Chapter Text
𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥
“May I pray?”
Within the tearful eyes of some thick-headed, blubbery, poor sonuvabitch, Higgs Monaghan was met with the sight of an unruly monstrosity; piety .
Faith was a thing that’s much bigger than himself, he knew, but hardly more powerful in this day and age. He considered permitting that final mercy while a smile pulled from ear to ear. He contemplated for a moment, until finding that his curiosities ultimately lay elsewhere, and a sound tore through the back of his throat, deep and guttural— irritated . He makes the most of the man’s pitiful whimper as his DOOMs corrupt the lower half of his legs, feeling every ebb and flow of his restless and hopeless endeavor. He’ll crush them , he thinks, soon enough.
“Tell me something,” Higgs bites out, “Do you truly have hope that an empty god will listen to your even emptier words? Do you have faith that he will stop my bullet from going through the back of your skull and out that mouth full of prayers?”
The man’s twisted guise tries not to betray his determination to outlive this terrorist; to not give in to the impending bullet and desolate void-out. He wants to live, Higgs can see, but so does everyone else. The man and his diligently devout nature begin to make Higgs smile, golden fangs glaring under timefall and dismal sunlight. The zenith of sunset , Higgs silently muses, truly a beautiful thing. And yet, this man who was desperately trying to play the god of his own fate has taken up all his attention.
“Will he show you mercy as he did with the rest of the planet during the Death Stranding? Because I’m sure that you people prayed a shit-load back then...and all for nothing.”
In retrospect, their ‘ promised land ’ had withered a long time ago. As of now, it is an indistinguishable mess of brittle shrub grass and austere soil that sprouts crystalline hands more than flowers. And what was directly before that was a second-best Eden ; black-and-white craters harrowed by colorless infernos. Their achromatic flames then attracted the mindless, otherworldly moths soon after; BTs that he now controlled. Black angels , some of his fellow war dogs called them, but Higgs considered otherwise during the better parts of a fight.
“The Death Stranding was divine judgment,” The man says, his words buffeted by the peals of laughter bursting from other surrounding terrorists, “God willed it. Just like God willed my death. Just like your bullet.”
It was a good choice picking him out of everyone else from today’s lot. The rows of heads covered by burlap sacks, kneeling before a dozen loaded assault rifles, were nothing but a waste now. Just like all the rest of them BRIDGES sons of bitches , Higgs mirthlessly thinks. He gestures exaggeratedly to the pious man and revels in another ripple of laughs; they seem to think the same as well. Higgs saunters behind the cowering man, staring down at the beads of sweat collecting at the back of his neck, turning the other cheek as he prays anyway.
“My bullet,” Higgs echoes sullenly, “My bullet? My bullet is your divine judgment? Righteousness that your spineless, all-mighty God has willed? No, no, that's too easy. Dying like that? Way too fuckin’ easy,”
Higgs fisted the back of the man’s matted dirty-blond hair, ignoring his horrified and much louder prayers—pleads. The infernal shimmer of his mask is always harsh on the eyes, even for Higgs, and he rips it from his chin before holding it up for his other war dogs to behold. The burn that stings on Higgs’ lips as it leaves is only a phantom, a gentle poison that affects his widening smile in the worst of ways. And, on the other hand, bearing that same, terrible shine is his golden talon knife—pressing the cold alloy steel into the crux of his neck.
“The easier it is, the older it gets, doesn’t it? I think it does. S’ boring as shit to torture the likes of you happy-go-lucky fucks,” Higgs carves a meaningless red shape into his skin, raptured by the inhuman noises ringing in his ears, “You BRIDGES members always think there’s an easy way out, seeing the worst and hoping for the best of things. But not here. Not now. Right? So, why don’t you do us both a favor and say ‘ Hello, God, I was wrong ’.”
“D-Death...death is—it’s an embrace from m-men like you.” The man pants.
“I ain’t no man.” Higgs whispers, swiping his tongue over the sweat over the man’s neck.
“W-Wait! Wait— no —” From Higgs’ crackling mask that was quickly slapped onto his lips, his screams were silenced, pilfered away from Higgs’ ears and the other war dogs who continued their balmy laughter.
“And this is your divine righteousness from your god.”
Higgs yanks the man’s head back, the same tearful and pious eyes pointing to the desolate sky and the particle’s fiendish smile. The cold bite of steel drove into his flesh until it found bone, and the golden shimmer of his knife was lost in the dark reds and wispy blacks. When crimson trickled over the mask’s golden teeth, he yanked his arm away. Higgs feels the ardent spray of carnage rest against his hands, soaking into the soles of his chiralium boots, and mottling his stinging lips. He cut too far—too wide, he finally realizes after a moment, yet could not care. The BRIDGES member’s head rolls aimlessly across the barren soil.
Higgs takes back his mask that glistens with ichor, taking the time to swipe his thumb against the dark streak and bring it to his tongue.
