The Gathering Fan Fiction

The Gathering is a piece of fan fiction that I wrote back in 1999. It was intended as a personal gift to two very dear friends of mine. I thought that writing something custom made for them, as a gift, would be the best gift I could ever give them. The idea was that we could share the story and allow it to expand our Role Playing experience with these treasured characters of ours. Not to mention that it is unique to only us three. However, the years have passed and I feel that I can now share this work with everyone.

I add that this is a piece of fan fiction, based wholly in the Role Playing World of Rifts, created by Kevin Siembieda of Palladium Books. In as much, Palladium Books is a Trade Mark and Copy Right of Kevin Siembieda - © 2004 Kevin Siembieda; © 2004 Palladium Books®, All rights reserved worldwide. And therefore such names and terms used herein are taken from the Copy Righted material of Palladium Books, to the exception of character names.

WARNING

This story contains Adult Content, Themes and Language. Reader's discretion is advised. This story isn't intended for all audiences and I caution you if you choose to read any further.

One

The electric blue cast of the energy line's presence shelters the still waters under its mien. Inexplicable, ominous veins of crackling and unstable energy drown the earth under their shadow of unforgiving cruelty – this is the cost of defacement and battery of a once great world. Few humans can harness and manipulate the power as they draw upon them for a different level of sustenance. However, the new denizens of this planet thrive upon the energy’s existence and feed gluttonously upon its infinite wealth. They are the new lords of this dimension, preying upon the weak natives of these plains, nothing more than the value of worms. These humans, these parasites, have spoiled the ruins of this universe and time has proven them unfit to maintain the rule of this planet. Demons have risen to take their place on the podium, and with it, have taken every opportunity to reassure the humans of their lost domination, as they step on man like the worms they are.

The floating monolith suddenly shatters the serenity of the black expanse of the bleak, cold waters of the South Atlantic. The vessel, a floating monstrosity originally designed as a slave ship from the Splugorth Slavers of Atlantis, has now been christened the Empress of the Dark. This was a captured unit from a rogue bunch of pirates who were able to overpower the many stations, those supernatural lords of the long lost island. They retrofitted it as a floating emporium with massive markets, galleries and a stadium for arena combat. This has become a nomadic, exclusive club for the Supernatural and Evil, as they feast upon the blood and carrion of the many species of slaves. The Splugorthian High Powers still desire its return, however several of them visit and stay for extended trips where the entertainment is plenty and the indulgences are limitless. They have armored the vessel with extensive alien weapons and cloaking systems, along with a highly trained and focused crew, designed to retain and abate both wanted and unwelcome guests, and maintain perpetual diligence. Nevertheless, the odd straggling does make its way threw the links of its indomitable armor. Yet, not always worth the effort of pursuit, for the denizens can sense weakness and thrive upon it, like a drug, addictive and sweet. Their lust tears the virtue and flesh of anyone, unknowingly wanting to infiltrate the fortress, assuming it trivial or insignificant. Simply to overlook this would be a deadly presumption, for the unprepared who underestimate the significance and a deadly mistake for all those who assume that the intruder is insignificant.

Two

The blood pool trails into a dank room at the back of the building. It looks as though they dragged the body across the concrete floor, still struggling as it died. She follows, curious and horrified from the current order of the building. Bodies litter the many vaulted rooms of the warehouse-sized edifice. The killer kept this one for a reason. Kicking and screaming, she could sense it, a butcher, dragging its feed to seclusion. Days must have passed with the carnage undiscovered; a blessing and curse, for the bodies had begun to fill the empty spaces with the sweet smell of decay and excrement. The blessing: know one had tampered with or corrupted the place. She was able to reach a far easier conclusion to what had happened by the evidence. Not having to overcome the images of the many impurities brought on by the invasion of human hands, notably the incompetence of the Coalition, made her inquest easier.

The last victim made a final effort to free itself, as his tormentor forced him through the open door of the small room. The scarred walls denote the brutality of the struggle from where the fingers dug in and the nails scraped. Blood and flesh linger on the surface, indicating the strength remaining within the body as it bled from its ossiferous wound. The room is a small office, furnished with many pre Rifts' artifacts and artwork. The office has no windows and relies on electrical power for illumination. Her eyes quickly adjust as she focuses and draws upon the necessary energy to evoke the passive state of mind that gives her night vision. Seconds pass, and she quickly meets the last victim as it lay, sprawled out upon the surface of the desk. They placed the body into a sacrificial position -- the legs and arms forming a perfect crucifixion. The blood had completely drained from a wound, the width of the body’s right side abdomen. It seemed the ritual required the removal of the eyes by a very sharp object. Yet the balls do not seem to be in the room, perhaps devoured by the priest to complete the invocation. The empty eye sockets, now, simply staring blankly into the ethereal heavens. Its soul dwelling within the halls of eternal damnation.

