As soon as Richard spotted Evan Crockett running down the streets of Fairhaven, he knew something was up.

Crockett was a fuckup who'd been tasked with leading patrols along the south west border for the next two weeks, a thankless job in normal times but absolutely vital for the next few days. A batch of Seraphim had already gone missing from the lab and another was about to be shipped out. Any outsiders snooping around could well be lookouts for criminals looking to rob the caravan gearing up to head out in a couple days, or commissioned smugglers here to pick up the first missing batch. They had yet to identify the rat bastard who'd stolen it, much less recover their missing goods, but Father was confident it was still hidden somewhere in town or close to it. They kept tabs on everyone going in and out of Fairhaven, and anyone who could've gotten the missing batch out and away had already been thoroughly questioned.

Which made it all the more vital to keep the riffraff out of their territory, as there was definitely someone coming to pick the stolen shipment up. Find the smuggler, and he'd lead them to their rat, or at least get closer to them. This was a job Father had entrusted to Crockett, so to say he would not be happy to see the man back in town was an understatement. As such, when he saw the man here in town, Richard walked out of his class and followed the wayward Deacon back to the Company Headquarters. He caught up just in time to see Crockett admitted into Father's Sanctum and headed on in after him. As Father's eldest son and natural heir, Richard was naturally allowed past by the Redeemed standing guard at the door and into the antechamber, but even he was loathe to just barge into the office in the back room where Father did all his work. Instead, he approached Crockett and asked, "What are you doing back here? You're supposed to be on patrol."

There was a time when every Redeemed, Deacon, and Sanctifier would smile and fawn over Richard whenever he appeared, while even the Apostles would treat him kindly. He was the eldest son and heir apparent to the company after all, and more than that, he was the Patriarch's son, so why wouldn't the Faithful want to curry favour with him? He was bound to rise in the company hierarchy, and in turn hold a high rank in the Order of the Cleansing Light, the chosen tasked by their Lord in Heaven to eradicate the impure filth infesting the Frontier. Father was the Patriarch of the Order, the general and chief in command, and while theirs was a meritocracy, the Patriarch's eldest son would most certainly stand alongside him.

The path had been laid out before Richard, and all he needed to do was follow it through to the end. It was simple enough. Join the Ranger Boot Camp on the Eastern Front, get recruited into the Army, serve for a few years while gaining experience and spreading word of the Order's teachings, then return home in glory and triumph as a decorated veteran alongside a few like-minded colleagues willing to join the Order and help fulfill their sacred duty.

Then that Umber brute Errol sucker punched Richard and broke his jaw and arm, followed up by that mongoloid Qink who broke his other arm. What was he supposed to do then? He couldn't finish Basic with two broken arms and a splinted jaw, and he wasn't going to go through boot camp a second time just because they couldn't keep their pet savages in line. To make matters worse, that gook bitch Captain Jung and her sweetheart slope Sergeant Begaye outright stated that even if he completed Basic, they wouldn't have extended him an offer for further training. Said that nothing of what they'd seen said he was Ranger material, so he was better off looking elsewhere for gainful employment. So of course he came home to Fairhaven, but he brought with him a group a promising recruits who were sure to bolster the strength of the Order.

This was what's called finding fortune in adversity, making the best of a bad situation. Sure, he wasn't in the Rangers, but the Eastern Front was a lost cause anyways. It was one thing to allow the lesser races to stay and work alongside them, but so many had been placed in positions of power over hardworking white Americans. White Americans who accepted this no less, rather than asserting their rightful place as the superior race, because they'd all been brainwashed into believing all that bullshit about equality. The truth was, some people were better than others. It was that simple, and if you refused to accept the proof sitting right in front of your eyes, then Richard didn't have the patience to spell it out for them.

So rather than fight an uphill battle, he brought home eleven fine young Christian men and women to join the Order. Gabriel, Nathan, Steven, Shane, Ned, Sally, and several more, they were promising youths from Basic who'd soon grow to become his supporters here in the Order, for which they would be rewarded. This was a real victory for the Order, Company, and the Cause, ensuring these budding talents were untainted by the widespread propaganda looking to replace the old America with a new America that was worse in every way. All this talk of equal opportunity and multiculturalism was just set dressing, putting a friendly face on their agenda as they brought in all manner of mongrels and foreigners to displace hard working white Americans who were the foundation of the American Frontier.

No one in the Order appreciated his efforts though. Instead, they all whispered about how Richard had come home in disgrace after washing out of Ranger training. Which wouldn't matter one whit if Father didn't feel the same way, but no matter how Richard tried to explain it, Father would hear nothing of it. Richard hadn't washed out. He walked away after they showed they how biased they were against him, favouring that savage Qink who beat him bloody and refusing to do anything about it. Even their dirty Guju rat of a Sheriff refused to press charges, which was a blatant show of lawless favouritism he didn't even bother to hide.

There would be a reckoning one day, of this Richard was sure, but first he had to regain his former status in the Order and Company both.

His perceived failures was what gave Crockett the courage to sneer in the face of his questioning and wave him off. "Run along now sonny," he said, licking his lips in nervous apprehension as he went back to staring at Father's closed office door. "I got real business to discuss with the Patriarch, so I got no time to indulge the likes of you."

"Need I remind you that keeping our borders secured is of vital importance?" Richard didn't back down, moving around in front of the other man to stare him dead in the eyes, and he saw Crockett flinch to hear it. "A task you were entrusted with, Deacon Crockett, so you best have a damned good reason for abandoning your post. Let's hear it now, or I'll have you brought up before a Confessor and charged with dereliction of duty."