“Salty,” Higgs huffs disappointedly before fitting it back into place, “Now, for the rest of you…”
Higgs sleeps soundly to the dusk that is sanguinary and godless.
· · ─────── ·✁· ─────── · ·
The world is in ruins, and Higgs takes pride in that.
He’s grateful to watch as his war dogs volunteer to tie on crusty-wool aprons and toss grey and red bodies into fires. They’re not good dieners but they work with what they’ve got. He’s thankful for the men who trudge back to the fringes of their camp before they collapse into the dry grass and die there, finding value in each of their lesions and wounds. And he’s glad that the privacy he gets isn’t filled with idle silence or mindless pacing, as boredom in his line of work tends to be a dangerous thing—especially when he’s both the hunter and the hunted.
They’re closing in , one of his colleagues informed the next morning—a lieutenant who used to slave away on contracts and deliveries before joining the cause. The two hardly found amity between their parallel backgrounds, and that was a good thing; forming bonds went against everything he’s worked for. Not that a single relative comparison even fucking mattered. He cannot and doesn’t feel the need to connect to others without realizing that Bridget Strand was right . Humanity will need to burn first before they thrive, and Higgs savored every bit of that peace and quiet.
As he reels back from the words of his lieutenant, he hangs onto the tangible hope that, one day, things will change. But that kind of thing— hope —left something bitter at the end of his tongue. The process of trying to forget that he was once bonded with BRIDGES was arduous and made his hands shake. But he couldn’t beat the pipe dream out with a concrete wall or the skull of an incompetent sonuvabitch. And he was almost certain that he couldn’t fuck it away—the thought made his skin crawl with a haphazard and poorly-timed desire. Higgs is an insatiable person, yes , but still a human—full of life with very diminutive human-like aspirations. Perhaps even more so than he cared to admit.
And, he’s human again when he sees her—a woman dressed in red and smiling like they had all the time in the world—this Beach. She welcomes him with a hand that gestures towards the black sand that pinches and stings under his bare feet. He looks confused for a moment, but then he understands by the way her smile widens; she wants him to kneel. Higgs blinks away the sharp prickles on his knee as he lowers himself onto the sand, bowing his head to Amelie who laughs. It’s been a long time since she’s done that.
She presses the elfin slant of her mouth against his temple, “You’re doing great work.”
“God’s work?” Higgs blithely suggests but swallows thickly as she pulls away and reveals her frown.
“ Our work,” Amelie corrects, “But why, I ask, did you make such an effort to make him the testament?”
“They’re all BRIDGES . If any one of them trips over their own two feet, the rest will all fall like dominoes. Surely, you should know your own employees by now.”
Amelie pauses, turning away to gaze at the desolate sky of the Beach, “Only one.”
Higgs bites back a few crude certain words before nodding, “Right…”
“Well, your ‘ testament ’ has just reached Mountain Knot,” Amelie informs with a small sigh, “You should be proud of yourself. The whole city shut down by a single dismembered head, you’ve sent three-thousand people running for the hills.”
Higgs could imagine that and the wide-spread blitz. He dares not to vocalize that thought, however, remembering that Amelie was playing at both sides. She cared , Higgs thought with disdain, but not enough to get rid of me . Amelie walks along the shore, clad in those red stiletto heels that hurt his eyes as much as his mask seldom did, watching silently as her hand hovered over one of the many carcasses of beached sharks. Its rows of cartilaginous teeth were shadowed by Amelie’s palm and Higgs could imagine how such an apex predator roamed the seas and devoured life without taking a soul. Beneath his knees are only fish—smelts that reek .
“It’s only a matter of time,” Amelie informs Higgs, whose jaw clenches, “This is the last time we’ll see each other for a while. I must—”
“—Tend to him, yeah. I fucking know.” Higgs seethes through his teeth, keeping his gaze low and his head lower when he hears her footfalls sinking into the pebble and sand.
“Patience. Spend your time wisely, and don’t get reckless. Not without me.”
“Since when did you ever have a taste for it?” Higgs queries with some semblance of a grin, finally looking up at the angel of death who doesn’t quite share the same amount of mirth.
She smiles anyway, invoking something purely inhuman before his psyche—his ka —is lost in the Seam. Every day he comes here, somehow slipping between his world and his inevitable next when he does find an hour to sleep. At first, he thought that it wasn’t fair and remained resolute when he did eventually meet the sanguine face of Amelie Strand. Gradually, however, Higgs often forgets—and finally, ignorance paved the way to bliss.
He floats there, drifting idly for a while, similarly lost in a time when the sky was chipping white paint rather than vast blues. He didn’t know any better back then, but he sure expects himself to do so now. They’re close, so goddamn close. And when the time finally does come, he’ll reign over hell on earth in ways that he hadn’t already done.
