And so, a deity died. A false deity, one undeserving of the indirect worship afforded to them by the world, but a deity nonetheless - the sentient being who had born the weight of the world on their shoulders, an object of holy fear for almost all those Amis had ever met. He had been felled by a bullet, a piece of metal not that unlike a coin, or a watch, or a fountain pen, any of a plethora of other mundane and everyday objects. He had bled like a man would bleed, this Guardian who had ironically been no more of a protector of humanity than Satan or Hades or the Grim Reaper.

He was no different to them, really. Supernatural, but not infallible, and certainly not invincible. Trapped by the mortal coil. Capable of admitting his imperfection. Amis' elation and guilt clashed in a terrific maelstrom of confusion, and he wondered if the Guardian laying dead before him had ever felt as vulnerably human, as terrible uncertain, as he did right now. 

He would never know. The Guardian was dead, and his last words implicated Amis and the others as murderers. They had stolen the life of a mortal being based purely on their beliefs and speculations - traded something concrete and inherently precious for something as fluid and changing as belief. Amis had not truly believed they would find a Guardian, or that they would be able to kill it, not in his heart - and he realised now that, in his own way, subconsciously, he had elevated them to Godhood in his mind to the same extent as those he had derided, discretely believing them invincible. And all of a sudden, his quick, sharp mind - a mind he wished now would simply stop thinking, stop, stop - came to terms with his own twisted hypocrisy: he had taken his beliefs as fact, forced his own truths on another, and the consequences were permanent. He was no better than the supernatural being who had just bled out before him.

His teeth and fists clenched alike, depriving him of any words he may have spoken or actions he may have taken, the power of speech and action taken from him as tension laced through his body and mind. His breaths were deep, deliberately repressing his tears of unwanted sadness and wild frustration. Of overwhelming, almost self-pitying guilt - a guilt that eclipsed even his pity for the bloodied body before him.

Amis took the easy way out. As many a weak man does, rather than facing his guilt and taking responsibility, he ran - his heart beating hard with adrenaline, almost as if to literally flee, he threw aside these feelings, denied them, cast them from his mind. He hid. And as he did, not even knowing he was doing it and not knowing the emotional consequences that would arise from the repressed emotion, his lips simply pressed into a hard, thin line: an expression that conveyed only that he did not know what to feel regarding the man - God? Deity? Man? Creature? - and resigned himself to that fact. He simply reached out a hand to Elli, his hand a light but hopefully reassuring touch on her still-slightly-shaking shoulder - the bond between all of them strengthened now, forged not only by a common goal and shared persecution, but by the experience they had just shared; one of survival; one that was religious and yet not; one that simultaneously confirmed and defeated all their previous convictions in ways their young and foolish hearts could never have foreseen.

He glanced at the portal as the others spoke of it, and slowly found a new emotion kindling in him - hatred for those who had betrayed the dead Guardian. Amis appeased his own guilt with feelings and thoughts of vengeance for the dead, a recompense for the mistakes he may well have made today - the one before him may have been an exception, but his words proved that the others were just as Amis had believed. Creatures which needed to be exterminated, for the sake of the human race. He clung to that belief with desperation; yes, yes, his murder of the Guardian as an honest mistake, and he could compensate by ending the menace the man had spoken of! 

Elation once again laced through his heart, a passion rekindling him. A need for vengeance. Vigour and life returned to him, and unconsciously he squeezed Elli's shoulder as he spoke, his muscles needing to move and act.

"We go in together. We find these fucking bastards, and we end them." He gave in to his immediate feelings, never one to restrict his impulses, refusing to face reality and the pain of reconstructing his entire worldview. He took a deep breath, his lungs burning pleasantly from the grey smog, breathing in whatever gift they had been given. "You heard him. We have to stop these things."

His eyes shifted to the corpse, to the spreading pool of blood almost touching Elli's outstretched legs and the others' feet. His voice dark, he spoke straight to the body. His words were a pledge, made upon the blood now touching his boots, his eyes metal-grey and soul steely as the smog - the last miracle of a false God - entered his lungs.

[b][i]"We'll kill you. We'll kill you all."[/i][/b]