"Richard." The stern tone sent shivers down his spine as Father emerged from his office, the first time Richard had been directly addressed in over a week. "That's no way to speak to a Deacon." That's how it was with the Order, all about hierarchy and working your way up the ranks. Technically, Richard was only a Redeemed, someone sworn into the Order as a soldier of God. While it was one step above the Acolytes who were labourers, fresh recruits, and probationary members, a Redeemed stood one level below the Deacons, the mid-level leaders who'd proven their worth and could be trusted with certain secrets.

Secrets Richard was already privy to, being the Eldest son of the Patriarch and all, but the Order was first and foremost a meritocracy. While Richard stood to inherit the company, this would have nothing to do with his rank in the Order, so he would have to prove himself worthy enough to take over Father's mantle as Patriarch too.

That was for another day however, so Richard swallowed his pride and lowered his head. "My apologies Deacon Crockett," he began, aiming to sound contrite but dignified. "My concerns over our unsecured borders made me forget myself."

"Concerns I too share, but that's no reason to lose your head, son." Coming to a stop in front of them both, Father took them in with his piercing stare. Physically, he wasn't an intimidating man, not like some of the Sanctifiers or Apostles with their large physiques and muscular frames or imposing features. No, Father had been among the oldest of the settlers allowed through the Gate and was almost in his mid fifties. He was still healthy, but lean and slight with a head of full grey hair that he kept short and neatly combed to one side. His slightly slumped shoulders and narrow physique contrasted greatly with Crockett's barrel-chested build, but the other man was quiet as a mouse and deferential as could be as he stood with head bowed and eyes lowered.

Because of Father's cold, unwavering stare, one that was not exactly threatening, but most certainly without mercy. A stare so powerful and all encompassing, Richard couldn't meet it head on for more than a second. Few people could, Father's eyes had a way of stripping away all falsehoods to see everything you might be hiding. Richard had done no wrong however, so he didn't look down at his feet like Crockett, who didn't even dare risk meeting Father's eyes. No, Richard kept his head upright, but lowered his eyes instead, and there the two of them stood in still silence until Father saw fit to break it. "Well?" he asked with a half-smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Out with it then. For what reason are you here, Deacon Crockett, darkening my doorstep instead of securing our borders from thieves and interlopers during this critical time? Something important, I presume, too important to convey over the radio?"

"Lost my radio when my conclave was wiped out yesterday afternoon," Crockett said, still unable to raise his head to meet Father's eyes, and he even flinched at the sound of his displeasure. "Six dead, with only myself and Redeemer Anson managing to escape to safety."

Father was taken aback, as that wasn't what he expected to hear. "What happened?" He asked. "You were attacked?"

"Yes." Crocket's voice surged with confidence, only to immediately deflate as he added, "Sort of. We were out on patrol by Waystation Nine-Four when we overheard someone playing the fiddle, so we went in to check it out. Inside the waystation, we came across a young, silver haired Aberrant girl taking shelter inside, playing songs for some birds all by her lonesome. We questioned her, but she wouldn't answer, wouldn't even look at us. Was touched in the head, you know how they are, but usually you just gotta lean on them and they'll crack soon enough. This one didn't, just kept looking away and trying to leave, so I grabbed her by the arm to make her focus you know. Then he poked his head out from one of the cabins, that slant-eyed Qink you told us to watch for, the one who'd have those Devil-kin Aberrants with him."

Richard's breath caught in his chest as he listened to the rest of Crockett's tale, one that was most certainly embellished to make him look better. It was probably a one-sided slaughter though, because Crockett was a fool who fixated on the pretty Aberrant in the courtyard and didn't think to send anyone to check the cabins. That's why his people died without injuring the savage. They had been standing with no cover out in the open while the Qink was hidden inside a cabin, and yet somehow able to shoot freely despite the hostage in Crockett's hands.

A hostage full of dark magics no doubt, for the Qinks were fond of their pet Aberrants. That silver-haired girl was probably Tina's sister, the bitch who slipped dirt into Richard's stew and used her magic to cover up the taste until he'd eaten half the bowl. The sudden influx of earthy flavour wasn't bad enough to make him retch, but he still gagged a little every time he was reminded of it. That stupid Aberrant bitch didn't know how good she had it, catching Richard's attentions in spite of her tainted blood. A shame that, because her heritage was otherwise quite pure, what with her corn silk hair to pair with her baby blue eyes. If not for the fact that her ancestors shamed themselves by taking in a Spell Core, then Tina would have been a shining example of a fine Aryan woman.

Not as fine as Sarah Jay, with her high cheekbones and aquiline nose, a superior specimen of Nordic breeding. Her transgressions brought her lower even than Tina's though, because at least with the latter, she merely bore the sins of her ancestors. Sarah Jay on the other hand was a direct traitor to her people, one who willingly lowered herself to be with an inferior Umber, demeaning her rich ancestry and noble blood just because she didn't know any better and refused to listen to reason.

That's how far gone the Eastern Front was, chock full of fools all too happy to lower themselves to be trampled over by inferior races. It was clear from how they held a Qink savage up on a pedestal for no reason besides his natural born killer instincts, the instincts of a primitive brute whose only value was in his unrestrained bloodlust. The Firstborn had trampled all over Richard and his friends, beaten them bloody in public and crushed Richard's broken hand after the fact, and that Pajeet Guju piece of shit Sheriff just waved off all his complaints like it didn't matter in the least. Where was the law and order? Where was the justice?

Yes, New Hope and the Eastern Front was a lost cause, but now the Firstborn was here in Richard's hometown, and he'd show that slant-eyed savage his place before consigning him to a fate worse than death.

