The Marionnettes

	“I stood in the path of a great disaster,
	Carrying out the Perpetual Vigilance,
	Over a civilization,
	That rebelled against its Creator.”

*****

Protectorate Aereal was standing in the middle of wreckage, a ruined city that was once prosperous. Throughout the decades, this city was known to be bustling with activities, even in the time of the Riots or the Incursions of the Black Masons and the Insurgency. It used to be a bastion to American patriotism, just after the State of Washington.

Despite the Division of the States, this city remained intact with hundreds and thousands of people from ethnicity uniting to sustain one another. For Protectorates like Aereal, he has lived long enough to see the city’s rise and falls. He was there when the city used to be a haven. He was there when it became an occasional battlefield between various gang factions, and Demons and Angels. He was there when the Remnant Order occupied the city to fortify it against Hell’s Forces and other beings from deep and beyond. He was there when the city managed to repel the First Invasion of Hell.

He was there when Hell launched a second attack and leveled the City of Angels into dust and debris.

California, no, Old California was nothing but a ruined city; an old lady living in the shadow of its former self. Protectorate Aereal, or Renante, read the dilapidated sign welcoming the visitors and tourists of the city of Los Angeles, California.

He kicked it aside and continued walking; his whole face covered in tattered shemagh that he looted from an Insurgent. Walking across the road that leads to the ruined city, he encountered abandoned vehicles and mutated bones that belonged to both Demons and Humans alike. Poor bastards, no one had the right time to give the Humans their proper burial. Most were busy rebuilding the city or gathering every remaining thing they had to evacuate.

The Demons? They can go fuck themselves. Renante thought.

He was nearing the city’s gates, a tall fence guarded by three men in a gasmask and trench coats. Each had rifles hanging on their shoulders. A jeep can be seen to their left, parked neatly. He wondered where they have scavenged that vehicle from.


The men turned to him and quickly raised their rifles as soon as they sensed his presence. Renante remained calm, both hands to the side. It wasn’t going to reach the pistols holstered on his hips any time sooner, unless they work for his enemies.

“Halt!” One of them instructed; his voice slightly muffled.

Renante complied, stopping at his tracks. His glowing eyes darted from left to right, sizing the enemies from sight alone. One of them approached while the two others still had their rifles trained at him.


“Identification?” The man asked.

“Perpetual Vigilance.” Renante replied.  The man nodded, turned to his friends and raised a hand up. The other two lowered their rifles and returned to their posts.

“The Priest had been waiting for you.” The man said as he moved towards the fenced gate. Renante followed him.

“I encountered some idiots along the way. I hope he accept my pardon.”

“Well, taking the world back from evil one maniac at a time. I guess that’d be fine with him.”

“Why did he call me?”

The man opened the fenced gate and approached a radio sitting silently on a crate nearby. He radioed some of his men and in an instant, three more sprouted out of nowhere, replacing him from duty.

“We have a demonic incursion.”

“In a fortified city like this?”

The man looked at him. Renante could not read the man’s emotion because of the gasmask he wore. It looked comical to him and at the same time, worrying.

“The city was reduced into rubble. What do you mean by ‘a fortified city’? It was barely even a settlement, much less a city.”

“My apologies.” Renante replied sarcastically as they continued down the road.

The walk was silent and short, approaching another checkpoint, this time a blockade manned by five men in the same garment. Renante’s companion waved at the men and they waved back in a friendly manner. They walked another few minutes until Renante found himself following the man through a dirty alleyway.

“How many?” Renante asked. The man shot him a quizzical look.

“Excuse me?”

“How many were dead?”

“If you are referring to the previous attack, there were almost four hundred and fifty dead.” They exited the alleyway and moved to a crowded street packed with settlers, evacuees, refugees, enforcers that resembled Renante’s companion, and a few men in a black, blue and grey armor. Remnant Soldiers, Renante thought.

The Protectorate pulled down the shemagh, revealing his battle scarred face. They squeezed their way past the crowd. Renante couldn’t help but feel amazed at the people around him. Despite the fact that the people were covered in dust and ashes from charred buildings, he couldn’t help but feel like in a parade, a parade of sorrows.

They stopped in front of a nondescript building. The man turned to the steps and ascended. He rasped on the blue wooden door in a pattern. Renante instantly memorized it.

“Who’s with you?” A voice from the other side asked.

“Chill, it’s just me. I’m with the Protectorate.”

“Who?”

“Jones.” The man impatiently replied.

“But you ain’t got no password!” The voice behind the door replied.

“Knock it the fuck off, Ryker. We don’t have any special password or any of that hocus focus shit. Now open the door or I’ll kick it open.” Jones said. Renante remained quiet at the exchange even if he wanted to laugh.

The knobs and locks slowly turned open. The door creaked open, revealing a group of men in trench coats but their gasmask and tin helmets were absent from their faces.

Renante followed Jones to a spiral staircase, ascending to the second floor. If the ground floor was occupied by Los Angeles’ enforcers, this floor was occupied by the Remnant Order. The colors, black, blue and grey in their armor indicated that they belonged to the Order of Immaculate Conception, a Marian Order. The Remnant Soldiers nodded at Jones and Renante. Based on their body language, they were tired and exhausted.

They stopped in front of a red door guarded by two Remnant Soldiers; their armors trimmed in gold. Upon seeing the Protectorate, one of the guards opened the door, allowing them access.

“The Archbishop would only want to see you,” the guard said, his voice was mechanical. He glanced at Jones and said, “alone.”

Jones stepped back, saluted, and left. Renante walked inside and saw the Archbishop with his back facing him.

“You called for me?” Renante asked as the door shut behind me.


“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. He weakly raised his hand and beckoned for him to come closer.

The Archbishop was wearing the same armor the guards wore, but the decorations were more grandiose. His suit was blood stained and on his chest was a synthetic bandage attached to clot whatever wound he had underneath without having to remove the armor. Before him was a map, scribbled with red marker pen. He pointed on a city encircled in red.

“This is Settlement Sector-4A. It was overrun with prostitution.”

“In a ruined city like this?”

“Yes.” The Archbishop replied.

“That was odd.”

“It is.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I suspect a demonic activity on that sector. And, based on the field reports that gathered by the Enforcers and our Soldiers, there were demonic activity and presence in there. I need you to investigate it.”

“Consider it done.” He turned and was about to leave when the Archbishop spoke again.


“Should the reports proved to be true, I want to give you my approval to destroy the incursion on that sector.”

“I will end them,” Renante walked away. “You have my word.”