2084

2084. Many years have passed since the First Mobilization of the Protectorate Legion down on Earth. Blackshot could still remember it as if it was just yesterday. Time flies so fast that he was starting to believe the Angels that chronology is simply just a "liquidous" illusion, so fluid and so soft, yet thick and smooth at the same time.
   He derailed his train of thoughts as he walked across the irradiated desert of the Divided States of America. He was old, he realized, yet his appearance took the form of a young adult in his early twenties. Blackshot couldn't remember anything about his life as a Human anymore, but his career as Protektovare Legionnaire was imprinted in his mind, seared like a hot seal.
   Every minute of it, every torture and every sufferings.
   Yet, none had registered in his mind as something that could be easily understood. Most of them felt like random nightmares that visited him.
   Every combat, every death, every life be it God, Human, Demon or Monster slain. He realized that when Christ arrived, he has a lot of things to be accounted for. If one would measure the blood of those he had spilt, it would have been the size of a waist-deep ocean.
   But of course, he wouldn't be. God ordered them to do this, right?
   For the benefit of Humanity, they suffered psychologically.

Yet, he enjoyed every single of it. Nightmare induced by ecstasy.

Paladin-Confessor Protectorate Blackshot wandered across South Carolina. It has been years since he had last seen this city without every inch of sand covering its streets. It was a haven before, all long ago before the Demons and The Blast.
   What stood before him is nothing but a city in ruins, buried half deep in radiated sand.
   Covered in tattered poncho, Blackshot entered the city. Structures relying on columns of foundations with exposed rebar stood tall on either side of him, reminiscent of their old glory. His eyes were occasionally catching glimpse of non corporeal figures watching from one of the floors but of course, he dismissed it as either harmless Ghosts or hallucinations.
   If it was the latter, he wouldn't have to worry. But if it was the former, they better well knew to stay away from him.
   In traditional sense, he was literally a hundred years old than any of the living Humans out here in the desert.
   But if his brothers were on the surface of this planet, that would be another topic.
   "Tier-6, reporting in." Blackshot spoke as he pressed his earpiece with armored fingers. "I've arrived at Sector 097-A designated, Black Pike."
   "Affirmative," A voice spoke behind the line, covered in static. "Found anything yet?"
   "Not yet, just checking in."
   "Affirmative. Carry on."
   Blackshot walked. Dust filled wind blew across the open air, forcing him to squint. Blackshot's lungs can filter out the sand and its radioactive effects so he doesn't have to worry.

The bright hot sun burns in the blue sky above him. Blackshot scanned his surroundings, fascinated by the architectural devastation around him. One would see a hexagonal structure with one side of it reduced to rubbles. The atrium in the middle of it was filled with skeletal remains of wandering animals. On the other side, he would see a tall skyscraper with a slanted roof, glass pane windows shattered long ago. Their fragments were collected on the bottom of the tall structure.
   The streets, as usual, were filled with a mixture of radiated dust and concrete.
   Blackshot stood on the top of a mound formed from the debris of the ruined structures. His left hand automatically holding the stop sign for support.
   Placing a knee down, he scanned his environment once more.

Below him was a huge crater 6 feet deep. Discarded metal scraps shed from some vehicle can be seen in the middle. Far ahead were charred black buildings and flipped vehicles. The streets remained covered in sand.
   Although one may not first see it if his eyes were unaided either by the supernatural or by advanced technology, Blackshot could see far ahead an enemy he and his brothers hasn't encountered before. He watched them with fascination.
   "Mutants, brothers." Blackshot reported as he spotted a cluster of five humanoid beings with the features of a Megalodon, although their bodies remained similar to that of a muscle bound Human. Muscular and burly, the Mutants grinned, showing sharp teeth while they held a young lady by her wrist.
   "One of them has a Human in captivity." Blackshot added.
   "Remember your purpose, brother. If she has nothing to do with the Settlement, do not engage."
   "I disagree." Blackshot replied.
   "You know the grounds of punishment if you disobeyed."
   "None of it mattered anymore, Hijack." Blackshot replied. "Orders led to this chaos."
   "Whatever you do, don't do something stupid." The voice said with a raised tone.
   Blackshot watched as the former Humans dragged the lady down to the ground. Upon observation, Blackshot could see a mark tattooed on the back of her hand.
   "I saw the insignia of the Order of Saint Michael on her hand."
   "How are you certain?"
   Tapping his left temple twice, the speaker of finally said,
   "You may execute any action that you see fit."
   "Requesting permission to engage."
   "You have the green light."
   "Affirmative." Blackshot says as he pulled a fist over his face. His retractable headgear suddenly covered his head and face. Its Heads Up Display link whined before flashing in green, then to blue, displaying a welcome message to him.