While Richard imagined all the comeuppance he would soon dispense, Crockett finished his exaggerated re-telling of what happened in Waystation Nine-Four and fell silent when he sensed that no one was buying his bullshit. After a long pause, Father heaved a long and quiet sigh. "So what you're telling me," Father began, his tone neutral and almost bored, but his stare keen and sharp, "Is that you allowed an impure Aberrant to distract you with her looks, so much so that you failed to secure the waystation before interrogating her? What's more, you proceeded to lose a gunfight against a callow boy who just turned eighteen in an exchange so one-sided you lost six men without so much as inflicting a scratch on the savage?"

"It was the Aberrant Patriarch," Crockett stammered, sweating bullets as he stared at Father's boots and resisted the urge to prostrate for mercy. "She cast some foul magics she did, Charmed us into letting our guard down before hitting us with a Psychic Scream. Killed Ricky, Dougie and Orson she did, killed them stone dead. Then that Qink opened up on the rest of us without warning and there wasn't anything me and Anson could do, nothing except run for the hills."

Without warning, and yet they'd had a verbal exchange before hand. Fool. This failure was on Crockett for not securing the waystation like Father pointed out, but the Deacon refused to accept blame for his actions. Father was furious, but he wasn't one to lash out in anger. No, he preferred to file that emotion away, put it aside and slowly work his way through it until the subject of his rage won his favour again or died trying. That's where Richard was, stuck in the dog house working his way back into Father's good graces, so now it was his turn to wither the man's piercing stare.

"And you, Richard?" Father asked. "What are you doing here instead of attending class with your fellow washouts?"

Which wasn't fair, because not all of them washed out. At least half finished Basic, while Richard left only because he had both his arms broken by inferior specimens and the instructors and officers of the law did nothing to punish the guilty parties. Errol had washed out, but then they accepted him once more after Richard left, which just went to show how little the vaunted Marshal cared for civility and decency. "I was in class when I saw Deacon Crockett here in town," Richard explained. "So I took it upon myself to question him why to ensure that he was not shirking his duties."

"Well I'd say he had good reason to return after losing six men," came Father's wry reply, clapping Crockett on the shoulder and holding his hand there while the larger, stronger man quailed in fear. "And while I applaud your initiative, I would say the fact that the good Deacon here came straight to me with this report speaks volumes to his dedication. Mistakes are inevitable, for we are all imperfect sinners. If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us."

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness," Richard continued, to show that he was paying attention in class, and Father nodded to hear it. "First letter of John, chapter one, verses eight through nine."

"And the Deacon has confessed, has he not?" Father asked, turning his attention back to Crockett who knew he wasn't out of the fire just yet. "So it is only right to forgive his transgressions, yet still our problems persist. Our south western border sits unsecured and six Redeemers dead for naught, all in a time when we can ill-afford the loss."

"Let me right this wrong, Patriarch," Crockett begged, all but pleading in eyes and tone. "Give me command of another conclave, and I'll avenge the death of our brothers and bring their killer to justice. We'll set him upon a pyre and offer him to the Lord so that his sins might be purified from this world we inhabit."

"Better if you sent me and my conclave," Richard interjected, unwilling to see this chance for vengeance stolen away. "He's guarded by the Ripper, who'd make short work of the Deacon and any Redeemers we send, but is bound by a code of honour. Fearsome as Edward Elton might be, he won't raise a hand against the younger generation, leaving me and mine free to take on the Firstborn and his Aberrant Kill Team who've come to steal our secrets."

Secrets the Order was willing to go to war for, but not solely for profit. Father was less than impressed though, and his displeasure was fixed firmly on Richard. "To rely on the mercy of your enemies is the mark of a fool," Father said, in a deadpan tone that made Richard recoil to hear, for Father's rage was nothing compared to his apathy. Rage meant he still cared, but the day he decided Richard wasn't worth the effort was the day he'd lose everything. "Especially when that enemy in question is a psychopathic killer borne of a bloodline so tainted he's more Aberration than human. Do not mistake Edward Elton's thin veneer of nobility for anything but the disguise that it is, for he is no human, no noble, no child of God, but a soldier of the Devil made flesh. One kept on a tight leash by those who believe they can control him, but pride goeth before the fall, son."

Richard had nothing to say in response, and so he kept his head low and his mouth silent. Soon as Father was convinced his warning was heeded, he turned to Crockett and said, "As for you, we can't spare the manpower, not with the caravan scheduled to arrive in the next few days and so many sharks in the water. The dagos, the chetniks, the Umbers, micks, and spics, they've all caught wind of Seraphim and are chomping at the bit to steal what is rightfully ours, so we can only endure this affront for now before seeking retribution another day." Motioning for them both to follow, Father led them into the meeting room and pulled out a map of the Deadlands to spread out on the table. Pointing at Waystation Nine-Four, he asked, "This is where you ran into the boy? Do you know why he was there alone with only a single Aberrant to guard him? What happened to the rest of their group?"

One Father had tried to keep out of the Deadlands entirely, but the rot had penetrated deeply into the psyches of good people all across the Frontier, and those fools in the British, American, and Métis military let the Firstborn's party through all the same. The Métis was only expected, but Richard thought the British would at least see reason. As for the Americans? The fault lay with that spic Captain, Gabriel Herrera, who disobeyed direct orders to deny entry to the Askefjords and personally signed a work order allowing them in. Father would have the man's badge for this, or if not, the Order would have his head, but that was a matter for another day while they dealt with the crisis before them.

As for Crockett, he hemmed and hawed instead of giving an answer, but Father stayed silent until the other man finally admitted the truth. "The kid looked like death warmed over," he admitted. "Pale and sweaty and shaking like a leaf. I thought it was nerves at first, but then I thought about it some more and realized he probably had the ague."

