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Brother Vincent sent his coded message. The Order would be pleased although he himself was a little confused. A corrupt Church official was one thing, yet that did not usually generate such overkill. Then there was the Church’s implicit message...there was none. It did not make sense. His fingers caressed his cheek, lips moving in silent prayer. He would do his duty, of that there was no doubt.

The speed of reply was surprising, as was the decoded assignment. Vincent turned to his men.

“Brothers,” he said, “Our Lord comes, and he brings the Hammer Of Faith with him. We must prepare for his arrival.”

Six shrouded figures grunted their acceptance, removing already packed weapons from their travelling cases. They would not question an order from on high, rather relish the opportunity for further cleansing of this unsaintly planet.

*
“There is something wrong,” said Juan, as he decoded the intercepted message.

“In what way?” asked Isabella, unsure of what he meant.

“There are operatives from The Order here already, yet they have made no effort to contact me.”

“Full of ourselves, aren’t we?” she chided him.

“No,” he replied, “there are unbreakable rules. That though is not the worst,” his fingers flicked over the virtual keyboard, highlighting part of the message.

“...Hammer Of Faith, what’s that?” she asked.
“The Order’s main Attack Cruiser,” he said, “it has also been called The WorldEater, The Cleansing Fire...now do you understand?”

“No...” replied Isabella, an edge of fear to her voice.

“The Order are coming to purify this world...” he spoke slowly, “...and they know you are here, because I told them.”

*

The small bathroom allowed for single use only. It was one of the few places where El Angel bared the soul of the man that was Juan Escola. Leaving the powerful jets of the shower unit, he felt clean, even if it was only for a moment.

As he dried himself, he caught his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror; his lean and well-muscled body was a work of art in itself. Swathes of olive skin peeked from amid riotous colour; tattoos covered Juan from his ankles to his wrists in an almost unbroken tapestry. The only clear areas were on his neck and curling around his ribs, where the inked pinions of his darkened wings rested.

Those black and forbidding designs were the first to touch his body; a poor joke or a dare, it was all so fuzzy. He remembered the tattooist, a large-nosed and ferocious individual with metal piercings hanging from bulbous lips. His neck and face carried small and stylised angelic figures whose inkwork lacked colour but sang with detail. There was no pain, which at the time had been strange, although the priest by his side droned on in a monotone which came close. Six of his fellows stood by, The Order made a big thing of teamwork, yet none of them had seemed drunk nor taken their own turns beneath the tattoist’s needle.

After that, he had used his body as a shrine for his belief. Much as had the temple beneath the statue become a statement of faith and purpose, so too did Juan’s body. Colourful scenes, creatures and symbols were added immediately after successful missions. Perhaps, in their own way, they were a form of penance for those sins he too readily committed in The Church’s name.

With a grim smile he covered the brilliant artwork with his more drab clothes. He now knew the reality of the Church’s political purpose, as well as the religious one he himself followed. Yet he could not deny that he was El Angel, whose dark and shadowy wings brushed this world with death. They had made him that way, inking a terrible purpose onto his very skin. No, they could not complain if he was true to his nature, irrespective of the consequences.