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[Rattlesnake]

((Kelsey Brewer continued from 28 Ghosts IV))

The sun was molten radiance dribbling through thin fingers of cloud stretched across the horizon. Kelsey drew her layered coat close against that traitor light, pale and bright, that beseeched one to lay their whole self bare to receive of it and offered only the basest foundations of warmth in return. The stoking of a thirst that could never be slaked. Still, she stood awash in its presence for a time at the threshold of some new delving from which she may never resurface. It was comforting, almost, to think of her parents beneath that same sky, government officials, men with guns and helicopters, friends and family she'd left behind. As if she needed only to stretch a little more to feel their reaching fingertips against her own, to return to safety and sanity with tales to tell and a soft bed and burbling cat to retreat to.

Almost.

She stepped inside the church over the pool of crusting gore beneath the doorframe. It was slightly cooler inside, though not much. Rays of slanted sunlight cast about the space, simple in construction and dusty and dim with disuse. There were a few bodies stern about, as well, which didn't startle her much any more, though she never felt wholly comfortable in their presence. A funny thing that eons of selective pressure should get it all backwards; in this place, the bodies that didn't move were far safer than the ones that did.

Down the aisle she strode, picking out no seat in particular for her repose. That was part of it, the humble pageantry, the cargo cult supplication to the highest power. She bowed her head, one amidst the throng. A congregation of, perhaps, four, though she rather felt the onus on her in this case to take initiative in directing the proceedings.

She bowed her head in worship. Truth be told, it wasn't something she had much experience in. She felt a kinship with those who felt that connection to things beyond the mortal realm, by all means. She, too, believed in magic, after a fashion. Knew it, experienced it every day. Well, in the Before Times, at least. Not just the simple anima of rising sun and bending leaf, but in those invisible ties, the splendor of shared experience, the desire to comfort and to elevate. Those bearing dogma into the realm of the spirit had presented her with a... mixed impression to say the least. Who were they to deny her the warmth of a shoulder, the comfort of folded arms, the tenderness of a finger drawn across her midriff and elsewhere besides, to declare her sinful for what lay beneath a partner's skirt?

But there was plenty else to justify her obeisance. Here was a place, purpose-built for that purpose. Deliberate in its aesthetic, even in its presumptive lack thereof, of simple beams and harsh angles. She worshipped the work of hands and of the eyes of mind, rough hands, honest hands, early to rise hands. The planning and deliberation toward that one shared desire, those feelings to invoke.

The soul yearns for honor, and the flesh the hereafter, she hummed to herself.

Look to those who walked before to lead those who walk after.

Shining is the land's light of justice...

She didn't really know any proper hymns. Indeed, she felt a slender edge of transgression in substituting her own, in elevating background music to a giant dragon emerging from its prison and causing a capital-C Calamity in a video game to stand alongside praises to the One True God and His eternal dominion. But what was a hymn save that which man gave meaning? There was no profanity in that which spread to millions with a message of hope and endurance, served as background to a story personal and deep and to the arena where friendships and triumphs were forged. Nor was there rebuke to its rising chorus, a throat-rending petition to the spirit of the world against the frailties and burdens of the mundane flesh. And that Goddess' Answer, as she watched unmoving, that there was purpose to be found in life and death, that there was nobility in suffering; an exhortation to walk free to those bound inexorably by the shackles of mortality; her proclamation that rapture and sorrow both were riddles in service to the Great Ineffable Plan...

She stopped humming.

Men and women fell, but gods remained. Such was the way of things. Such was the fucking way of things. She unbowed her head and stood, took that funky little axe to hand. She'd be a name echoing across the island in a day or four or five, and then nothing after that. A wound, a fissure in the hearts of those with the misfortune to have loved her. She ached with sudden aimless purpose, to be something so slightly more. She wondered if her girlfriend was still alive, or if the vicissitudes of fate had done their work beneath the resolution of their continual updates. Wondered if her girlfriend would still be her girlfriend. Evie had seen and one things aplenty. Kelsey had been broken up with over less, for sure. Wondered if her girlfriend, just by chance, might simply shoot her on sight. There was emotion there, that great illogical driver of—

—A series of loud reports issued from somewhere forward and below her. She knew what gunshots sounded like by now. And yelling, indistinct, fervent and forceful. A pause. One more blast of sound that trilled up through the soles of her boots.

She scooped up her bag and turned toward the exit of the church. Then she turned again on her heel, and sprinted toward the source.

((Kelsey Brewer continued in Drifting Down Into Twilight))