He takes a breath, awake now, back in his own cot and in the dreaded land of the living. After the tremors leave his body from struggling to adjust to these warmer temperatures than the frigid ocean of the Beach, Higgs begins his workday with alcohol. It was a rare find—especially the bottle of scotch that he keeps on his desk that is littered and strewn with old paperwork, some that were even months overdue. And yet, he laughs after taking a swig; what the fuck is a deadline if he’s the one in charge? Acts of death disseminate one way or another.
When he does receive intel—sent to him via email by one of his bitches named Travis—Higgs skims through the passage of text that is written a tad bit too formal and cerebral for his own liking. The lack of emoticons really takes the fun out of this autopsy report , he thinks as he rests his chin on the palm of his hand and haphazardly chews at his slice of pizza. Through the steam that wafts from his slice, Higgs is just barely able to discern that their stretch of territories was either worn thin by loitering MULES or being bought out by BRIDGES officials. Irked, he kisses his teeth and scrutinizes his current options—the likes of which Amelie specifically told him not to be reckless with. With this new routine that was completely devoid of Amelie’s visits, for the time being, Higgs considered his leisure both dangerous and restless.
He had informed his war dogs and other Homo Demens within the northern vicinity to make themselves scarce. These clandestine methods only roused Higgs’ ire, however, and he promptly flung his slice of pizza across the room. It hits the wall with a wet splat, and by the time it falls onto the floor in a small puddle of tomato sauce and chunks of bacon, Higgs is already gone—his form dissipating in a plume of dark smoke and cinders. He would’ve thought that such treats were made to be appreciated—the little things in life—but, as always, Higgs remains a mercurial and apathetic creature; full of an arcane rage that is known only to a few.
In that piss-poor email that barely enumerates the specific location of their would-be compromised territories, Higgs does remember a particular passage that spoke vaguely of confluence in the northwestern region, near the Distribution Center of Mountain Knot. By the sound of it, for a brief and fleeting instance, Higgs was tempted to reply just how much of their ‘ belief in coalescence ’ was a bunch of bullshit. Just look at us, he wanted to write, yet thought the better of it. Such an idea had encroached on much of America already.
It doesn’t take him very long to travel the distance between the eastern region to the west—a courtesy that’s not entirely worth mentioning over from Amelie. Each time he steps out of the sharp and acrid plume of chiral cinders, he always finds himself somewhere new; places he would’ve liked to see during his younger days, times when he was an aimless idiot slaving away for others with eyes full of wonder. He doesn’t miss it, he tells himself, where he momentarily jumps to a field that is laden in snow. His feet sink until his knees are covered in frost, the likes of which are hardly a bother and only leave a faint burning sensation at the balls of his heels by the time he jumps again. He can’t miss it—he couldn’t even remember the last time anyone was ever worth something.
In his final jump, Higgs is shrouded under the dark shadows of trees that infrequently occupy the terrain. For it was warmer here, sunnier even. The greenery is a rare sight to behold—if it was worth valuing at all—yet, it provides him the perfect cover when he spots an abode in the nearby vicinity. From his current faculty of sight, he is immediately able to discern that the foundations were built from the trees themselves; timefall-resistant wood, it made sense. Yet, for a new structure, it looked like a hovel; most of the wooden wall panels had cracked and split and the two windows that are fixed between the red doorway are merely holes with no panes of glass.
What a waste , Higgs thinks, finally feeling frustrated now. At this point in the day, there wouldn’t be many people coming through here—not even for a place like this. With the midday sun just barely peeking between the summits of snow-crested mountains, he decides that right now would be the perfect time to properly survey the abode and decide whether or not it was worth raiding. Where’d the property owner even get the money to buy this spit of land off of BRIDGES’ grubby hands?
Finally resolute about his own misgivings and speculations, Higgs conceals himself using a surge of DOOMs that have a decrepit effect within his immediate vicinity. Golden hands sprout from his chiral seeds, where he slinks across the grass that leaves a trail of wilting death. His rancor has its own tolls, he thinks and stands before the establishment that is painted in a chipping slate gray. He stops himself from acting out of impulse—an inane desire to instantly set the walls ablaze just for the color that is harsh on his eyes that instinctively narrow.
He can find faults in the handiwork, having some incentive that this rickety building itself would not last four months. If anything, it would be much better as an outhouse. There is no noise that he can discern coming from within the house and no keen smell that he could trace as he sniffed at the algid air. Yet, there is something very faint in the air, something alive—and oblivious—that perhaps once lingered before hurriedly making way for the Knots south of here.
Higgs’ gaze flickers upward, above the red door that hangs a sign that is daintily painted in white letters. Welcome , it said, welcome, children of God . His fangs peek from under his upper lip, where the smile that pulls nearly stings— idiots , he thinks, they’re all idiots . The symbol mounted above the archway is a sight that makes his skin crawl.
It was a cross, Higgs realizes, it’s a church .
