time seemed to freeze for all who saw the blade leave the masked man's hand, all expecting to see the madman's life end before their very eyes. Bennett's heart jumped into his heart.

It thunked into the wall an inch from his scalp, hilt quivering as Shanahan lurched back. He'd never seen it, never expected it. The thrower cursed, and as he did, his masked companions retreated to a concealed side door, clearing him a path.

The mask fell. Blond hair tumbled to nearly graze his shoulders, his expression wholly flat and stoic, a model poker-face. Landon Webb made eye contact with him and stopped, staggering for a moment as though completely dumbstruck. Something sinister flashed across his eyes before he grabbed for his shotgun, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

The first blast went wide, reducing an ancient stone relic to scorched pebbles. His quarry ducked behind the rampaging cult mob as another shot dropped more of Shanahan's congregation.

Reality blurred, slowed to a crawl as bullets bored through the air around him. Bennett allowed himself only a moment to ponder exactly where the blond-haired youth had come from before diving for cover as the world erupted all around him. He glimpsed Shanahan out of the corner of his eye, even spying the look of surprised astonishment darkening his face at the boy's appearance.

The Brotherhood of the Great Ascension had come, a completely unanticipated variable, and Ethan Knight was at their head. The War-Hound didn't have the time to even wonder how he'd known what would be happening, if he even had, whether fate and luck had just conspired to make his day all the more insufferable.

The pillar would provide suitable cover. The rest of his team had gotten themselves out of harm's way remarkably quickly and already Webb had resumed pumping buckshot into the ranks of Shanahan's mad disciples. It was only another moment before his ears nearly split from the thundering wail of Slade's infamous gun, and the massive sergeant pivoted to set up cover fire for his team as they dragged out the wounded. A steady drizzle of red-hot casings piled up around his boots as the hell of battle unfolded.

A cloaked figure vanished around a corner and down a dark hall. The robes had been spangled, trimmed in elaborate silver. The War-Hound knew he had the scent of Bruce Shanahan and he gave chase.



* * * *



A cunning mind is of the utmost importance to an enemy of the False Ones and their followers. To command strife amongst them is an invaluable tactic, for to sow dissent across their numbers undermines their power, fractures their trust for each other. Without one another they will collapse in the face of the Old Ones when they rise again, and without such support, they will break and flee to their strongholds where they will find little solace. Their beliefs are myriad, their pride and arrogance a fruitful blemish for us as it disrupts their unity. Drive a wedge between them, but one must also exercise diplomacy in dealing with fellow worshippers of the Ancients, for only without division can we break the stranglehold over the world that the Enemy holds."


---2 Dirges 13: 7-12 (exact author unknown); 'leaked' passage from The Black Testament



* * * *



A lone figure was poised at the edge of the property, watching the carnage from the wilted, frosty garden. Even from that distance, Ramsay Bennett caught Shanahan's unholy smirk. He snapped the safety off of his SMG and pulled up, resting the red dot on a tattoo decorating the monster's forehead. He wanted to do it. He thought about the bloodshed inside, the tattered corpses that made up the assault squads for the Sons. He thought about Ridley, and the Seraph, and the Brotherhood's descent from among the rank-and-file. So many variables that had blown this entire operation to shit and killed good men.

One bullet could take down the catalyst to this entire scenario. In the Blackhelm Coalition he hadn't the restraints as he had in special forces.

Except here. Killing Shanahan once and for all was his one restriction, and he hated it. He didn't understand it.

Behind him emanated another deafening volley, rocking the mansion. The behemoth's gun continued to pound at the positions of their foes but surely even Slade was running low on ammunition. The cultists had come around and come to file from balconies, armed to repel the men ruining their celebration, even to assassinate their leader.

Shanahan retreated several steps, observing the other from a distance. This was the man to replace Marcus, the venerable hunter of evil they called the War-Hound. Even in this briefest of skirmishes, he detected a tangible sense of conviction to the man, and a prowess exceedingly rare even in his field. Even Luther had warned of him. That spoke volumes.

They'd meet again soon. He vanished into the vine-infested undergrowth of the manor's rear garden, slipping from sight.



* * * *



"Some are fleeing the premises, others are now reappearing. I've spotted firearms from the Sect. Are we cleared to engage, sir?"

Wade Deacon hunched deeper in the brown foliage, peering through his scope. He zoomed in closely on the smiling cult leader, following the maniac's heated gaze to rest on the War-Hound. For a second he contemplated wiping his ass with orders and taking the shot, extinguishing Bruce Shanahan from the world. But it didn't happen. It couldn't. He'd been warned that the consequences could be dire, even moreso than whatever plans he could hatch in the meantime. He couldn't risk it.

"Negative, Lance. Stand down. Wait for the smoke to clear, then we'll move to aid in extraction. Don't actively engage if possible, spread the word. Rendevous with Savage of the Tragic Sons at the north end, Sergeant Frost and Sergeant Miles are your secondary contacts for their unit." He pulled himself up, peering into the darkness just past the manor. Even the structure's outline was intimidating against the moonlit sky. "Captain Bennett is leading Alpha. He's designated the field commander, do whatever he tells you. We'll have to get out before Shanahan rallies those crazies of his."

"So it's true then?" crackled the voice over the radio again. Lance's voice was painted with a reserved type of reverence. "They replaced Stryker with the War-Hound?"

Deacon decided he could only hope for such a pristine reputation. "Yeah. Big shoes to fill."

Something snapped deeper in the brush. It was still far off, no immediate danger, but he'd heard the tales of these woods and the 'sentinels' that stirred on certain nights.

"And get out of the forest," he instructed. "Until we put that rabid dog down, things won't be right in this part of the world."

"How so, sir?"

"Trust me. Move. Deacon out."

Few men had seen what he was eluding to. Deacon was one of a select few unfortunate enough to behold what stirred and lay in the dark, fortunate enough to survive. But he'd never been the same. Wouldn't be again until Shanahan was dead, and Wyatt Manor put to the torch.

He felt like a child again as he strode forward into the moonlight and out of the pitch-black brush. Fearing the monsters in the dark, shielding himself with light. The difference was that he was grown, and he knew the monsters were real. They shouldn't be, but they were.

"Regroup." It was Bennett, his tone furious. "We're getting the hell outta here. And someone is going to have a lot of explaining to do for this royal fuck-up." A barrage of gunfire marked his sign-off.

Deacon had been on the sidelines during the Shanahan Scare. All the same, after the stories he'd heard from those in the thick of the campaign, he felt a suspicious bit of deja vu creeping into his consciousness. Like he'd experienced it all before.

Of course that was impossible. Completely illogical.
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