Years ago, Mother Yolanda thought the devil was the embodiment of man’s evil and spite and hatred. A form of dark rage, cast out of heaven for defying the almighty himself. Though, as the years passed, she came to accept that her views were wrong. Not entirely, as she knew that the devil had been cast away from its home, but it certainly wasn’t simply a being. It was actually a she, whom wore a silky red dress that hardly covered her large chest, obsidian black high heels, and drank the blood of Christ as if it were simply for recreation. Koroleva, the Baba Yaga, stood in front of Christ the Redeemer, illuminated by flashing lightning.

Mother Yolanda silently whispered a prayer of forgiveness before she said, “What do you want?”

“Why do you believe in a fictional man, Yolanda?” She turned around and faced the Mother, an eye patch over her right eye, and her blue eye sparkling with the sort of spite for humanity only the supernatural could possess.

“Our souls await the Lord; he is our help and our shield,” Mother Yolanda said, folding her hands. The nuns standing in the shadows clasped their hands, though the bulge of side arms pushed against their tunics. “And in such a world, only the divine can help and protect us.”

“Oh?” She finished her wine and placed the glass on a Bible. “Does that mean my dear Church of Chaos is switching allegiances?”

There isn’t anyone else to go to, she thought. “The Church doesn’t belong to you.”

“But your pathetic little pagan life surely does.” She strode forward, and Yolanda motioned for the nuns to remain in place. “So, let me ask you again, why do you believe in a fictional man to save and help you?” She looked down at Yolanda, a perpetually flat smile on her full lips.

“God protects his children.” Mother Yolanda narrowed her eyes as she laced her fingers behind her back. She wasn’t scared of this demon. She had been a founding mother when the island had been built years ago, alongside the now dead Cuban Cartels and Italian Mafias. The last pillar of what was once a glorious vision for Dolordiso stood in front of a tide so powerful it threatened to wash away everything she had meticulously built. Yolanda couldn’t help but be impressed by the overly proud woman. Though bitterness lined her glare, Mother Yolanda was not afraid. “Kill me if you wish, but the Church operates autonomously. And that will never change.”

Koroleva curtly laughed.

“What’s so entertaining?”

She put a hand on Yolanda’s shoulder. “Dear, you actually thought for yourself. How adorable, truly.” Her grip tightened, and Yolanda inwardly winced at the pain of her sharp fingernails clawing into her weathered skin. “But… Well, you see, the Yakuza have been thriving down by the docks, and now five of my men are dead because they’re pushing further onto my island. Those filthy rats were forced into the shadows for a reason, and it’s because of your guns that I had to bury my men in front of their families yesterday.”

Koroleva snapped her fingers, and a burly man in an all-black suit appeared, seemingly from the shadows themselves, behind Koroleva. The man held a small black box and gestured for Yolanda to take it.

Koroleva’s blue eyes told no secrets.

Though her heartbeat raced and her breathing became stilted, Mother Yolanda took the box. Feeling its cool surface, the odd weight of it, she slowly opened the lid.

A heart, still fresh with blood, was in the box. Yolanda painfully studied it, grimacing at the rosary puncturing the heart, with its red and white beads tightly wrapped around it, as if trying to squeeze more life out of it.

She shut the box and looked Koroleva directly in the eye. “I hope you rot in hell.”

“Don’t you know, Yolanda, in this painful paradise we live in, there is no God, neither is there a Devil.” She leaned towards Yolanda, viscously smiling. “There is only me, and me alone. Defy me, and not a soul in this church will remain.” With one last painful squeeze to her shoulder, Koroleva left the Church, walking down the aisle with her heels snapping on the hardwood.

Trembling hands and aching heart, Mother Yolanda held onto the box and pressed it to her chest. She wanted to damn her, to instruct her nuns to kill the woman immediately, but that was childish and even more so foolish. Koroleva knew where their families lived, where they lived, and even where they were every second of the day. A noose had looped around her neck, and now she couldn’t escape her clutches.

Dolordiso needed a cleansing, but it wasn’t her to spill blood on the peaceful streets. She simply couldn’t afford to go to war against the Russian Mafia.

The church doors opened, letting in a gust of icy wind. “Oh,” she said, her voice echoing. “There is said to be a Spartan on the island, and not the one currently in my hotel.”

For the sake of her sisters, she quietly said, “What do you wish for me to do?”

Koroleva smiled. “All I want you to do is kill them.”

“What do they look like?” Her stomach bubbled with a vile sickness that came with the casual talk of murder. “I can’t hunt ghosts.”

She chuckled. “Though you believe in one. But Spartans are easy to find; I’m sure even someone as incapable as you will be able to do so.” The doors slowly shut, with that angular face bathed in shadows burned into Yolanda’s eyelids.

