Amis hardly noticed the rain. At times of tension, moments in which futures are decided and the spectre of fate looms over proceedings, anything external seems to fade away. Skin becomes metal, unfeeling and cold, external stimuli lacking in effect compared to the broiling anxiety that lies in one's heart and consumes one's mind. On a night such as this, on which either all was to come to naught once more or they were to finally receive confirmation of their theories, Amis would not have noticed if he were shot. 

Thus, the bullet-like rain barely penetrated his consciousness. He was too preoccupied with the trail of blood leading through the church doors, the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket, and with the twisted, delicious irony of potentially uncovering the ultimate truth in a fucking [i]church[/i]. His lips were tugged almost unwillingly into a wry smile at the thought of that.

He glanced about at his companions and comrades. Though he knew little about them as individuals, and knew they saw him as little more than an acquaintance, he felt a fierce kinship with them all. He knew the many of them had suffered for their beliefs, as he had, and the flaming brand of persecution welds those men and women who resist together with stronger bonds than anything else. It didn't matter if he liked them, because they weren't his [i]friends[/i]. It didn't even matter [i]why[/i] they were in search of truths far greater and more profound than themselves or anything they could hope to experience. It simply mattered that they, too, searched. It was an abstract bond, but one he felt keenly. 

And so, when Varrina spoke, he felt it more intensely than his companions. Tonight was the night, yes - and they, together, would be the ones to uncover this great truth. This one truth amongst the plethora of lies and secrets that lay as weaving threads in the very fabric of their society, their reality. They would prove themselves right, at long last. Validation would be theirs.

And they would take their first step towards deposing the Guardians from their false throne.

He only vaguely noticed the dilapidation inside the church. Another time it would have set his inquisitive, ever-musing mind a-wandering on some philosophical tangent regarding the fickleness of faith - and probably set off an argument with Elli - but he thirsted after the truth on this night, something concrete, the evidence for their claims, not for the abstraction of intellectual curiosity and debate. He was, therefore, drawn towards something that was all too real - the sticky trail of blood that continued towards the vague silhouette heaped on the far side of the room, an intense red that seemed to throb in the flickering candelight.

He was, in fact, so preoccupied with this trail, symbolic of the trail of clues they had followed to get here, that he hardly noticed Varrina's rogue actions, only noticing in time to have a brief moment of panic before the others intervened. He released the breath he had rapidly inhaled with palpable relief, restraining his urge to pass comment as the others dealt with the situation. He simply stayed quiet, and closed his eyes for a long moment, not wanting to make any similarly reckless mistakes in his excitement. [i]I need to pay attention.[/i]

Varrina's overzealousness had only highlighted to him the need for caution - and so, to Malcolm's suggestion to watch the door, he nodded, not particularly liking Mal's presumption but acknowledging the sense in his words. As Mal stepped forward, Amis stepped back, near to the door with the rain just audible outside, straining every sense to hear the reply of the fallen figure who held the answers to the future and to the past, to the secrets of history, in his hands.