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Jericho did not know if he screamed out loud or only in his head.
The connection between his mind and body felt shattered, the one part distant from the other with no way to bridge the gap. Pain came in crimson waves, starting from the faraway land of his body and building to a crescendo before crashing against his mind like electrified acid. He commanded his mouth to cry out, though he could not say if any sound emerged. For the first time in his life he longed for death, for an end to his torture.
Familiar words etched by rote into his memory fell into place and he clung to them. The basic invocations learned in childhood assembled themselves, and he mumbled the lines and stanzas of prayers while his brain burned. It helped, and longer prayers followed with increased confidence. The pain did not subside, but his fear and confusion did. By the time he had recited the Chevalier’s Creed, Harland Jericho had stopped trying to scream.
Within this silence, Jericho found his anger. As much as he wanted to disregard the scans, he knew the truth when he saw it. His ability to exist within the vestments, how easily they responded to his commands, his speed, it all made perfect sense. Pride had allowed him to disregard the truth of his own experience by telling him he was special and chosen by God. He should have known better. He was not special. He was a wrathful, prideful sinner whose place in hell was assured. Not by the devices in his body, but by his own mental weakness. God knew him for the wretch he was, and that is why a more righteous man did not have to suffer violation at the hands of biotechnologists. God was good, even if Jericho was loathsome in his eyes. Jericho understood his place in God’s plan now, and one more task remained for the fallen Knight.
An arm moved.
Still clad in vivid azure, the Iron Fist extended to grip the floor. Slowly, and with great pain, Jericho pulled himself to his feet. He swayed in place for a moment, senses reeling with vertigo. He did not fall, though it took far too long to stop the wobbling. Sounds filled his ears, and shapes swam across his vision for several seconds before his brain parsed each into recognizable features.
He stood in the atrium, a swarm of people cavorting around him. They peppered him with jeers and insults he struggled to comprehend. After several seconds, he understood. The crowd taunted him with his newly discovered shame, grinning faces delighted with the fall of one who for so long sat above them. Trash and food bounced off his armor and head in a stinging rain.
If Jericho tried to sort it all out, he knew his mind would snap. Out of necessity, he ignored them all. Groaning, he forced himself to step forward. A gasp of pain slipped between his gritted teeth when the armor fed signals back through his damaged nerves. He forced another step, daring the pain to get worse. The pain obliged. Nevertheless, he stepped again. Six steps into his walk and Jericho started to find the pain reassuring. Each blast of electric agony galvanized his thoughts and reminded the Knight that hell could wait another few moments.
The atrium had never seemed so enormous to Jericho before; now the dirty expanse extended in an endless metal desert. He stopped to look around, and the act of squinting his eyes sent lances of fire along his optic nerves and burrowing deep into his brain. His goal was still more than a hundred yards away through the thickening mass of raucous people. He saw the intensity and frenzy of the returning crowds and felt the chaos of a brewing riot deep in the recesses of his instincts. The crowd remained too timid to approach the wounded Knight, but if he showed them weakness that could change. He straightened, ignoring the pain and pretending the agonized twist of his features was a glower of rage. He hoped the multitudes saw it that way, at least. He started to walk once more, feigning confidence and stifling wails of pain.
He needed to get to Polito. The Elder owed him an explanation before they both went to hell. Was his condition the result of his patron’s desire for an unbeatable champion, or something else? Did not the Elder deserve damnation as much or more than he did? Jericho found he had questions his faith could not answer. In truth, he doubted his faith was the thing he had always believed it to be. He needed to know. This confused the Knight. How could he know without believing? What was belief, without knowledge? Was that faith? Why was that not good enough anymore? Where was God now that his servant needed him? He hated these thoughts. They had no place in his life before. But now, at the end, he could not make them go away. Had they always been there, lying in wait for a moment of weakness?
They call this planet Gethsemane. The thought made him shiver. The Garden where faith is questioned. The place of despair. Have I been forsaken? Or was I never good in His sight to begin with?
Then Jericho saw something that made him gasp in awe. Moving through the crowd like a fish swimming against the current was the athletic form of the feckless assassin, Grimes. Without thinking, Jericho moved to intercept the killer. He did not know why Grimes was here. He did not care. A sense of purpose so strong and undeniable permeated his body that Jericho knew that only the Almighty himself could be the source. Grimes did not even look at Jericho. With his head lowered, the loathsome killer jostled people out of his way on a direct course for the main lift. The bastard meant to make his escape, and something about that infuriated the Knight. Somehow, he increased his speed to a shambling jog without passing out.
When he was no more than thirty feet away, Jericho bellowed his challenge. “Grimes!” It was a croak, but Jericho knew the killer would hear him. “Turn and face me!”
The assassin stopped and turned. Jericho saw nothing behind his orange eyes, save perhaps contempt.
“What do you want, Jericho? I am done with you and your ridiculous planet and want to leave.”
“You will not,” wheezed Jericho.
“And you will stop me?” Grimes asked with an arched eyebrow. “You are broken, body and soul. You are betrayed by your own family. Just like I was. You aren’t even a whole person. You are a shade, a shadow of something that never truly existed. You are nothing, and you cannot stop me.”
“We,” Jericho said.
“What?”
“We... are shadows. We... never existed. Nothing.”
Grimes shrugged. “Perhaps, but the difference is that I do not care. Goodbye, Sir Harland.” He turned his back once more.
“But I...” Jericho struggled to talk. “At least I am... not a lie.”
Grimes turned back, face dark with rage. “I suppose you aren’t. Too bad everything you believe, everything you think you know, and everything you aspire to be is. How much comfort will that be as you grow old and die in a hospital, shitting into a bag and being fed through tubes? Will that comfort your soul as you burn in whatever hell you believe cyborgs go to?”
Jericho took another faltering step. He was close enough to touch Grimes if he wanted to. He did not. “Don’t... need... comfort. Have something... better.”
Grimes looked into the glassy eyes of the Knight. His tone mocked the Knight’s obvious physical and emotional pain. “I wonder what that could be?”
Jericho knew from his fight with Tankowicz that he was faster than even he understood. He also knew that without the devices in his body to prevent deadly feedback, moving at top speed could kill him. The Velvet Glove shot forward, flying straight and true, to clamp onto the throat of Killam Grimes. Jericho loosed a scream of pain unlike any other, and he molded the awful sound into words. “It’s faith!”
Jericho felt himself burning from the inside out and surrendered his soul to the fire. One more action, even as his brain boiled itself to death in his skull, was all he needed. He did not feel the black blade sever his left arm at the wrist. Jericho’s mind winked out in a storm of electric pain even as the Iron Fist rose to take Grimes in the chest.
God was good.