It starts with the bombing of the southern districts; sequestered domiciles stacked on top of one another, foundation and roofs and walls thatched with precious lean-to boarding of cardboard and wood, some bedeviled in shades of red; gaudy penmanship of military slogans engraved into metal, stand-by doctrines of the Govern gnawed on by flame. Tongues of fire wavered and spewed, belching out smog and smoke that coiled sluggishly through ruinations of poverty. It is televised as an accident, one of the manufacturing plants that specialized in steel imports and exports suddenly malfunctions during a routine quality check, the casualties are minimal, but warrant an investigation nonetheless. While Palmecia spares little expenses in its inquiry, the truth is far more sinister and controversial than official statements, the sluicing veracity that undulated through the eclipse of a deserted Soldier under the sullying moniker of The Harlot. Pronounced once as a biblical figure (a religious portfolio marked as forbidden fiction) that had arisen from the conceptional enterprise of shadow clothed in scarlet, origins unknown but cruelty undone from her immediate ascension to a key figure as The Agenda’s rivaling counterpart of complete and total annihilation. The mortal coil wavered in her design and intention. For the past five years, she had been quietly decimating the districts and rebellious fanatics that opposed Palmecia through public denouncement and defacing of well-known Govern property. Red-robed crazed worshippers invaded the ghettos, spreading far her influence, and uttered the word of an apocalypse delivered by her sanctioned hand, wrapt under the keen manipulation of an Aeon deliberate in its bestial wrath.

The steel plant is just one of many that fall under her deliverance, combined with Palmecia’s routine decommissioning of various factories under law of The Central Operating System’s gradual screening of these facilities through every quarter of the governing year. Unemployment rates fluctuate and The Social Credit System scutinizes as applications roll in through financial aid.

It’s a system, a routine.

And she wished nothing more than to eradicate it, disrupt it, foil every plan and intention, and bring forth a new age of death, rebirth.

Of life.

The fires spread as if a lazy beast that prowled through the streets. It writhes and burns and pulsates with ruby cores and crimson shadows, climbing over buildings, homes, and establishments of small businesses. Palmecia deploys their Soldiers in assistance to the computerized fire suppressors that operate on a remote-located facility to substitute physical firefighters. One Soldier, in particular, familiar with such security runs in acccompiant of Palmecia police that secure the perimeter.

But it’s all a trap.

A trap that would, unwittingly propel a series of events that would conceptualize the meaning of life and death and the intricacies of fate that surrounded two souls intertwined as both dark and light. As both meant-to-be and never there. As if the inevitable collision of a star and nebula- a cosmic and divine intervention of life by solar design. If only they had not intervened.

For the greatest of evils lies not within the soul of a beast but within the soul of Man.

It was hard to walk this road alone, without her.

The mission was a simple one, put out the fires and stop the chaos. Alex, a weapon bred for war and destruction was unleashed with the Palmecia police. A man often accompanied by another, Elowen Sloane was alone moving into the facility. The trap was perfectly set by the Harlot, one the warrior wouldn't be able to intercept, intervene or stop. Dressed in his battle vestments he moved eerily throughout the facility, the team was behind him it was supposed to be routine. Laying a trap was easy but executing it was another then, upon turning the corner that's when he saw her.

The Harlot wasn't someone you saw and lived to tell the tale, the woman was a myth and a legend. One that had materialized way too soon in a form way too lethal for Alex to handle. His eyes went wide upon seeing her, a stunning beauty mixed with the lethality of a vixen before he could warn those he led it was already over just like she planned. Her goons in camouflage and more aimed guns down this kill box as lead flew all he could do was to try and protect them but this was in vain, as he summoned Buvelle the Harlot was quicker what felt like a freight train struck him hard sending him to the ground as the slaughter continued.

He was helpless.

Stirring sometime later the smell of death and blood filled his nostrils, he was bruised and somewhat broken as his eyes returned him to this world. The hard black leather boot of the Harlot pressed against his chest, claiming her prize. He couldn't move, the soldiers around him secured the building, radioing in information and taking out the rest - the hopes and dreams of those who could not be protected. The Harlot looked down at him with a grin of glee, one a victor wore over her enemies at the end of a battle. She took in the win as the aches and pains of reality wore through his body with every waking moment, grunting he couldn't even remove the boot from his chest. "Bitch.." He hissed.

The boot came up and it came down with a solid strike into the ribs, balling up was all Alex could do but even that freedom of movement was denied from him as the Harlot's harsh quiet words fell onto the ears of her lackeys. They grabbed onto his arms and tied him up, cuffed with the same technology that inhibited his Aeon he was subsequently stripped of any gear and identity becoming one of the many faceless victims of the Harlot. With the facility secure, he was dragged to the awaiting vehicles in the motor pool to haul him off to the Harlot's lair wherever it may be. He never knew, there was no VIP treatment for an Aeon wielder such as himself as a black hood was all he donned.

...

Then it was all hazy, how long had he been there? Waking up in his cell he had that nightmare again, of not getting back to her. Alex was a lot slimmer since his captivity however long ago, muscle mass faded and injuries replaced his perfect sometimes soft skin. A black eye, a bloody lip, and marks from punches, kicks, and whips replaced the normal skin tone of the soldier. Some days he had trouble remembering, sometimes he would fight back against the guards and lose and then some days the Harlot would have her sadistic fun with him.

The vixen herself tried to break him, and maybe it was working as his sanity crumbled under her torture on thing always came to mind that pushed him forward.

Getting back to her.