Part 1

The two figures stood in the shadow of the alley, silent, watchful, waiting. To the observer, they seemed mismatched, total opposites of the shared spectrum of the human resistance. One, tall, heavy set, armored from head to foot. Weapons hung off the hulking suit of armour, all within easy reach.

The other stood easily in roughly woven robes, hooded and mysterious, but unmistakably female. Slight of build and graceful in stance, she stood in companionable silence.

“So is this standard fare for a date, Templar?” she asked the armoured hulk.
The helmet turned half a degree towards her.

“A nice walk along the street at night and a zombie movie thrown in for good measure” he said.

“You going to buy me a drink?”

“The winner gets dinner, Cabalist” the Templar answered. His voice sounded deep and warm with humour, but buzzed with the static of the electric circuits through the inbuilt speakers in his headgear.

“I’m sure you’d do a better job of killing if you took that helmet off so you could see”, she smiled.

“I see fine. Just fine” he replied distractedly, as optical sensory equipment augmented his vision against the deepening shadows. The Templar resumed his search of the courtyard and street opposite the alley, thankful for the added zoom of the optronics.

She turned her head away from the Templar and concentrated on her feelings as The Council had instructed her. She sensed the corruption and the darkness, vague in ways, concrete in others. The Cabalist smiled inwardly as she sensed her righteous companion next to her, so much like a lighthouse in the sea of evil. Templar practically glowed in her senses, and this one especially so – for more reasons than one. Attraction always heightened her senses, which was always useful when they were paired together, but not even the greatest Cabal on the Council could influence another to feel the same way, nor were Cabalists renowned for love potions either. She would have to wait to see how he felt. Unlike most of the Cabal however, she was patient.

“There” the Templar said.

Immediately she sensed the undead. Their sense sent goosebumps skittering along her bare arms under the robe. Inwardly she cursed herself for behaving like a schoolgirl when they were on a mission. Anger flared inside her and she felt better immediately as the power soothed her initial fear as she harnessed her anger.

The undead shambled aimlessly as per usual, but as more and more appeared around the corner and slowly began to fill the street, she realized this may not be a random occurrence. The Templar’s helmet clicked almost inaudibly.

“They have the Mark of Desmodeus” he stated flatly.

Back at The Station, rumours had circulated for months about the gargantuan, Desmodeous. Some said he was a demon, others said Lord of the Undead. And others still had run the fine line of blasphemy, saying he was neither, but instead a corrupted Templar. Nonetheless, the undeniable facts were those with The Mark seemed to be stronger, larger and more ferocious than their regular brethren, be it demon, undead or elemental.

The Templar put his armoured gauntlet on his companions shoulder, and the great metal helmet turned towards and down to her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern evident, even through the speakers.
The Cabalist looked up into the guarded face, unable to read any emotion hidden behind it.

“I’ll be fine, but you are so buying dinner” she replied with a half smile.

Part 2

The Cabalist steeled herself, and with a single movement, discarded her robe. It fell to the concrete floor of the alley in a rough brown pile with barely a whisper. She stood for a moment, a statuesque beauty, the likes of which no famous artisan could ever recreate. Her hair was white and lustrous, her skin as white as the driven snow and her eyes a pale blue, like that of a faded summer sky. Her beauty was offset by the trappings of the Cabal, where chains bound fast around her fists and the ritual tattoos of initiation arced across her otherwise perfect skin. Finally, at her temples were the small pulsating amplification markers, which would one day be replaced with the “horns” so many of the Cabal favoured. Other than this, she wore a small, tight fitting garment which covered all but her perfect arms.

The Templar took this all in, the helmet concealing any exterior showing of emotion. He knew what came next, so he focused his attention back onto the encroaching mass of undead, oblivious to their presence. The wind shifted and the stench of rotting corpses came down to him, mixed with the sulphuric haze of The Burning.

The Cabalist sensed them coming closer. Without her robe she could almost feel them, feel their vague, intangible touch against her skin, and now she could smell them as well.
Reaching out with her mind she mentally touched the diseased remnants of a zombies soul. Like the stench on the breeze, their thoughts came wafting down to her, and she began to feel their desires, their hunger and the oppressive weight of their demonic enslavement.