“What do you see, Carter?” The CO’s voice spoke from the security of his Command Vehicle, some two miles away.

“To the untrained eye, I'd say a mass murder-suicide. However, the back room has a single victim whose eyes were plucked out and body positioned in a sacrificial manner. I’d say, a religious slaughter by a sick deviant seeking to please a higher power.”

“But what do you see?” He repeats his question, wanting a far more detailed report than the sarcastic one she originally proposed.

She returns to the main entrance and looks upon the twenty some corpses waiting for the clean up crews. “It isn't Nxla's work, something different yet similar. I see children, young -- about teens to thirteen’s. The children stood outside the perimeter. The Priest entered the room and centered upon his intended target and closed in without opposition. The rest is a haze.” She states, as she completes her way through the front doors.

“That was more like it. What else?”

“Nothing, other than that he, it, isn’t human yet not demon.”

Pause. “Necrophim?”

“Like I said, this isn’t Nxla.”

“We’ll be the judges of that Carter, time to return to the CV.” His voice, cold and demanding. While he finishes, the gantry hatch resonates with the sudden clap of knocking. Every occupant jolts at the assault and positions themselves at their posts, assuming an ambush. The gantry door then opens and Carter enters, chuckling from her prank. The men fall at ease as she finds her seat and looks each in their eyes, as though to assure them of her intent. She did so, simply to put the fear of god into every single one of them, yet with humor.

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Three

He shed no love for the fallen. The weak deserved to die, in his eyes. However, he had shared so much more with her than a simple bond in partnership, although he was the key instrument in bringing down her mother and her mother's evil empire. She looked beyond that, and saw the infinite opportunities he offered by simply being. The art to evil is the ability to manipulate others with them wanting it. She played him like a concert pianist. However, he never did anything he never wanted to do.

It was an ambush. They sought her out specifically. Yet, who were they? He questions as he gently places her broken body to the bloody floor. The room had been demolished by the assault and every partisan of the club 'Lucky Girl' litters the floor with the various pieces of their remains. The gore level is high. As though the attacker’s design was to leave a message written in blood. All though, the joke will be on them. For it will be their blood he will spill in the end, and nothing on this planet will stop him in his quest. This was not vengeance, but passion. For he loved the hunt, and the kill. And the feast of their broken bodies as they lay dying under his teeth. He is the night. The champion to everything he deemed cattle.

There are colliding scents, too many for him to individuate, making this a task that requires time -- time better to serve them for escape. Yet there was no hope for them he convinces himself, as he finds a spot in the room and begins to filter the smells in hope to identify at least one in the bunch.

He remains perched -- silent among the many pieces of broken flesh. Suddenly a thought crosses him, where he felt he overlooked something. However, forensics was not his forte nor a talent used in many centuries. Yet, the memory will come for he had watched Daniel perform the rites so often. He once told him that the dead told a story of their own. The living could speak, write or sign their struggles, which were obvious with only a minimal amount of observation. However, for the dead, it requires skill and patience to read. Daniel taught him everything one needed to know about reading the dead. Yet, Daniel said much and very quickly. Of which, little he truly understood, or took the required time to listen. That was so long ago and a time too alien to concern himself with right now.

Fact was, the dead struggled before their murders and often they would fight back. No matter how futile the effort was, they, and Jade would struggle. Pieces of flesh, samples of blood or strands of hair would often fall from both victim and killer in the struggle. These, often found on or around the victim’s body. Though, it required special instruments to locate such items, he possesses far greater skills then the petty beings' who have inherited the crumbled pieces of a once glorious world he has made home. After much sifting and prodding, he comes across pieces of evidence that could possibly lead to a better understanding of what had actually happened in this place. As he stood up, somehow making his way to her side, he notices the gash left in one of the building’s supporting pillars. The cause of the wound was a lethal blow from a sword held by someone with supernatural strength and a weapon that could withstand such crushing devastation. He slowly moves toward the gash and examines it closer, only to find nothing but a clean cut. Suddenly, a glimmer, a quick flash caught by the edge of his eye as a small star sparkles at his feet. A small stone rests drowned within a pool of blood, reflecting the light from its many surfaces — a rare gem found typically in exotic weapons and armors or jewelry. He was no expert in stones. However, this was expertly crafted, even to the untrained eye. The gem is small and contains little Potential Energy to speak of, in his estimation. Again, he has no gift to tell otherwise. So many strengths, yet so many weaknesses that disappoint him and it is that which he loves about this planet. There is always something new to pique his interest. One thing he is able to identify is the fact that the killers are not ordinary, run of the mill humans. They are enhanced, to say the least. He silently shook his head in penance as he walks out of the building. There was nothing more to serve as good reason to stay here any longer. She had died along with the memories.