· · ─────── ·✁· ─────── · ·
At this point, upon seeing the house of a would-be god that was built upon his land— his territory —Higgs teeters on either stepping inside and robbing these priests and pastors blind or burning it all down here. He is reminded of the pious man he had executed the night before, memories that burn so brightly and so unwelcomingly behind his eyelids that Higgs pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Which option would do justice and satisfy him enough for coming all this way? The doorknob that was patently left unlocked shines a gold that nearly resembles the chiral properties of his mask, leaving him to wonder if this particular flock of sheep was a ruse or fantasies made true out of twisted beliefs.
The Death Stranding was God’s divine judgment , Higgs remembers the man’s hapless voice of reason before he grabs ahold of the doorknob and turns it slowly. From the slightest crack in the door, Higgs is taken aback by the smell of baked bread wafting through the aperture, a feat of this residence that piques his interest as he could not initially detect the smell from the outside. Innovative bunch of assholes , Higgs thinks, concluding that the doorknob did indeed share the same elements and qualities of his own mask. However, he did not deem them worthy of praise quite yet.
He welcomes himself inside without a visible figure that idly saunters and takes in the rather amiable interior. There are only four pews that haven’t been smoothed over with sandpaper yet, where Higgs ghosts his hands over where he would’ve inevitably received ten or more splinters. Even the crags outside were softer than this.
His languid movements drift from one side of the room to the next, trying to get a feel of the dimly-lit sconces that seldom provide a warmth that could melt away the tingling sensation still left in his feet. Ahead of him is a podium, where everyone would look just to hear the almighty word of God. Higgs makes an unseemly snort and impishly kicks the platform, letting it topple over and collapse onto the ground with a dull thump.
There are no Bibles, however, something that Higgs is keen on noticing. What he does find instead, strewn about in a fashion that was similar to his bunker, were papers of half-written notes. Unfinished verses from the testaments of Jesus’ apostles, where Higgs believed that the rest of them were already learned by heart. Higgs discards himself of his BB-pod, setting it aside on the seat of the pew—somewhat of an attempt to make himself comfortable.
He scoffs dryly and swipes his hand across the table, where the parchments soar, drift, and surround his feet. And, resting against the toecap of his booth, he spots a smaller parchment that is lined with blue ink, a laudatory note of appreciation written for BRIDGES, thanking them for being the church’s sponsor. They’re both in this then , he thinks and somewhat represses the urge to sigh aloud—somehow thinking that it would be a far worse thing to do than what he had already done to this abode, god fucking dammit . At this point, the particle decided that he had already seen enough.
The baked bread is hardly enough to satiate his volatile impulses and dangerous interests, yet he still snatches two sliced chunks from a plate that sits on the table closest to the door, accompanied by a row of small plastic cups filled with wine. The body and blood of Christ are so sour and stale on his tongue, yet he cannot help but wonder if such things were meant for beings like him. I am one and the same , he thinks, swallowing the blood like an incongruous shot of whiskey, if a man eats and savors holy things, what do those kinds of things taste like to God? He doesn’t—and perhaps he was never meant to—understand such ways; the Lord’s mysterious ways.
In a wayward fantasy, Higgs can marginally conceive the faces of desperate folk that could be packed here someday—if he were to leave the establishment unscathed. The mundane would be teeming with hope for a brighter day tomorrow, a yearning that their sorrows and grief that last beyond these last few decades would, at last, provide them with a so-called ‘ blessing ’. In the meantime, he knows, Higgs would be there on the horizon that is black with tar, giving rise to the vicious and otherworldly entities that roam and swallow the earth whole. The same place they would hope Eden would finally spring from.
The particle, however, is disturbed by the sound of footfalls nearing the door. He hones his focus back into the scenery around him, somewhat dreading the state he’s left it in. Yet, he doesn’t do a thing, and neither bothers to conceal himself anymore even as the door cracks and pulls open again, where the red paint melts into the orange light of sunset. How long has he been here? On a bold streak, Higgs even dares to remove his hood and his masks—for what would a pastor perceive of him and his facades in his decaying house of God? The smell of bread and sultry air is long gone now, for the room becomes occupied by the acute scent of wildflowers that are wrapped in white ribbon—the bouquet resting in the arms of a woman laden in gray.
A woman, he realizes, and finds himself standing in the middle of the mess he’s created. However, she doesn’t entirely seem sure of herself as she blinks widely at him—just barely expressing some visage of incredulity. She takes in his true visage just as much as he takes hers. In this awkwardly fraught silence, Higgs makes the first move—as per usual—and gestures languidly to the state of the podium and her scattered parchments.
“I beg your pardon. Didn’t think anyone would be home,” Higgs says and leans over to procure the closest piece of paper that rests under his chiral boot, “Sign said ‘ welcome ’ but...the outside of, well, this church looks like it would’ve scared most folks away.”
The woman’s lips part a few times before she sets down the bouquet atop the serving table, her lips hesitating to grace him with even the ghost of a smile, “Ah, quite. The walls do look like they need a fixer-upper, don’t they? Nonetheless, all are welcome in the church.”
