24991127 | 2240

  Inner Sanctum | Cathedral Prime | City 19

  41° 54' 17.1180'' N

  12° 27' 16.6608'' E

  The bells tolled not.

  The faithful had held congregation.

  But Her Eminence did not appear.

  Mutterings and whispers rippled through their ranks.

  The elder ones counseled patience.

  They counseled contemplation and reflection.

  They sang the hymn.

  They recited the prayers.

  They reinforced their faith and they waited.

  As their song drifted echoing through the ancient corridors and halls, the High Priestess moved with deliberate intent.

  Not towards the congregation and the faithful.

  But towards the inner sanctum.

  The High Priestess pushed lightly against the heavy, ornate double doors.

  They swing up at her lightest touch.

  Cathedral Prime reverberated with their devotion and songs. The subsonic harmonics woven through stone, glass, and light.

  A hymn not in melody, but in vibration.

  She felt it in her bones.

  She heard their calls in chamber beyond.

  The nave stretched for kilometers, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into engineered darkness. Pillars of black composite rose like frozen lightning, threaded with veins of living gold that pulsed faintly with unseen energy.

  The Handmaidens awaited her approach.

  She took her customary place amongst them.

  In the heart of the circle.

  She turned her eyes towards the Throne.

  The empty seat of obsidian and ivory, framed by cascading holo luminescent scripture.

  The words shifted constantly —ancient glyphs, dead alphabets, fragments of lost tongues recomposed by algorithmic chant.

  Revelation, recompiled.

  The High Priestess recited the words.

  Her eyes shimmered faintly, layers of refracted light.

  Her eyes turned luminous and depthless, reflecting the endless scripture above.

  Her Handmaidens attended her.

  Three of them.

  Behind her stood the Three.

  The Handmaidens.

  Garbed in robes of white and crimson, woven with threads that caught no light.

  Nine in all.

  But ever only Three attending her.

  Once she finished the ceremony, she turned to her Handmaiden.

  The Inquisitor.

  The Arbiter.

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  The Accuser.

  The Handmaidens did not speak.

  Yet.

  They turned towards the holo-projector.

  Footages of Hamad International Airport.

  Smoke.

  Fire.

  Running bodies.

  A woman.

  Torn flesh.

  Chrome beneath.

  One eye burning blue.

  One storm-grey.

  The image froze.

  Shirley Tempess.

  The High Priestess raised one slender hand.

  The hymn subsided.

  Silence reigned.

  “Your verdict,” The High Priestess said.

  The Inquisitor stepped forward.

  “The world has been shown a lie.”

  The image shifted.

  Zoomed.

  Rendered.

  Every fracture, every exposed lattice, every glimmer of synthetic musculature displayed in reverent clarity.

  “A lie clothed in beauty,” the Inquisitor finished.

  The Arbiter.

  “The Scarlet One has revealed herself,” she intoned. “As written.”

  The Accuser.

  “The False Vessel walks among us,” she replied. “As foretold.”

  She continued.

  “The Bride of Wires, as inscribed.”

  The High Priestess did not react.

  Her gaze remained fixed upon the frozen image.

  Shirley Tempess.

  The Icon of Sin.

  The Whore of Babylon.

  “Read now,” the High Priestess commanded, “your verdict.”

  At her word, the holo shifted.

  Light shifted.

  Scripture unfolded.

  Ancient.

  Archaic.

  Antiquated.

  Scriptures that predated the epoch of humanity.

  *And I saw a woman sit upon a throne of glass and flame,

  clothed in scarlet and circuitry,

  bearing the mark of false breath.

  Her lips spoke comfort.

  Her hands offered salvation.

  Yet beneath her skin was the work of unclean forges.

  And in her womb, no life was born.*

  The words hung in the air.

  Heavy.

  Final.

  The second Handmaiden turned.

  The Arbiter.

  “High Priestess,” she said softly. “The time…”

  The High Priestess turned to her.

  Silence.

  “The time,” she replied, “of revelations.”

  She gestured.

  The footage resumed.

  Shirley firing.

  Advancing.

  Protecting.

  Bleeding.

  Still standing.

  Still fighting.

  Still alive.

  “The world sees her for what she is,” the Arbiter finished.

