The One You Must Not Speak Of

Episode 2: 1 Peter 5:8-9

Clusters of bones and tissues were ensconced within the colossal 747 aircraft. The corruption of pliable souls followed its relentless course.

The enigmatic executioner identified yet another target, the weathered forehead of an older woman. As his willpower took hold, her flesh crumbled like a sandcastle besieged by the relentless tide, and the resultant light cream dust gave birth to a novel visual composition, reassembling the fragments of a complex organism.

Before long, the aged being transformed into a younger version of herself.

"You will lead our people by initiating the push," the man commanded.

The wearer of the pinstripe suit, the One You Must Not Speak Of, then raised his hands high and bowed his head. Circuit board-like vessels permeated his eyes, and he convulsed in a fervent trance.

The plane quaked, seized by a malevolent tremor. Passengers' frames contorted into crooked shadows, their bones shifting beneath their luminescent skin. Gravity led their bodies into a maddening dance, propelling them into an invisible vortex.

Gnale eth. Aremd a lowrd. Racturedf ieks.

Neon-blue vectors sought connections between the passengers, radiating in the dimly lit cabin.

Shortly after, environmental hypoxia left the targets gasping for breath, their chests heaving frantically—caught in the crossroads of worlds as the plane merged with the fabric of reality. A wheezing sound signaled their struggle to expel foreign matter from their airways, with black bile bubbling at their upper lips.

The man continued his incantations, orchestrating the dramatic transformation of his victims.

Sa evoba os ebwol.

Amid the manufactured notes, a distinct sound arose. Footsteps. They accelerated and intensified.

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!

A silhouette danced amidst the web of glowing vectors filling the space. A petite figure reached the emergency exit, flinging it open and revealing the frozen blue skies outside.

The massive metal door frame hurtled outward, crashing into the plane's left engine. The deafening explosion rocked the airliner, and metallic fragments peppered its exterior layers. Time and space teetered between resuming their course and remaining still.

The young woman briefly glanced at the One You Must Not Speak Of, her soul inscrutable, pure, unaltered.

A fleeting notion crossed the aggressor's mind—could she be the Child of God, his sister? How?

She leaped and vanished into the clouds, absorbed by their billowy embrace. The intricate web of vectors connecting the passengers dissipated into a faint mist.

The antagonist signaled another rotation with his left hand, this time counterclockwise.

The over-wing exit door returned to its frame, and the engine was made whole again. A gentle patter of shrapnel led back to a freshly reconstructed plane.

Time had reversed its flow, yet the man in the suit moved onward, operating outside the bounds of known constructs. Passengers engaged in an otherworldly choreography, returning to their assigned seats, their blank gazes resembling canvases where a new future was painted in crimson hues.

The plane rotated once more. The man in the pinstripe suit returned to first class, furthering the gap between the fuselage and his mystical interventions. Suspended in zero gravity, he moved effortlessly, an unwavering constant amidst the shifting tides of life.

Father knew. His child had witnessed.

The thought accompanied the man as he found himself back in his seat. An empty champagne glass materialized before him. The flight attendant from their earlier interaction returned, guided by the threads of time itself, now aligned with his ideals and principles.

"Sir, may I?"

His pearly white smile provided a stark contrast to his dark amber undertones. The gleam in his beard and curls hinted at a deadly demonstration of representation. He replied, "Please."

His seatbelt clicked into place, and the airliner commenced its descent.