So Crockett didn't just lose six Redeemers to an inferior savage. He lost six Redeemers to a sick and inferior savage, a man who was likely weaker than a day-old kitten and barely able to stand upright. Father didn't press the issue though, he simply went silent for long seconds while his stare bored into the Deacon, weighing the cost of keeping this fool on against the gains that could still be made. Though Crockett was a true-blooded American, there was little that genetics could do for a man without drive and ambition, as he was one who understood the war they were embroiled in, but refused to take the necessary steps to elevate himself above his enemies.

Blood was one thing, training and discipline another, and there was only so much training could do for a man as unambitious as Crockett.

"I see," Father replied, pursing his lips in thought as he looked down at the map once more. "They won't stay in the waystation then, nor will they risk bringing him closer to Fairhaven." Tracing his hand across the map, he stopped at a village sitting at the southern edge of the central region, a British supply station and research outpost that was ostensibly in place to help track Soulless migration patterns, but was really there to spy on the Order. "Here. This is in all likelihood their destination, the same outpost that's been sniffing at our gates these last few months in hopes of stealing what I have wrought. They've barely scratched the surface, so I've tolerated their presence so far, but now that they've drawn first blood, the well of mercy has run dry."

The plan was simple, one Father gave voice to in terse and succinct tones. "Get on the radio with our people over by the eastern border. Use our codes to tell them to release Abaddon's Breath into the swamp while running a trail to every town, village, and outpost in the area, even those belonging to us. Warn only the Sanctifiers and above, leaving the rest to God. Abbadon's Breath will draw in the Aberrations, and in turn lure Edward and his Wardens away to help defend the beleaguered outposts. This will leave the Qink and Devil-kin behind who won't be able to do anything on their own, not with so many ravenous Soulless running around. Tell our people to make sure the outbreak stays along the eastern border and doesn't penetrate any deeper, while also leaving no tracks behind. Once hell breaks loose, the collective governments will want to know what happened in the aftermath of it all, and we cannot allow them to even suspect we had a hand in all this. While they're distracted, you will oversee the next delivery in secret and ensure it arrives in the right hands, or I will do as my son said and have you drawn up on charges before a Confessor."

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Richard shuddered to hear it, and not just because of the threat. He'd seen what even a cup full of Abaddon's Breath could do to the Aberrations, and Father was prepared to dump countless barrels into the Deadlands as bait for the Soulless. Any fool could lead Aberrations to bloodshed, but Abaddon's Breath was sure to drive them into a frenzy. It was borne of Seraphim of all things, a reactive precipitate that came about as a byproduct of the purification process. The greenish-black sludge was toxic to humans and looked no different from what you might get from Aberration corpses left to rot in the sun. It might well be the same stuff, or perhaps a more concentrated version of it, because even a mere whiff of it could incite greed and madness in unthinking Aberrations.

Why? Simply for the reason that once ingested, Abaddon's Breath would empower those Aberrations in ways Richard dared not imagine. The early tests had been overwhelming, enabling the Order to direct Aberration attacks so readily that it gave rise to rumours of a Synapse Aberration in the Deadlands, one that so conveniently took out the Order's most stubborn competitors. Of course, Father would never outright admit what Abaddon's Breath truly was, not to the members of the Order and most certainly not to any government agents, freeing him from the need to explain why the creation of Seraphim, a gift from God, would also create a byproduct desirable to the hellspawn Aberrations of Satan.

Granted, even the highest ranked Sanctifiers and the twelve Apostles who stood above all others save the Patriarch didn't know much about Seraphim and Abaddon's Breath. Most of them believed one had nothing to do with the other, that Seraphim was to be their saving grace, and Abaddon's Breath their weapon to use against the unbelievers who stood at the side of their inferiors.

Which only worked because Father was the only person who knew how to create Seraphim, and maybe eventually Richard's fourteen-year-old half-brother Stanley who was learning to be an Alchemist like Father. Richard never could stand those bookish lessons, and while he knew enough to make all sorts of primers and compounds, he wasn't a fully fledged Alchemist or even good enough to work as an apprentice. He would much rather be a man of action, a soldier and general of the Order tasked with cleansing their enemies, but these days, he was regretting his decision not to follow in Father's footsteps.

Because not only had he been sent away to the Eastern Front, Richard's return was met with frosty silence from the family and the Order both, the same silence that hung in the air after Crockett left to fulfill his duties and Father asked Richard to stay behind. He didn't say why, just let the silence hang in the air as he poured himself a glass of water and sipped away while studying the map unfurled before him. Richard kept his head down and his mouth shut, because he knew that to speak first would be to admit weakness, and Father loathed weakness more than anything else. Lesser races were lesser because they were born that way, but for a proud, white American to admit weakness was a choice, one which shamed all that the Order of the Cleansing Light stood for.

"You do not approve of my decision?" Father asked, and Richard shook his head without even thinking because he dared not go against his will. "Explain yourself."

There was no choice now, because to deny it would be to say Father was wrong, and he was never wrong. Swallowing hard, Richard said, "Our secondary farming compound is still under construction on the eastern border, and will fare poorly if Abaddon's Breath is released so close to them. We'll lose tens of thousands of dollars in investment, to say nothing of all the manpower we have stationed over there."

"A costly sacrifice," Father replied. "But a necessary one. Madigan Harper already suspects we have some hand in all this, as we've largely avoided significant losses in the past few years. If we don't bleed in coming days, then that suspicion could well be enough to push him to action in spite of his lack of proof."

