Long ago, in the year 8221, the world as we knew it ended in an apocalypse. The government was turned to when the problem needed handling. It was not taken care of the way one would expect. Instead, it ended up destroying most of America and the government became corrupt. The war began as all wars do, as a fight between different beliefs. Certain events took place on a well-worn battlefield that used to be known as Wildwood.
The battlefield was littered with corpses, the smell of acrid smoke along with the sour stench of decaying flesh of the dying and the dead filled Bogdan’s nostrils as he took cover behind a blown-up 7981 Toyota Sienna. He was dressed in winter camouflage pants, a faded black trenchcoat, and a white muscle shirt. His belt was one with bullet holsters on it but it was out. His raven-black hair was tied back into a ponytail with a part in his hair directly down the middle. Being an anthropomorphic wolf with fennec ears and bat-like wings, Bogdan had fur covering his body but still wore clothes as a human would. He wore a faded black cowboy hat with holes cut for his ears. His wings stuck out of the back of his sweat-soaked shirt. The shirt stuck to his lean-and-well-muscled-body. His face had a skull design on it in white along with a white lower jaw then tiger stripes everywhere else. There was also a red rune on his forehead that labeled him as a hybrid humanoid. The male had metal claws strapped to each wrist and boot. His eyes had yellow irises and slit-catlike-pupils. Bogdan checked the clip to see how many bullets he had left. There was only one. He muttered a curse and aimed down the scope of his Remington M700 Police Sniper Rifle.
Bogdan smiled as he squeezed the trigger. “See you in hell.” The enemy’s head exploded as the bullet passed through, his brain splattering against the wall he was hiding behind. However, he didn’t notice the men flanking him. He flinched as he felt a gun be put against the back of his head. “Crap.” He said and put his hands up. He was kicked to the ground and his wrists and ankles were tied together with rope. The enemy troops put a rag to his mouth, ‘what the…oh no…chloroform.’ He thought as he blacked out.
Bogdan came to hanging from his dislocated wrists. The laughter of those eternally damned and the screams of the dying filled the dark room. He knew this place from stories. It was the torture chamber of the St. Sebastian’s Prison Camp. As he looked around, Bogdan saw all the torturers in white hooded robes, most of the men skin-headed under their hoods. A man in a hooded red robe who was about 6’2” and looked to be 170 pounds walked in. The man had short blond hair and bright sky-blue eyes; he held a thick elm walking staff. Bogdan knew who the man was the moment he saw him. ‘That’s the head torturer,’ he thought to himself. He had a necklace on with the words Sainthood Saviors on it. Everyone from Bogdan’s home called them the SS.
The torturer smirked. “Well, look who’s awake. Now do you want to tell us who you’re working for, or do I get to enjoy my job?” Bogdan shook his head and spat at the man, saying nothing. “Well then, I guess I get to enjoy my job.” The man picked up a file with Bogdan’s name on it off of his own desk. “It says here that you hate asymmetry. Is that right?” Bogdan growled yet again said nothing. “Really, you have nothing to say? Surprising, however, I don’t care much. Let’s see if it is enough to get you to talk.” The torturer picked up a white-hot knife and smiled as he slid it down from Bogdan’s left eyebrow to his right cheek. Bogdan winced as it happened, the smell of burnt hair and flesh filling the air.
“You want to know who I work for,” Bogdan asked, repeating the earlier question.
“Yes. I think I’ve made that clear.”
“The gods are my employers, and I, their humble servant.”
“The gods, you say? There is only one God and He tells our leader, Pope Jonathan the eighteenth, who is worthy and who is a heretic. You, mutt, are a heretic.” The torturer picked up what appeared to be a club and swung it, knocking Bogdan out.