“Nice to meet you,” As Higgs continues to pick up the parchments, he almost bites his own tongue out of revulsion as he speaks, but manages a trying smile that the woman seemed to take without a grain of salt, “Though I must say, it’s rare to find someone young taking part in these kinds of things. It’s mostly traditions for the old and the sick.”
The woman hums in agreement, pulling the end of the gray ribbon that was tied to the bouquet, “Suppose I’m both then. And you are?”
One of the papers he sets back on the table reads Matthew 23:27 , and he notices that it is distinctly written in red ink rather than black and blue, “Ah, new to town, so to speak. I live eastward but came here. The name’s Peter. Peter Englert. Seeking to be...a child of God, of some sort.”
The woman nods with a delicate smile, reaching over to acquire an empty vase that sits upon the ramshackle window sill. The wildflowers, he learns, are more like weeds than proper blossoms. But it wasn’t like it made much of a difference; autumn has come to an end and the unforgiving elements of winter will come just the following week, and still leave a sting in his nostrils from the fern. She’s a mature young woman who doesn’t appear nor would be considered someone of consequence, for the particle of God, considered that kindness of hers to be the most fragile thing of all.
“Englert? I’m afraid I haven’t heard of someone named Englert in the eastern regions,” She admits softly, peering at him from over her shoulder as he fixes the podium, “A-Apologies. That might have come off as a bit rude.”
Higgs shakes his head, a grin pulling from ear-to-ear, “No offense taken. For acts of wrath have wounded me far worse before. My pride survives. Just as I do on this hellscape. Every day.”
“Your pride?” The woman echos, turning to him fully now and so perilously heedless to the fangs that shine beneath the falling sun, “My sympathies, truly. Though, pride is—”
“—Pride is a sin,” Higgs nods, splaying his hand across the oak of the podium surface, “Yeah, I’m very well aware. Pride though can bring confidence. In my experience, that leads to action. I’d argue that I am entitled to feel proud of the work I do; the work I put into my beliefs.”
The woman tilts her head inquisitively and Higgs can almost see the gears reeling and turning in her head as she considers his words, “Your belief in God? In Jesus Christ?”
Higgs blinked owlishly before smiling again, “Yes, that’s right.”
· · ─────── ·✁· ─────── · ·
It’s been two days since he’s visited the church.
Church Silva, the woman had named it, written in gold ink above the black cross. Their initial meeting was much too formal than he’d like but very amiable—and by the time that revelation came to him, it was already too late. The church still stood on his plot of land, that woman was still alive and breathing. It was terrifying for him; perched on the branches of the trees hanging just above the church’s rickety roof during his leisures.
The war dogs lingering throughout the regions just couldn’t find a way to satiate his lack of entertainment, a kind of pastime that didn’t involve enduring the caterwauling of lambs that were to be slaughtered. His hands aren’t red, not now, and he intends to keep it that way until this new shepherd has learned the ins and outs of commanding her new flock. No one had come in and stayed a night in the church, nobody besides her—she truly was the sole owner on this spit of land.
During the times he does return to work, it is only in the early mornings. He’d make the excuse of wanting to be productive; the quicker he gets things done, the faster the Last Stranding will come , he told his lieutenants. They don’t question their leader—they would never —as he lies through his teeth. The clamor outside the walls, even the screams, were just not intriguing enough anymore. It does mean something to him, however, they always will. Yet, that doesn’t stop his exasperation from taking a physical toll on his body that protests; he never sits still, especially for a capricious creature like himself.
His journeys are wearing thin as the game is beginning. He has not fully adopted the mindset of what would’ve left his world to die in vain, meaning that he still does have a chance to pave the road for his angel. He is still the herald of destruction, not just a messenger who is bored out of his mind watching as that pious woman tends to her church all day. She works on the floorboards while Higgs nukes cities; they are in perfect and absolute harmony.
In the rare instances when his mind was lost in a harsher memory—perhaps derived from the images he suffered the night before—he imagines these green fields that bear red fruit to melt into ash. His blackened sea of fire could engulf the chipping wood and all its splinters in a heartbeat, where he occasionally finds himself standing high above. And when he seldom felt cruel, he can envision his fingers tied together in grey ribbons that stretched for miles attached to the spirits of Beached Things, pulling and making them march forward. On occasion, he does find himself smiling at such thoughts, but he mostly ponders solemnly, somewhat wishing he had not entertained the idea at all.
The woman was a bore, to be frank. She is nothing but smiles and innocence, devoutness, and hope in the eyes of those who soon flock to her. They seek guidance, teachings, and even shelter when his own war dogs do manage to jeopardize the paths they walk. It rouses his ire, seeing them hand their desperation over so easily and willingly in her softer embrace—they don’t even pray for themselves, most of the time. Higgs hears their hopes to return next Sunday if they manage to evade the golden faces of death.