"Yes, but we have the Judges and Aldermen in our pockets," Richard said, feeling like this might well be a test that he likely had already failed, but he might as well go for broke. "Whatever Harper or any of the other Scouts might try, we can easily have it all called off."

"Money isn't everything son." There was an unfamiliar tenderness in Father's tone, one that gave Richard courage enough to look up and see him looking down at him. His eyes showed no pride or adoration, but love aplenty for a son who'd disappointed him so greatly. "Money is power, influence, and strength yes, but none of those matter if you lack the means to apply it, to wield it in an effective manner. Powerful as the Order has grown, we are a long ways from being strong enough to challenge the Federal Government, much less the combined forces of all four working here in the Deadlands. What's more, the Judges and Aldermen we have in our pocket? They mean nothing if the Army refuses to heed their orders. That's the sort of beast we're up against here, the Madigan Harpers, Edward Eltons, Jocelyn Savards, and even Adrien Voclain of the Chasseur Lanternes, they're all chomping at the bit to pin the blame on the Order and tear us apart at the seams so that they might feast upon our remains. They see what we have built here, the fruit of all our blood, sweat, and toil, and they yearn to take it from us. So far, the rule of law has kept them at bay, but until we are strong enough to stand against them, then we are at their mercy all the same."

And like Father just said, to rely on the mercy of your enemies is the mark of a fool, and Geoffry Aultman was no fool.

Draining his glass of water, he poured himself another and silently offered one to Richard, who couldn't help but nod as his throat was parched. It was the sheer intensity coming off of Father, a fervour he usually reserved for rallies and public speeches now focused solely on Richard and Richard alone, and he struggled to bear with it. "That's why I sent you off to the Eastern Front," Father said. "You wanted to be a soldier, so I sent you off to become one, far from my influence and the influence of my enemies where you would be free to build up your own and consolidate a base of power for the Order outside of the Deadlands." Heaving a sigh, he shook his head and said, "Those hopes did not come to pass, and while the fault cannot all be laid at your feet, that is not to say you are without blame. Had you swallowed your pride and persevered in the face of adversity, then you would have connected with not one group of fresh cadets, but two, which I would say is more blessing than demerit. The old guard are hopelessly set in their ways, but the new? That is how you enact change in an organization like the Rangers, Richard. You start from the bottom and make your way up."

Too late for that now though, because Richard had burned through any and all goodwill he had with the Rangers on the Eastern Front, with word having spread all the way back to the West Coast of how he'd come running home with his tail tucked between his legs. Hardly unexpected considering how the odds had been so heavily stacked against him, but like Father always said, there was fact, and then there was public perception, and the latter was the more important of the two. You couldn't change the facts, but you could twist public perception, a gambit that had been used against him by the Officers of New Hope who saw fit to sic their Umber and Qink savages on him.

That said, Richard didn't understand why Father refused to make use of the strength they already possessed. "The Order might not be strong enough to throw off the Government's yoke," Richard began, his eyes burning with passion and zeal both, "But we are most certainly strong enough to give them pause. Between Seraphim and Abaddon's Breath, we present enough of a threat that no government can afford to engage us, leaving them no choice but to accept our demands."

"But at what cost, son?" Father asked. "Should word of Abaddon's Breath ever get out, Governments across the Frontier will denounce us in fear, and things will be even worse if they catch wind of Seraphim. We lost a batch last year, and now that those criminals know what it can do, they've redoubled their efforts to secure more for their own use. What do you think the Government will do if they learn the same? They'll take it for themselves and use it in a reckless and irresponsible manner, the same way governments all around the world carried out their Aberrant breeding programs and still continue on with them to this day."

Shaking his head, Father took a deep breath and said, "They've already forced us to sell Phoenix Ashes to the world at large, allowing godless heathens and unclean Devil-kin to profit from the fruit of my labour, so I will not allow them to have Seraphim as well. That is God's gift to the Order, the weapon to bring White Americans back to the forefront of the Federation where we rightfully belong."

"Then use me, Father." Dropping to one knee and offering a Roman salute, Richard met his father's eyes with all the humility he could muster. "Grant me permission to partake of Seraphim, me and my conclave. We are loyal Father, and together with Seraphim, we will grow strong enough to defend all that the Order, all that you have built, and in time, stride forth to do battle against those who would see our rightful place as superior elites taken from us."

"No," came the immediate reply, and Father's expression was one of tender concern Richard couldn't remember ever seeing as he helped him back to his feet. "Seraphim is not ready, not perfected enough for your use. It is potent yes, and trials have shown promise, but the drawbacks are too many."

"For those who are not blessed by the Lord perhaps," Richard replied. "So far, all of your test subjects have been those of the lesser races, have they not?" Father didn't reply, which was how Richard knew he was right, but he didn't want Father asking how he knew. Instead of admitting he'd been bullying Stanley into telling him everything they were up to, Richard pushed forward to hammer his point home. "Spiritually corrupt Semites, subhuman Slavics, degenerate Umbers, and more, all defectives of inferior breeding undeserving of the grace of God, tests conducted by researchers with no ties to Fairhaven or the Order to allow for plausible deniability. Wise yes, but God's greatest gifts were not meant for those filth. It was meant for us, His chosen, so it is only right you test Seraphim on subjects of superior breeding, subjects like me and my friends."

"You don't understand what you're asking son." Father's tone brooked no argument as he shook his head in vehement denial.