The Templar clenched his armoured fists in a gesture of impatience, partly masking his unease. His eyes flicked down to the pale young woman beside him as the change began to take her. Her skin began to sag, cancerous holes of pus and decomposition caused her once healthy flesh to become yellowed and sallow. The Cabalists hair at once began to fall out in listless clumps, like ash from a burning building. The Templar turned away, conflicting emotions rising inside him. His atavistic side as a Templar shunned the abomination forming beside him, as well as his disdain and distrust for the Cabalist as a class. Part of him longed for the day when the Templar regained their rightful place, and could finally cast down the heretical Council with their dark teachings.

But part of him silently longed for the day that the world may no longer need the stark lines of Templar and Cabal, and that the world may regain some of its innocence. He would finally lay aside his sword, and she, her chains. His concern for her was strong, just as his reserve was equally resilient.

He shouldered his cluster rifle, the weapon feeling light and comfortable in his augmented arms. The energy cell lit up with a faint whistle, and the loading hydraulics hissed softly as the deadly weapon pressurized. He glanced at the Cabalist again.

The Transformation was complete. For all intents and purposes, she was now Undead.

Part 3

“Get what you need, then get out. Only when you are safe will I fire” the Templar said quietly to the necro-shifted Cabalist.

The art of the necro-shift was one of the earliest experimentations by The Council, allowing even an acolyte to look as though undead, transforming young beauty to incomparable horror. The Templar as a class rejected the teachings of the Cabal almost for the necro-shift skill alone.

The young female Cabalist turned her ruined, ravaged body toward him. Her jaw hung open at an impossible angle, clearly broken. Dried black blood stained her remaining teeth while her empty eye socket and single opaque eye gazed unflinchingly at the Templar. In this state, she lost the ability to speak, but somewhere deep in his mind, the Templar heard clearly - I won’t be long.

Their mandate had been to gain information about coming attacks against The Station, the bastion of safety in an otherwise deadly world. The Council had long held the belief that the undead were merely puppets of the demons, easily bound to their infernal will. By using this binding, a skilled Cabalist may understand the nature and location of an upcoming attack, reading the mind of the demon by proxy.

She began to shamble out from the alley, for all appearances just another zombie drawn to the mob. She would have to get close, for the remnant of an undead mind is too weak to read from a distance. She closed on the horde, almost a hundred strong, judging by the Templar’s threat assessment display, and soon she was lost in the crowd of undead flesh.
In the shadows of the alley, the Templar switched his vision to infra red. Immediately, the Cabalist appeared in her true youthful silhouette, her shapely figure, hot and red like a newborn sun against the cold mass of undeath surrounding her.

This is what I see, she sent to him.

The Templar saw a hazy vision materialize before the infra-red image that took up his vision. It was a church, complete with a tall bell tower emerging from the rear of the building. The Church had sustained heavy damage in places, a spire had collapsed on itself and had in turn destroyed a large portion of an outer wall.

The Templar only had to think – They are going to assault The Station, after all.
One of The Station’s entrances was hidden in the ruins of the church. It was heavily guarded as all safe havens were. It was unusual for the demons to try a direct assault, he thought.
Unease shifted uncomfortably in his stomach. Something was not right in this vision, or the demons plan. It was doomed to fail, as all assaults on Holy Ground were – unless someone let them in…

She quickly picked up on his thoughts, as even more undead staggered past her in the street. Normally, the Templar was so guarded mentally, part of his many years of training and his inherent distrust of her class. She could clearly sense his unease.

I’m leaving now, she sent to him, sure he would get her mental message.

Deep in the alleyway, the Cabalist saw a shadow nod in response.

She began to shamble forward, back to the safety of the alley, back to the comfort of his unwavering presence when she stopped abruptly.

A zombie was staring at her.

He had not been undead for long, as he still wore the tattered remains of a three-piece suit. The zombie’s face was bloody, and the last of his hair was wild and caked with filth, and amongst the slowly moving throng, he stared fixedly on her. From out of his diseased, gaping mouth shuddered a groan, and he began to shamble toward her, against the direction of the crowd. As he drew closer, she began to feel the faint mental tendrils of his suspicion caress her mind like cold, wet fingers of a drowned corpse.

Still he came on, and as he lurched toward her, other zombies stopped in their halting tracks and turned towards her.

The Templar heard her clearly in his mind. They are turning on me. Help…
Her mental connection was broken abruptly.

The Templar checked his cluster rifle, three barrels of death, fully loaded and primed to deliver damnation upon the undead. Somewhere in his mind he recalled a Bible verse. Go, pour out the seven bowls of God’s wrath on the earth.

The Templar didn’t have seven bowls, but he did have three barrels and an one hell of an itchy trigger finger.