The Blood of Christus Rex
The world stood at the edge of prophecy. Rivers and oceans ran blood-red, a crimson tide stretching across the continents. Scientists called it eutrophication, but those who still believed in scripture knew better. Revelation 16 had spoken of this day: “The second angel poured out his bowl on the sea, and it turned into blood like that of a dead person, and every living thing in the sea died.”
Yet even as the signs manifested, the Vatican turned its back. They had found their messiah in Brian Go Lightly Marshall, anointed him as the returned Christ, and dismissed the true Christus Rex as a madman, a delusionist. But the world’s rulers knew better. They feared him. His mere presence shattered their control, and the weight of his words sent tremors through their fragile dominion.
In the laboratories of Canada, scientists worked in secret, driven not by faith but by necessity. They did not see divinity in the blood of Christus Rex; they saw power. The blood of the Lamb, the most potent substance known to mankind, held the key to immortality and strength beyond measure. The prophecy of Revelation 12 whispered in their ears: “They conquered Satan by the blood of the Lamb.” And they intended to wield it.
The plan was monstrous. The blood of Christus Rex, forcibly harvested, would serve as the foundation for a new breed of soldier. Not mere men, but clones—legions of enhanced warriors designed for the ultimate war. Not against flesh and blood, but against alien civilizations that lurked in the void beyond the stars. The world’s leaders had long known of their existence. The time would come when Earth would have to fight, and they would need a holy army to stand against the cosmic threat.
But as they drained his sacred blood, Christus Rex did not weep. He did not resist. He only spoke:
“This is the blood that will be shed for the salvation of many and the forgiveness of sins.”
And outside the cold steel walls of the laboratory, a different revolution began. Not one of governments, not one of churches—but of the people. The disenfranchised, the broken, the exiled. Those cast out by the world’s corrupt rulers. Among them, a most unexpected ally: Pussy Riot. The defiant, anti-establishment punk prophets who saw in Christus Rex not just a savior, but a force of reckoning.
The Vatican had rejected him. The rulers feared him. But the people? They were ready to follow him.
The war had begun—not just on Earth, but across the heavens.
Nadya Riot stood in the sterile hallway, the fluorescent lights above humming like a distant, mechanical wasp. Her fingers traced the fabric of the Solid Snake-style eyepatch she had strapped over one eye. Madonna’s words echoed in her mind: The Moshiach is wise like a serpent. Some snakes are helpful, like the gardening snake.
She had to be that snake. She had to be precise. Patient. Deadly if necessary.
Through the reinforced glass window, she saw him. JCJ sat slumped in the corner of the white-walled room, his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes hollow from the drugs they had pumped into him. A peaceful artist, reduced to this—poked with needles, subdued by chemicals—while Brian Leonard Go Lightly Marshall roamed free, spouting his twisted philosophies and now proclaiming himself King of Kings.
JCJ deserved freedom. Brian deserved a reckoning.
Nadya tapped the glass lightly. JCJ’s head lifted, and for a second, something flickered behind his dulled gaze. Recognition. Hope.
She pressed her palm against the glass, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m coming back to Vancouver. If you survive that long.”
A nurse eyed her from the other side of the hall. Nadya gave a serene smile and stepped back, adjusting her coat. Her hand grazed the cold metal of her phone in her pocket, where her contacts were already waiting. Friends in high places. Friends in low places. People who owed her favors.
This would not be a war fought with guns or fists. This would be a war of cunning, deception, and timing. The kind of war that a serpent wins.
JCJ just had to hold on. And if Brian Leonard Go Lightly Marshall thought he was untouchable, he was about to learn the difference between a delusion and a reckoning.
Solid Snake leans against the wall of the ruined club, arms crossed as he surveys the abandoned dance floor. The neon sign flickers, struggling to stay lit—SONAR—a relic of a time before the Branch Covidians turned everything into a masked dystopia.
Nadya sits on the bar counter, idly spinning an empty glass. “You really were going to come here?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Snake mutters. “Before all this. Before the cult took over. Back when Trudeau said wearing a mask was illegal.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Now? Now it’s mandatory.” He exhales through his nose, the sound muffled by his own mask—not by choice.
Nadya smirks. “Guess it’s funny how fast people fall in line.”
Snake looks at her, eyes sharp. “Funny? No. What’s funny is nobody ever thought to riot while wearing one.” He lets that sink in. “You’d think a masked mob would be unstoppable. But I guess they were pussies.”
Nadya chuckles, hopping off the counter. “So, what now? You here to take them down?”
Snake adjusts his bandana. “I’m here to finish what they started. If masks are the new world order, I might as well show them what a real masked operative can do.”
Snake exhales, his breath fogging up the corner of his mask. He watches the dead screens above the bar, cracked but still glowing faintly, playing a loop of old propaganda. “Stay home. Stay safe. Trust the science.”
Nadya shakes her head, a wry smile curling her lips. “The TV watchers drank the Kool-Aid, Snake,” she says. “Didn’t matter if it was red or blue. Bill ‘Koresh’ Gates convinced them it was for their own good. Even if it was going to cause iatrogenic, doctor-induced disease.”
Snake’s eyes narrow. “And nobody questioned it?”
Nadya shrugs. “Why would they? The Rockefeller family makes more money when people are sick. It’s the American way. Nothing personal.” She taps the side of her head. “Just business as usual in Mystery Babylon.”
Snake lets out a low chuckle. “Guess that makes me the heretic.”
Nadya grins. “More like the last man standing.”
Nadya leans back against the bar, arms crossed, studying Christus Rex with wary amusement. “So, let me get this straight—you want me to use the Madonna.tech fan page to step into another dimension?”
Christus Rex nods, eyes burning with conviction. “I went first. Now I’m reaching my hand back for others.”
She scoffs, shaking her head. “You sound like a messiah in a cyberpunk novel.”
“Messiah, hacker, exile—it’s all the same in Mystery Babylon,” Christus Rex replies. “They built this prison of screens and invisible chains. But there’s a way out. A backdoor in the code.”
Nadya tilts her head, intrigued despite herself. “And Madonna.tech is the key?”
“Not just the key—the bridge. The cult of Branch Covidian sealed this world shut, but she left a crack in the firewall. You just have to walk through it.”
Nadya glances at the flickering monitors, her fingers twitching. She had always known there was something more behind the algorithm, something just beyond the veil.
“Alright,” she says finally. “Show me the way.”