"Then explain it to me so that I can understand." Meeting Father's eyes with all the sincerity he could muster, Richard said, "Had I known of your expectations for me over on the Eastern Front, I would have stuck it out regardless of the shame and suffering I had to endure. I only returned home because I believed it to be a lost cause, that with so many higher ups working against me, there was nothing to be gained, but I was wrong. I am sorry Father, but I am lacking compared to you. I don't have your vision, your foresight, your intelligence. I only share your goals, your convictions, your dedication to the cause, but how am I to support you if I am not privy to your methods? I don't even know what Seraphim really is or what it does, only that you believe it is the key to our victory over the unwashed masses, a potion that will unlock our superior strength and allow us triumph over all those who would see us displaced."

Father blinked, then looked away, which was a first for Richard. He'd always been the one to falter and blink, but now it was Father who failed to meet his gaze. "…Perhaps you're right, son," Father said, heaving a long and tired sigh. "You're a lot like your mother you know? So full of vim and vigour. Never before had I met someone so eager and devoted to the cause, someone willing to stand and fight for her beliefs and the betterment of all man."

Richard swallowed hard and held his head upright, which was difficult since Father never talked about Mother. She'd died so long ago he could barely remember her face, and only had the faintest memory of a woman who loved him dearly. Father didn't say more though, just signalled for Richard to follow him back to his office where he stopped in front of his bookcase for a moment to fiddle with something hidden behind a stack of books. Then the whole shelf swung open to reveal a hidden elevator behind it, one barely large enough for the both of them to squeeze in side by side. When the bookcase closed shut, it plunged them into darkness, and all Richard could hear was the quiet squeaking of gears as Father worked some mechanism that slowly but surely lowered them into the depths of the earth.

Several minutes passed before the elevator came to a shuddering stop. Casting a Dancing Light to illuminate the way, he swung open the elevator door to reveal a cramped room encased in natural stone, one filled with all manner alchemical gear and gadgets. There were tables cluttered with glassware and stacks upon stacks of notes, as well as cabinets overflowing with more files and a shelf of neatly labelled crystals. An underground cave housing a secret laboratory, with only the back wall sealed in dark, sturdy, bricks and set with a heavy door cast in Darksteel and heavily barricaded with a deadbolt and two bars that locked shut to keep whatever was contained inside from escaping.

"This is my laboratory," Father said, stepping over to the crystals and picking out a few to bring back to the central table. "I conduct most of my research down here, though there is a secondary access on the other side to make it easier to bring test subjects down. Only the Apostles know of this place, and not even your brother Stanley knows that it exists. He's much too young for this, only fourteen, and kind like his mother." Too kind, as he was one to sympathize with his lessers, unable to wholly understand why the other races were to be reviled and disparaged.

Slotting a crystal into the Major Illusion Artifact on his desk, Father stepped back so Richard could watch the recording unfold. "Test #937, Project Seraphim." It was Father's voice on the recording, but the image showed only a naked man bound and chained to a table inside a cell with walls similar to the back wall of the laboratory. "Date is January eighteenth, year two-thousand and eight. Subject is a Slavic male, untainted, late thirties, approximately six-foot-two and a hundred and eighty-five pounds. Control variables stable, subject is restrained and anesthetized with double dosage of diethyl ether. Dosage is twenty millilitres, half of the previous test. Commencing administration at 0937."

On the recording, Father stepped forward into view of the camera with a syringe in hand, one that glowed with a bright light even through the low-quality recording, a Radiant light that shone in both the physical and the metaphysical realms. That's where the name Seraphim came from after all, as this was Father's lifelong effort to elevate the Aryan people even further above the lesser races and firmly cement their place in the hierarchy of all things. With it, they would be akin to the soldiers of God, the angels in Heaven who carried out His will and waged war against His enemies, so Richard was eager to see his Father's work in action.

The injection was without suspense, and Father stepped out of frame again, so Richard focused on the undeserving test subject. Knowing it was a Slav made it easy to pick out the burly man's tattoos, ones that signified his allegiance to some gang or another. That's how those brutes operated, morally corrupt primitives incapable of high culture, civilization, or even honest work for the most part, which is why so many of them sent only criminals to the Frontier. For a lack of options, because they were all criminals and savages, but at least he could prove of some value as Father's test subject. The outcome would not be promising, Richard knew this much at least, but given how this recording took place almost two months ago, he knew Father would have made some progress since then.

For a time, nothing happened, as the Slav lay there still as can be. Then, without warning, there was a flicker of light as his body pulsed with Radiant glory, the power of the Lord running through his veins as the potion took effect. Father noted it in the video, speaking in a dull monotone that betrayed no excitement or expectation, then added, "Beginning Intravenous Drip at 0942." He didn't say what was in the IV, only that he was hooking it up, and still Richard was on pins and needles waiting to see what would happen next.

"0952, Patient has regained consciousness," Father's voice intoned after a period of waiting, just as the prisoner opened his eyes and screamed, a muffled scream dampened by the gag in his mouth which told Richard he'd been expecting as much. "Doubled dosage of anaesthetic ineffective. Hasten efforts to find new more effect anaesthetic, for if the lesser Slav cannot endure this pain with their deadened nerves and underdeveloped frontal lobes, then an Aryan would undoubtedly find it difficult to endure as well."

In the recording, Father continued listing off the subject's vitals as the Slav writhed and twisted on the bed, and even restrained as he was, he almost broke free of his chains. The Radiant glow continued to grow from within, getting brighter and brighter until Richard could almost feel the power even through the recording as he watched the Slav scream and flail all about. It was wonderous, magical even, and spoke volumes to Father's brilliance, for this was no mere potion he was testing. He was testing an Elixir, a creation of myth and legend that bestowed a permanent boon upon the subject.