Mary was knee deep in bodies and frustrated. For one, the weather was terrible. The storm had come faster than she’d expected, throwing her hair into a wild flurry, drenching her in shrill rain, and she couldn’t listen to music. All she had to listen to was the groan of nearly dead nuns, her own heavy breathing, and thunderclaps that made her wince and her ears hurt. She’d only wanted to take a discreet path towards the hotel because marching straight towards it may well have been a death wish, but then she’d come across a troop of nuns praying in the forest, and, well, they weren’t praying anymore.

Fuck, she thought, reaching for a briefcase that wasn’t by her side anymore. The day had been great up to now, what with the dancing on the beach and the music and the ice cream, but then the nuns had interfered. Mary wasn’t much of a believer, but she carried a fancy-looking necklace with the cross at the end because… because… she couldn’t remember. All she could remember was that it replaced the dog tags she used to hang around her neck, but it wasn’t whole. Only half the cross swayed at the end of the necklace as she stepped over gruesomely dismembered nuns.

Tucking away the necklace, she peered into the darkness. Where was it? She needed that briefcase. That gun had cost her a lot, at least she thought it did. Money wasn’t of any value to someone who spent it mostly on music subscriptions and food, but weapons were costing a lot, especially a fifty caliber sniper rifle. Where… There! Just underneath one of the bigger nuns, she pulled it out from underneath them and tried to brush off as much mud as she could. But… it was open ajar. Quickly opening the briefcase and kneeling in the mud mixed with blood, she mouthed a few swear words, as most of the gun’s parts were missing. Now she was frustrated and filthy.

But two things stood out to her as she looked over the bodies, searching for the missing parts of her rifle. All the nuns were armed, some just with handguns, others just with knives. A few of the more annoying ones had machetes and assault rifles. So that meant someone had given them the guns, and she’d heard a few Japanese men down by the beach earlier talking about the church, so…

So Mary stood up, searched for a not too bloody and torn outfit, and adorned the clothes of a Holy woman. It was surprisingly light and breezy, and for a moment she considered just standing in the rain to calm down and –

A hand grabbed her ankle, startling her.

Through a veil of red hair, green eyes glared at her. The woman breathed hard, digging her nails into Mary’s ankle. “You… You did this.”

Mary tried to step away, but her grip was tighter than a vise’s. Mary shrugged and kicked her in the side of the head, only loosening the woman’s grip and not knocking her out. But she took the chance to grab a machete, way it in her hands, and turn to the red-haired nun.

Mary cocked her head as she watched the woman try to stand, forcing herself onto her knees. Clamping a hand to her side, where Mary vaguely remembers putting a few bullets in, she balled her free hand and snarled, “You’re one of those animals, aren’t you?”

She shook her head and signed, I’m human, just like you.

“I have no fucking clue what you’re saying.” She spat blood. “Frankly, I don’t fucking care.”

Weird, Mary thought. Nuns shouldn’t be swearing.

Then again, nuns shouldn’t be carrying guns.

The woman charged Mary. She stepped to the side and jammed the machete through her gut, spurting blood into the cold air. For a second, the world seemed to freeze. Crystal rain drops hung suspended in the air, droplets of blood weaved amongst them, and the blade’s silver tip caught moonlight as it erupted from the woman’s back.

Mary winced when the woman gagged.

Sinking to her knees, Mary gently put her down.

I’m sorry, she signed to the woman, whose green eyes stared up into the stars. Whose free hand gripped onto Mary’s veil and tried to tear it off her head. Who Mary couldn’t tell whether or not she was crying because of the falling rain running down her cheeks.

Sniffling, Mary stayed by her side until she stopped moving. Standing up pained her, and even more so when she pulled the veil tighter around her head and made her way up to the church shrouded by tall, dark trees. Here, the voices were loudest. Here, the lives she’d taken plagued her. Pressing her hands to her ears, she ran deeper into the darkness and towards the dim light coming from the church.

I’m almost done, she repeated over and over in her head. No more hesitating. No more waiting. She’d kill Canary, and then Gunslinger, and then Luck and Shogun. The storm was already in, so she couldn’t leave the island, nor could she leave her demons as she climbed the steps up towards the church. The shadow she cast over the marble steps was darker than any shadow the trees or the church itself painted. It was as if… as if not even god wanted her here, like she was ruining the very ground she walked on. Roaring rain had washed away most of the blood still on her, but it still clung to the callouses of her palms, to her chipped nails.

To a bleeding heart she fought to ignore.

The wind yanked the veil off her head before she knocked on the large doors.

A woman opened the door, a small black box in her hands. “Hello dear, can I help you?”

Mary forced herself to smile before signing, I need shelter. And a few guns they undoubtedly had. The woman’s kindly eyes were a rouse because Mary had those same eyes. The kind of eyes that betrayed even her when she woke up and looked in a mirror, telling a story that she knew wasn’t true, but the story she wanted to believe. The story of a woman believing she was doing good by walking in man’s trenches of humanity, shrouded by blood and gore and voices that weren’t really there, thinking she was fighting for a just cause.

Spartans were dangerous, and they all needed to die. Mary was a testament to that.

“Come,” the Mother said, stepping aside. “The Church provides for all.”