Tim Marquitz - Resurrection

In my free time, what little I had, I practiced using my newfound magic. Baalth gave me just enough to cast spells-simple bolts of energy and the like-but apparently the skill to wield it comes from somewhere less apparent. It was easy to pull the trigger, but my aim and intensity left a lot to be desired. There were a few minor mishaps where I torched the walls black in the shielded basement, but nothing got too out of hand. I was slowly getting better, but it’d be a long time before I got good.

Worn out from my attempts to harness my energies, I was kicking back with a beer, watching the fights with Chatterbox when I heard a loud crash outside. The house sensors murmured a quiet alert just before the doorknob jiggled.

Too tired to risk using my magic, I snatched up my gun and went to the door. A loud, booming knock met me halfway there. I cast a quick glance up at the camera monitor placed near the door, and sighed, slipping my gun into the waistband of my jeans.

Whipping the door open in a huff, I asked, “What do you-” The rest of my sentence died on my tongue when I saw her.

Scarlett, her blond hair singed with black and pieces torn out in chunks, stood before me. Her face was stained with crusted blood, dark scabs forming over the deep gouges running down her neck, to her chest. Her blue eyes were streaked with red, deep black circles beneath them. Her clothes were shredded in places, black and yellow bruises peeking out from beneath.

She looked at me, tears welling up in her eyes. In a rush, she grabbed my shoulders, her hands shaking and cold, her grip fierce.

“I need your help,” she gasped, her voice crackling like a forest fire. “Heaven has fallen.”