Achilles had been dipped in the River Styx and given nigh invulnerability. Those who drank the Norse Mead of Poetry were granted divine inspiration and mastery of language. Ambrosia, the Nectar of the Gods, the Waters of Lethe and Mnemosyne, the Fountain of Youth, the Hindu Soma, all these and more spoke of the existence of these fabled Elixirs, wondrous alchemical concoctions that were the stuff of miracles, and now Father was so very close to perfecting his own.

But not close enough, as the subject glowed with the light the sun until his skin started burning up from within. Two minutes after regaining consciousness, the subject had burned out and was dead as a doornail, for he was deemed unworthy to wield the Lord's power here on the Frontier, but Richard was certain he would not be rejected in the same way. Granted, that was assuming it was the Lord's rejection which killed the Slav, and not something else in Father's Elixir, but how was Richard to know?

Father showed Richard a few more recordings, but they were more or less the same. "Have you tried with any devout, Christian subjects?" he asked, once Father had shown him all the crystals he was willing to share. "Perhaps their faith in the Lord was lacking."

"I have tried, yes," Father replied. "However, it is difficult to quantify a person's faith, especially when under duress, and I am loathe to subject a good, Christian Aryan to these tests when I have no hope of survival."

"Hmm," Richard intoned. "What about younger test subjects? Their blasphemy might not be so ingrained just yet, and they all breed like rabbits after all, so they'll hardly miss a child or twelve."

Father paused, then said, "I will look into it further." After putting the crystals back from where he took them, he moved to the barred door at the back, and set about unlocking the secured portal before opening it up and heading in. "I have other concerns however," Father said. "Worries that my procedure is flawed, and that these symptoms are the result of fruit from the poisonous tree. Come." Richard followed him in through the door, only to immediately feel… lessened. Blunted. Like his ears and nose were plugged while his eyes were blindfolded. "Wards in the bricks and lead in the walls," Father supplied, when he saw Richard's discomfort. "To keep Diviners, Progenitors, and other interested parties from taking notice of our presence here."

Sweeping his Dancing Light out wide, Father showed Richard the vast network of halls stretching out before him, ones lined with heavily reinforced doors same as the one behind them. There were at least twenty such doors that he could see, with perpendicular halls that no doubt had more, but Father wanted to show him something in the first door on the right. "You've seen what Seraphim does to a healthy man, and now you will see why that is." The heavy, Darksteel door had no less than three locks, two barricades, and four deadbolts securing it in place, and only then did it swing out to reveal a prisoner strapped to a steel chair, a woman with long, dark hair and features that were almost familiar if not for the wizened flesh that had long since withered away. It wasn't rotten, but almost mummified, like all the meat and moisture had been drawn away leaving only perfectly preserved skin and bones behind.

And still Richard recognized her right away. "Richard," Father said, taking hold of his shoulder to support him as his leg's almost gave out from under him. "This was your mother."

The dried corpse quivered from within its restraints, and its dried eyes cracked open to reveal two empty sockets, sockets that soon flooded with brownish black fluid that solidified into two milky brown eyes. "Richarrdddddd," the corpse uttered, in a voice bereft of warmth or comfort as it gazed upon him without emotion. It stretched its dried lips into a facsimile of a smile, but there was nothing there, no love or concern or anything else that might be recognizably human. "My darlinggggg s-ssoonnn. Come to mother. Save me. Free your mother from this torment."

The delivery was dry and stilted, without emotion or even a faint impression of humanity, and still Richard almost lost control of himself and leapt to obey. He didn't though, didn't move a muscle as he stood there in front of his mother's body while remembering what his Father had just said. This was your mother. Not is. Was. As in these were her remains, but her soul had long since returned to Heaven, leaving only a Soulless abomination here in its place.

"Like I told you," Father said, holding Richard by the arm in a steely grip. "She was eager and devoted to the cause, but all too easily manipulated by the lies of the Soulless. In a moment of weakness, she accepted a shard of a Mimic, and it moulded her from within, but I was lucky enough to see through my love for her and know that the woman I loved was dead. Though her heart still beats, her soul has long since gone to our Father in Heaven, leaving only this creature, this monster, this inhuman Ghoul behind."

"Liesssss," the monster whispered, feebly struggling against its steel restraints with no regard to the damage it caused to her dead and fragile skin. "I am here, Richard. Your Mother is here. Oh how I long for you. Come to Mother. Free me."

It curled his stomach to gaze upon him with her eyes and hear it speak with her voice. "Why?" Richard asked, and even he wasn't exactly sure what he meant. Why keep her? Why show him? Why do any of this here?

"I was too weak to let her go," Father said. "It was my weakness which killed her, and my weakness which keeps this thing here. However, the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

"John one-five," Richard replied, the rote memorization helping him overcome his emotions.

"Indeed," Father said. Leaving Richard at the door, he stepped into the cell to inspect the host of medical devices strapped to the Soulless husk that was once Richard's mother, and he focused on those to keep his mind off of everything else. "And because of my folly, my weakness, I soon came to realize that this creature is different from the other Ghouls you see outside. She only took in a shard of the Mimic you see, and shortly after, I had her captured and confined, denying the root Mimic any access to her mind."

"A lieeeee," the creature whispered, but they paid her no mind.

"I've a hypothesis," Father continued, gesturing at the creature beside him with no fear of its snapping mouth. "That contact with the entirety of the Mimic is why most Ghouls lose all rationality over time. That connection with the unholy Aberration and its dark, alien nature pollutes their minds, to say nothing of the modifications made to their bodies. It's different in here however, as she only possesses a shard, a fragment of the whole that is unable to connect with the rest, and because of this, she has developed in a completely different manner. She has become stronger yes, but starved of biomass, she's focused more on intelligence and cunning while developing Spells with a large focus on Enchantments and Illusions as opposed to the raw strength and durability favoured by most Ghouls. Smart enough to converse with even, and tempt me with knowledge of how to create the Alchemical ecosystems required to create the Magical Materials we require."