She agrees with them, reaching an arm over their trembling shoulders to hold and comfort these people—his intended mass—in their time of need. It sickens him. He’s sick of her . Yet, he stays in the trees, continuing to glare into the gap of her decrepit windows that are oh-so welcoming to the light from above. Set it ablaze , Higgs thinks as he rests his cheek into the palm of his hand, roast alive like the little pieces of bacon you are. Pigs, filthy and desperate pigs.
Before the complete emergence of winter, under the bed of foliage lies a plot of thorns. One that the woman is keen on avoiding as she digs her hands through the dirt, uprooting flowers that seem to have some semblance of life that she thinks could indeed be saved. She collects the yellow and pale redbuds in a woven basket—a gift that had been delivered to her by one of her followers after her third sermon. She smiles still, directly below him, on her knees, and portraying a kindness that he no longer suspects is a facade.
“Are you an angel on my shoulder?”
Their gaze finds each other easily, despite being so far away. To be seen without his mask had almost wounded his vanity, but he waves at her regardless, maintaining his cunning. She doesn’t appear to be the least bit concerned over his current appearance, yet Higgs does notice the way she keeps her distance, the handle of her basket wrapped around her fist and not her arm. She could throw it if she wanted to and make a quick escape, but he doesn’t vocalize his own gifts and tricks. Not here, not yet.
“You watch me sometimes,” The woman points out, her fingers tracing along with the bark of the tree he sits in, “You came to me some time ago. But you do not come to watch me deliver my sermons.”
Higgs rolls his tongue over his bottom lip, “Questioning my faith, are you? Don’t worry your head about that, darlin’. It isn’t like I find you boring or anything. Just want to see what I’m getting into first.”
“Does that mean you were taught differently, Mister Englert? Did you have a pastor or reverend in your younger days?” She inquires with an innocent tilt of her head, peering up at him with eyes so soft and what he could assume to be fascination, “The Death Stranding caused most people to lose faith, wandering without hope.”
Higgs dares not to let his mind tread over such ruinous memories, where fists and screamings were his only teachings—he instead smiles and nods, “My daddy taught me all there was to know. I prayed when there were times I almost didn’t have hope. Prayed for my faith, too.”
“ John 3:10 through 16 , Mister Englert,” She says with eyes full of lament, “The Lord is always here for you.”
“Will you be there for me, too?” Higgs inquires, slowly leaning closer to the crown of her head, where he catches the faintest whiff of baked bread and alcohol lingering there.
“Always.” She hums, allowing the handle of her basket to loop over her elbow.
The feeling that rouses in his chest right there and then is so utterly human and harrowing, that Higgs cannot and does not stop himself from smiling at her—fangs and all.
He follows up on her offer to prepare for tomorrow’s sermon, descending to her side as the flap of his cloak rushes past his back. She questions his dark wings, wondering why he would need such garments when there was hardly any timefall that could damage him. He argues that there are other things he is cautious of, an answer that she doesn’t prod at. And for that, he’s glad—there are devils in those details, after all. Upon reaching the vicinity of the church, he does see an improvement in its conditions, and she takes his single and rather crass compliment with enthusiasm.
“The Lord guided my hand,” She beams, ridding the empty wine cups and plate of crumbs into a disposable garbage bag, “It makes me very happy to hear you say that, Mister Englert. You were the first person to be in the church, actually, the first person to ask me for teachings. A-And when you didn’t show, I was so afraid I had done something wrong.”
“My judgment of you doesn’t believe you to be a sinner, at least,” Higgs assures, where his infernal smirk shows itself when her back is turned to him, “I don’t think you could sin, even if you tried, darlin’.”
He sees the tips of her ears dust with red, “I-I am not as perfect as you’d believe, Mister Englert.”
Higgs shrugs with a lackadaisical cadence, “Neither am I, but you still thought so highly of my compliment.”
Her peal of laughter that follows is so sweet, that Higgs’ jaw aches as he instinctively clenches it. He imagines the face she’s making right now as he picks up a stray Bible from the left pew, intrusively wanting to compare how much it differed from her followers with him. For him , he thought with gleaming eyes, a smile for him . He leaves the book atop the podium that is decorated in wildflowers and weeds, sauntering beside her.
She still doesn’t show a lick of some unnatural quality he had been searching for. Some kind of underlying aspect of her nature that could tear this place down—especially on her own accords. If she truly wasn’t as perfect as she described herself to be, then what sort of trouble could he find for himself? With an acute whiff of the air, Higgs perceives that she has been alone for some time; no family, no true home to be comfortable in. The church was her home , Higgs could imagine her insisting, where it leaves him contrite.