Jumping down to the crater, dust rose around him. Blackshot pulled the Blast Rifle magnetically locked onto his back and climbed up the crater with a sprint. He ran across the sand covered pavement, hot wind blew around him. He sprinted past stripped vehicles, large chunks of debris, and flocks of three-headed black birds with yellow eyes and towards the Mutants in front.
   "A motherfucker!" One of the sharks yelled, its throat let out a hoarse growl before raising its modified Desert Eagle and fired thrice at the advancing Angel of Death.
   Three shots pinged off Blackshot's Praetorian-Class Battle Gear. The Protectorate raised his Blast Rifle and fired back. Streams of plasma slamming against the chest of the Mutant, scorching it. One final shot had reached the Mutant's face, sending it flying backwards.
   Time seemed to slow down as combat adrenaline flowed in his veins. Blackshot rolled across the pavement as a bullet almost hit him, missing him by mere inches. He whirled at the direction of his assailant and fired multiple times, putting devastating cauterized wounds upon every inch of its skin.
   He was a great shooter when he utilized his left hand, but in arcane combat, he was devastating when he used his right hand.
   Raising his right, he launched a stream of lightning that struck the third Mutant in the chest. Its nervous system flared up as Enochian magic fried it. The shock had incapacitated the target.
   "You assholes just doesn't seemed to learn!" The fourth Mutant yelled. "We own the deserts! Your kind is the reason why everything had turned into this!"
   Blackshot took cover behind a vehicle. Bullets pinged off against his cover. He took a peek and fired back. Plasmas scorched his target in an instant. Blackshot isn't satisfied with the damage he was inflicting so he set Blast Rifle to its higher setting and, using his will alone, lifted the abandoned vehicle that the fifth Mutant was hiding on.
   "Say goodbye to the cruel world that doesn't need you anyway." Blackshot said, his voice was mechanically altered by the headgear before firing at the center mass of the Mutant.
   Executing another brutal move, he smashed the remains of the Mutant with the vehicle he was telepathically holding.

The fight had ended. In Blackshot's eyes, it lasted for a full five minutes.
   But of course, to the mundane audience behind him, he knew it was the contrary as Protectorates were genetically engineered to be faster than the Humans can comprehend.
   To the girl's eyes, it lasted for about fifty five seconds.
   It also explains why these Mutants had never reacted the way they should have. Only one had taken cover, three bullets were the only rounds that had actually hit him.
   The rest literally missed.
   "Are you alright?" Blackshot asked as he turned to lady. "Stand up when you are being addressed by an Enochian Guard." By the mention of the Protectorate's Regiment, she stood up and knelt.
   "Stand, you are not authorized to kneel." Blackshot muttered as he raised his Blast Rifle.
   "Forgive me," She said. Blood were flowing from her orifices. Blackshot recognized the chestplate she was wearing.
   "You're a Remnant Soldier, I see. What happened to your team?"
   "We were on a scout mission, sent by a Cardinal for some errands. We were to retrieve an important piece of reliquary artifact and a supply crate from the Cathedral of Saint John when these things ambushed us."
   "Wait," Blackshot paused. "What Order do you belong? I see you have a tattoo of Michael's Order, but that custom is only done by the Order of Saint John the Evangelist."
   "Both, well me." She replied. "I was a Carmelite Nun who were absorbed into the Order of Saint John but the contingent of John's Order were wiped out by Demon Legionnaires."
   "What Legion?" Blackshot asked.
   "I didn't know but they had a sack sewn over their head and they carry huge axes."
   "Unjustice Executioners...yes. So you were inducted to the order of The Archangel?"
   "Yes." She replied.
   "If that is so, I assume you know me. I mean the others must have educated you about the Order's background?" Blackshot asked. Every member of the Order of Saint Michael knew that the Protectorates, the Solomon's Blade Battleforce in particular, had played a prominent role in the formation of their Order.
   "Yes, Former Grand Master Blackshot." She replied.
   "I assume you came from Settlement CASTLEHORSE?"
   She paused before replying, "Yes, and the Archbishop of the Broken Falls was anticipating your arrival."
   He grinned. He knew the former Reverend-Commander in the past. He had fought with him side by side before.
   "Wonderful. Lead me to him."