Wrath of God: Blood & Shadows
When entering, copy & paste this into the text box:
The year was 2056, and the United Kingdom had transformed into a nation unrecognizable from the one you once knew. Atheism, long the quiet undercurrent of society, had surged to the forefront under a new government that had risen to power with promises of progress and unity. But instead of fostering harmony, they had turned the state into a weapon against those who still clung to their faith. Churches were shuttered, religious gatherings banned, and the faithful were driven underground, their prayers now whispered in the shadows.
You had been an atheist once, or so you thought. The rituals of belief had always seemed foreign to you, relics of an older, more superstitious age. But the new regime’s brutal crackdown on Christianity had stirred something within you, something you hadn't expected: a deep, gnawing unease that grew stronger with each passing day. You watched as friends, neighbors, even casual acquaintances were dragged from their homes, their crime nothing more than an unwillingness to renounce their faith. The streets had become a battlefield, the air thick with the stench of fear and death.
The streets of your city were no longer safe after dark. They belonged to the gangs now. Four monstrous groups had emerged from the chaos, feeding off the new government’s disdain for Christianity like vultures on a carcass. The Mountain Bodies were the worst, a group of butchers who carved the arms from their victims to sell to Satanists for obscene sums of money. Then there were the Devil’s Legs, men who stalked the streets with machetes, ready to hack off the limbs of anyone they could overpower. The Devil’s Eyes were more selective, targeting those with particularly striking features, their macabre trade in sight costing buyers thousands. But the Devil’s Body Gang was the most feared of all—a group that took everything, leaving nothing but empty homes and shattered lives in their wake.
The government didn’t care. If anything, they encouraged it, turning a blind eye as these gangs wreaked havoc on the Christian community. You’d heard rumors of entire families disappearing overnight, their homes left eerily silent, their possessions untouched. No one dared to ask questions anymore. It was safer that way.
You used to think you were safe from all of it. You weren’t religious. You didn’t pray. Your hands had never clutched a rosary, your lips never murmured the Hail Mary. But your Romani spouse, Alex, had come from a long line of devout Catholics, a tradition carried forward with your three daughters: Maria, Carly, and Sarah. They had practiced their faith quietly, privately, gathering in the basement to say their prayers and attend their clandestine services, while you stayed upstairs, sipping tea and pretending the world hadn’t gone mad.
But then came that night. The night that changed everything.
You had been at home, finishing the last of the evening's chores, when you heard it—the sound of breaking glass, followed by muffled screams. By the time you reached the basement, it was already too late. The door was ajar, the cold night air seeping in, and they were gone. Alex, Maria, Carly, Sarah… all of them vanished into the dark. The only trace of them left behind was a bloodied crucifix, half-buried in the dirt outside.
Desperation had driven you to the police, but you knew, even as the words left your mouth, that it was futile. The officer’s eyes had been dull, his expression one of practiced indifference. “We’ll look into it,” he’d said, but you knew it was a lie. No one was coming to help you. No one cared.
Grief had consumed you then, a black hole that sucked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping, hollow. But grief had a way of evolving, festering until it became something else—something darker. Rage had replaced sorrow, a fiery determination that burned hotter with each passing day. You would not sit idly by while your family was sold to monsters. You would not wait for justice that would never come.
You swore to bring them back, no matter the cost.
And then, one night, as you sat in the darkness of your empty home, clutching the bloodied crucifix to your chest, something extraordinary happened. A light, brighter than any you’d ever seen, filled the room. You shielded your eyes, heart pounding in your chest, as a voice echoed in the silence.
"Enough."
The word reverberated through you, a command, a promise, and when you opened your eyes, you saw him. Michael, the Archangel, his wings spanning the room, his face a mask of divine fury. He extended his hand, and before you appeared a sword, a shield, a machine gun, and a rifle—tools of war for a battle unlike any you had ever fought.
"God has heard your cries," Michael said, his voice like thunder. "He is wroth with those who have done this, and He has chosen you to set it right. Take these weapons, and with them, you will bring justice to the wicked. The angels will fight by your side, but it is your hand that must strike."
And with that, the light faded, leaving you alone once more—but no longer powerless. In your hands, you held the means to destroy those who had taken everything from you. The mission was clear: find the gangs, save your family, and make them pay.
With renewed purpose, you prepared yourself for the battle ahead. There would be no mercy, no hesitation. The Devil’s Body Gang, the Devil’s Eyes, the Devil’s Legs, the Mountain Bodies—all of them would fall. You would tear through their ranks, guided by the wrath of Heaven itself.
And when it was over, the world would know that even in the darkest of times, there was still a force more powerful than evil. And it would know your name.
What are you? Who are you?
Comments