“Honestly, I didn’t think I would,” She admits, her hands clenching around the bag’s red handles, “I saw that you had put your BB-pod on the pew. You’re a porter, right? It’s just...the people I know could say you’re doing God’s work. But, those same people with faith...they also don’t take too kindly to porters with DOOMs. Common knowledge enough...not like how it is in the capital.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware,” Higgs says, glancing towards the sunlight that peers through the window, “ Unholy acts of God , they call it. Not necessities of survival.”
She shakes her head softly, “I wouldn’t like you to leave so soon. But I also wouldn’t know what to do if...if you’re a sufferer.”
“You can say demon .” Higgs muses, yet he didn’t expect his levity to reach the woman, who blinked at him for a moment, then chuckled so sweetly.
“Will you come to my sermon tomorrow, Mister Englert?” She asks, peering at his solemn visage through her lashes, “I believe with your insight, I can do great things for the church. For everyone and especially those in need.”
Tomorrow? Tomorrow...he’ll make his move to Central Knot City. Tomorrow would be the day the game truly begins.
“As long as you won’t mind my silence,” Higgs says after a long exhale, “I save my word for my faith. And my faith only.”
“Thank you,” She exclaims, beaming up at him with a kind of innocence that he doesn’t quite know what to do with, “Thank you, Mister Englert. You can put your faith in me to teach you well about the Lord’s ways.”
Higgs huffs—not quite a scoff and neither a chuckle, “Honestly, I’m more interested in your own ways, darlin’.”
Innocence , a truly dangerous thing.
· · ─────── ·✁· ─────── · ·
In the early Sunday morning, Higgs is true to his word as he stands before the house of God. Yet, he cannot shake the feeling that he stands upon the edge of a precipice and is looking to his doom, deep into the sea. Such an abyss won’t give him a second chance—not like his Seam. Higgs doesn’t remember the last time his nerves got the best of him, only drawing vague similarities when he was anticipating the detonation of a nuke. He wasn’t afraid, no , and being eager was not likely.
He neither dresses to the nines nor like a porter—just Peter Englert, the prepper. Whoever that was anymore. His mind becomes disturbed, however, when the door creaks open—enticing him with the scent of baked bread, wildflowers, and wine again.
She smiles at him from the doorway, beckoning Higgs with a quick and reaching hand. He doesn’t allow her to take his wrist, and welcomes himself inside, making sure to avert his eyes from the hanging cross. He would not like the figure of Jesus crucified to be responsible for giving him cold feet. He follows her inside and is welcomed by only four individuals seated on the two pews. They don’t look at him—they don’t want to—as they were locked in prayer. Sheep, he considers them, cattle.
“I hope I’m not intruding.” Higgs strains to say, deciding it would be best to linger behind near the door.
Yet, she shakes her head and lays her unpalatable hand on his forearm, speaking in a hushed voice, “I’m just glad that you even came. Come, you can have a seat beside Missus Avery. She’s a bit of a lively personality, but sweet. Honest.”
True enough, he is seated upon the very end of the left pew, next to a middle-aged woman with poofy curls that has a shock of white, pulled from a receding hairline. In her soft, leathery hands lies a carved wooden turtledove, wings painted a pastel blue and some feathers mottled black, where its neck is tied with a familiar grey ribbon. It’s a children’s toy , he realizes but doesn’t vocalize his curiosities that might be untoward. He only begins to listen when the verses from the Bible resonate from the podium—closer to him now.
“‘ No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man ’,” Such holy words carry in his ears, yet he hadn’t anticipated that it would come from such a kindly and inculpable voice, “‘ God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it .’”
Could you , he wanted to ask. Could you be able to endure what is beyond your ‘ability’? Higgs wants to scoff, but masks his misgivings with a clear of his throat, even taking the extra measure to avoid her gaze that wanders. Who would be more righteous and worthy of ‘ God ’ if they could deny what’s beyond their limits? He imagines those ‘ simple things ’ in life again, the wonders of flesh, bone, and glory—ruminating what kind of woman she would be if she wasn’t preaching. Slaving herself away on contracts? A wife to a successful businessman and completely devoid of true aspirations?
They were all possible, yet she was here . She is a wealth of opportunities, the likes of which Higgs was beginning to be eager to seize. He imagines her as a sufferer, shunned by her people the second she was discovered—frightening to herself and all others. Tar would wrap around her limbs that would reach out to her flock, screaming obscenities and pleas that Higgs had heard a million times before, all in that sweet voice of hers. She’ll fall before she can rise, he suspects, she could eventually— they all do.
“The Lord will always provide a way of escape,” She continues, eyes finally lifting from Higgs’ storm-brewed gaze, “And they all lead to salvation.”
That’s only if I don’t get to you first , Higgs thinks.
When the sermon came to an end, Missus Avery burst into tears, babbling about the son that she had lost a few months ago. Some sentences were coherent enough for others to comfort, while Higgs was hazardously tempted to slake his vexations. The priestess came down from her podium to wrap this woman in an embrace, while the particle awkwardly shuffled away and leaned himself against the wall. No one spared him a single glance, no one was more in desperate need of her love than Missus Avery.