A disturbing thought, that Father's brilliance stemmed from the lips of the Devil itself, but Richard dared not bring it up. Father didn't notice however, as he was too excited to share all that he'd learned. "See how well she speaks and structures her words, and compare it to the ravenous Feral Ghouls you've come across on patrol. Were she not bound in Anti-Magic manacles, I daresay she could Charm us both to set her free, at which point she might well devour us both to replenish her strength, and I would wager that Ghouls like these are where the myths of Vampires first came about." Giving a little shrug, Father added, "Or those traitors and heretics who willingly worked with the Soulless, and in turn developed an insatiable hunger for human flesh."

Richard gulped and tried not to look too closely at the thing that had once been his mother, but he still spotted the telltale signs of sharp, yellowed fangs poking out from her behind her dried, cracked lips. To take his mind off the creature, he asked, "What is that then?"

He was without really focusing on any one thing in particular, but it didn't matter. Father assumed he was asking about the most pivotal thing in the room besides the Aberration, which was the contraption set up to drain… something from the corpse of his mother. "This is the basis of Seraphim," Father said, gesturing at the tank that was only half full. As he spoke, Richard watched a single drop of dark fluid fall out of the tubes attached to his mother's corpse, only for the flow to stop until another drop could be condensed. "Once purified of course, with the addition of shaved Spell Cores, a concoction of Aether infused herbs, and several other key ingredients that is, but this purified Aberration fluids is akin to pure Aether, only notably less volatile when it comes to contact with biological samples."

Which turned Richard's stomach, but also made too much sense to reject. Raw, unfiltered, physical Aether was anathema to biological life, as any internal contact would lead to an outbreak of Contagion. It was usually described as someone rotting away, as that was the most commonly seen example like when someone was exposed to untreated liquid Aether. It wasn't rot however, as technically, the process of Contagion wasn't the body's cells wither away, but rather them unravelling back into primordial goop as the bonds between atoms were dissolved into nothingness and the physical material all melded together into an unrecognizable mess.

Which made it difficult for Progenitors, as Aberrations were biological constructs after all, and therefore unable to withstand infusions of pure Aether. Enter Aberrtin, which was a compound that could be rendered out of an Aberration's corpse. The more modified the Aberration, the more Aberrtin their bodies would contain, which was why Zombies rendered down into more Aberrtin than say a more individually powerful Orc. Modern Arcana had no answer as to what exactly Aberrtin was, only that Progenitors used it to meld magics into their miscreations with little to no logic or basis in physical sciences.

And now Father was working on a method to render Aberrtin palatable to the human body. Or at least somewhat palatable, seeing how the test subjects took several minutes to die out, and even retained their physical forms without melting away from the inside out as one might expect from an infusion of pure Aether. That's what had been in the IV bag no doubt, liquified Aether, which was costly to produce in these low Concentration settings, but well worth the expense if Father could create a genuine Elixir. One that bestowed Radiant powers onto the subject, which was wonderous as could be, for Radiance was the Lord's power, the power of faith made manifest, which meant Father was doing God's work down here in his laboratory, taking the Devil's creation and purifying it to work for His children instead.

It didn't take long for Father to finish up in the cell, and he closed it up behind him without so much as a farewell. Because it wasn't really Richard's mother in there, a fact he had to remind himself of time and time again so he could look his Father in the eye. "Good," Father said with an approving nod and sigh. "Good. You understand. I feared you would not, but it seems I've raised you well." Gesturing at the other cells, he said, "I have tested so many variations of the formula, but I am still missing one critical key component, something to stabilize the process and keep the elixir from burning the body out. That's why I cannot allow you to partake of it just yet, for you are meant for greater things my son, but know that as soon as I have a viable product, you will be among the first to benefit from my life's work."

Grabbing Richard by the shoulders, Father met his eyes with an intense fervour and said, "That's why nothing else matters. Not the eastern compound, not the Phoenix Ashes, not even the lives of our brothers and sisters of the Order. If that is the price we must pay for a completed Elixir, then it is a price any proud Aryan would happily give. Imagine it son, an army permanently empowered by Alchemical compounds to be stronger, faster, smarter, and just better in every way. Even without any additional elements, the purified base alone can offer the user a temporary boost to their magical abilities alongside a stimulating high. A side effect I only learned of after the last batch was stolen, and I've recently made great inroads with that. Perhaps in time, I can devise a secondary product, a temporary potion as opposed to permanent elixir, or even something might well bestow upon us the ability to make direct use of Spell Cores without tainting our blood, or superseding the need for them. Imagine it now, granting every Aryan son and daughter the ability to manipulate Aether as easily as any Innate without tainting their blood with foul devilry. That is the goal before us. That is what is on the line, and I cannot allow for any distraction or interruption, not when I am so close to success. Already a second batch of Seraphim has gone missing, and I fear our enemies might well soon seize a third, so time is now against us and we must persevere."

"I understand Father," Richard said, drawing himself up to full height, which maddeningly enough was still a full two-inches shy of Father's 5'8 frame. "I'll gather my conclave and set out on patrol to cover the south west border. I won't allow my emotions to cloud my judgement, and won't go chasing after the Qink until all has been settled."

Even though the Firstborn deserved to die for his sins, there were greater things at stake now, for the future of White America lay in the balance now, with Father poised to emerge as the new leader of the Aryan Race.

And Richard would be right there at his side, ready to inherit it all once Father was ready to step down.

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