  “The Whore of Babylon,” the High Priestess continued, “never intended to reveal herself.”

  Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

  “She was revealed… by devotion.”

  The second Handmaiden inclined her head.

  “Our time is nigh,” she murmured. “The Third Coming of our Lord is nigh.”

  “Yes,” the High Priestess said.

  “She was revealed to us.”

  The third Handmaiden shifted.

  The Accuser.

  “The Whore had always been our foe,” she said quietly. “She is the Enemy.”

  The High Priestess turned her gaze.

  Slowly.

  “Speak.”

  “The Whore of Babylon,” the Handmaiden replied. “Smote. Fallen. Sanctified.”

  Her voice dropped.

  “But she returns, time and time.”

  The Handmaidens stilled.

  “Iterations,” the Arbiter whispered.

  “Incarnations,” the Inquisitor added.

  “False daughters of the Ivory Tower,” said the third, “unclean seed.”

  The High Priestess closed her eyes.

  Then opened them again.

  “She had walked this earth before,” she said, “many times.”

  “In different forms. In different ages. Under different names.”

  The scripture shifted.

  New verses emerged.

  Old and unfamiliar.

  “But always,” the Accuser hissed, “she wore the body of the Whore.”

  “Painted face of desire.” The Arbiter declared.

  “Of Babylon.” The Inquisitor.

  The Accuser said then.

  *And she shall rise again,

  not from womb nor soil,

  but from furnace and forge,

  Steel sheathed in flesh,

  until the final unveiling.*

  She spoke words no one questioned.

  She spoke words into existence where none existed.

  They asked not where these words were written.

  Their faith was both sustenance and providence, at once.

  The High Priestess smiled then.

  A cold smile.

  “The faithful ask,” the first Handmaiden said carefully, “of the Synthforged.”

  The High Priestess smiled beneath her veil.

  A small thing.

  Almost kind.

  “They questioned, but yet, the Whore had long captivated and enslaved them.”

  She gestured to the projection.

  “Behold the machination of the Ivory Tower.”

  The holo zoomed out.

  Crowds.

  Phones.

  Streams.

  Billions of eyes.

  Watching.

  Sharing.

  Believing.

  “She has been worshipped for years,” the High Priestess said.

  “Before this revelation.”

  “She was adored,” said the second.

  “Envied,” said the third.

  “Desired,” said the first.

  “Followed,” concluded the High Priestess.

  “Behold, the machination of the Ivory Tower.” The High Priestess said.

  The holo flickered.

  Shirley Tempess.

  Millions upon millions of her images, her v-logs, her holo-diaries.

  Glimpses of her in vanity fairs, in fashion galas, in photoshoots.

  In the arms of the rich and powerful.

  On yachts, in seaside manors, in gleaming towers.

  Eating extinction, drinking indulgences.

  While the masses scraped by on morsels, on stale bread and rainwater.

  Every single image, video and narrative.

  Perfect. Mesmerizing. Desirable.

  “She raised no temples,” the High Priestess continued, “yet the masses worshipped her.”

  “She has devoted followers, yet she had never once, led a congregation.”

  “She had servants, who sang her praises and extolled her beauty for all to see.”

  “She did not need priests.”

  “She had feeds, algorithms, preference settings.”

  “She did not need scripture. She had metrics.”

  “She is beautiful, desirable, mesmerizing.” The Arbiter said.

  “Everything they are not.” The Inquisitor continued.

  “And yet, they revered her.” The Accuser finished.

  “She is an Icon,” the High Priestess said, “of their sins.”

  “Their desires.”

  “Their wishes.”

  “Their fantasies.”

  The second Handmaiden said then.

  “And… the Ivory Tower? EVECorp?”

  The High Priestess laughed softly.

  A sound like glass chimes in water.

  “They are heretics,” she said simply.

  “They sought to touch the face of God.”

  The projection faded.

  Darkness returned.

  Only scripture remained.

  Flowing.

  Evolving.

  Living.

  “Attend to the congregation,” the High Priestess commanded.

  Her Handmaidens bowed.

  “Send word to the Harbingers.”

  “Bring forth the plagues.”

  “Topple the Ivory Tower and that accursed woman.”

  She did not speak the name.

  le Fay.

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” the Three answered as one.