“Your son has returned to God,” One of the men—elderly in his years—whispers, “He is free from pain. Free with the angels.”
“He was just a boy…” She counters, but not out of belligerence or offense, and continues to cry on his shoulder until she is escorted out with the rest of the church folk.
“Her son was a porter,” So softly, a voice whispered into his ear—for the priestess might’ve feared she was committing a sin with her lips, “He worked for BRIDGES until the terrorists came, raiding the main building in a coup. They say the man who led them was a sufferer, showing a level of DOOMs that hasn’t been seen before.”
Higgs tries to find such a vague memory, yet too many acts of bloodshed render him clueless, “Wonder what BRIDGES did after the slaughter. Crawled back into the gutters, I reckon.”
Her lips purse, “They hope to rebuild what was taken. That is all that I’ve heard before I came out here. Missus Avery hasn’t been well since, fending on her own...depending on me of all people.”
“Yes,” Higgs breathes, nodding slowly, “I can’t imagine her joining the cause of terrorists. But...what’s left for her to lose?”
“Her faith, I suppose,” She suggests, unafraid and unsuspecting even as his smile widens enough to show teeth, “I don’t think I could ever—”
A scream breaks into the air outside of the church, where claps of thunder and a cacophony of disembodied voices follow. A visage of pure terror crosses her features before she rushes to the clamor, but Higgs manages to capture her when she yanks open the red door. Beside him is the figure of Jesus crucified again, and in front of him are a flock of Beached Things, circling the entirety of parishioners, all of them cowering in fear and shivering under timefall.
They begin to decay where places have wrinkled, and rot where flesh was supple. For Missus Avery and her hands, still holding the perishing wooden turtledove, tremble and reach out for the two of them. They need their shepherds, Higgs learns, in more ways than one—all of which he doesn’t bother to fulfill. In his arms, the heavenly shepherd screams for her sheep, her cattle, and her flock. Filthy pigs , he thinks again, tapping into his own wealth of power by keeping the Beached Things perfectly still.
Finally, the voices and breaths die in both of their lungs. Higgs adjusts his grip when a streak of lightning splits the gray sky in twain, using his hand to console and stroke the side of her head that rests against his shoulder. She weeps hoarsely as her flock rots in silence, but she does not fight against his cruel embrace and stops reaching out to them, too. When the nine pairs of eyes turn glossy—like the carcasses of smelts and sharks alike—Higgs is finally able to unleash his wrath.
“You couldn’t have saved them. They belong to the dead now, darlin’,” Higgs breathes ardently into the shell of her ear, still red at the tips, “It was their time, not ours.”
“S-Stop,” She grunts weakly, fisting into the drape of Higgs’ cloak, “Make...m-make them stop!”
Higgs stifles a guttural groan and reaches a hand forward, “Hush, sweetheart. Hush now. Put your faith in me,”
With a languid and dismissive—absolutely indolent—gesture, the Beached Things dissipate into the damp air before the rain. She sees it all, he knows, but couldn’t care less as her flock is finally free. The grass and wooden steps before them are saturated and sprouting golden hands where they had rotted. Hands that reach out for her in welcome rather than desperation, fingers that she wanted to take, but Higgs wouldn’t let her. She veers around, a visage full of incredulity than fear.
Her faith remains even after enduring Higgs’ display, where he deems her worthy and cups each side of her jaw, “All of your faith.”
Such revered innocence was broken the moment Higgs had stolen what was surely her first kiss.
We will be the proper shepherd for these droves of pigs.
welcome to 𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚, another Death Stranding reader-insert fanfic. this is [ no, seriously this time-- ] a mini-series comprised of 10 chapters with our lovely trashy-pizza boy, Higgs Monaghan, who surely commits sins daily.
this concept was kept in my draft for 6 months and because I've gotten a bit rusty with my writing, I wanted to use this as practice and experiment with new elements of writing that I haven't gotten used to yet. it's been incredibly fun so far and i can't wait to show you all what's in store because,,,oh...oh boy. surely, i am going to hell for this.
these chapters consist of 4-5 segments, all-around 5 pages each. it won't be as back-breaking as Little Chaos, but i still hope you all enjoy it. because i've written out an actual OUTLINE for this story, i can safely say that the chapters in this story will come by much faster than ever--weekly, most likely. also, fair warning, some of you might know, i do like to dapple a bit with my own plotlines to develop certain characters so, if you're confused as to who some of these people might be, i am so sorry lmao. just bear with me!
this idea totally derailed and elaborated on its own, none of y'all look at me. this was an idea that came to me at 3 am after drinking with my friends, who were mostly Christians and Catholics. as a person who was once religious before, this story is going to be so, so much funnier to me. but if it isn't your cup of tea, feel free to turn back now.
thank you everyone so much for your love, support, and appreciation that you have for this story and as always, much love!