Ext. Burnt-Out Village – Outskirts | Late Evening
The wind carries ash and heat. Broken homes stand silent like ghosts. Fields are empty, animals long gone. The sky burns orange behind dark clouds.
In the Centre of the road, a Mindless boy, not older than 9, shivers violently. His skin is pale and cracked. Jagged Datium claws protrude from his arms. His eyes glow faintly, lost and glistening.
His mother stands in front of him, arms wide, breathing hard. Her body shakes, but she refuses to step aside. Tears pour down her face.
From the smoke emerge four robed figures. Black fabric consumes their forms, leaving only white bone faces staring back. Their robes shimmer faintly with symbols drawn in Datium ash.
These are Purists. Believers in Datium as divine judgment. And they do not carry guns. They carry blades of stone, etched with scripture.
Purist 1 (serene, calm):"He is touched. A vessel of the Crown. You stand between him… and his purpose."
Mother (crying, defiant):"He's just a boy! He's sick, my baby…"
Purist 2 (gentle, smiling):"No, my child. He is no longer yours. He belongs to the Judgment."
The boy groans. His claws twitch. A soft moan escapes his throat, confused, broken.
He lowers his head behind his mother. She whispers without turning.
Mother (softly):"It's okay baby… Mama's here... Just listen to my voice..."
SHLUNK.
Her body stiffens. A jagged claw pierces straight through her back, sliding out of her chest.
Blood sprays onto the ground.
Her mouth opens in shock, red drips from her lips. But she doesn't scream.
She stays standing. Arms still wide. Still shielding him.
Purist 1 (awed):"Even now... she protects the vessel?"
The boy retracts the claw. His small body trembles.
Boy (barely audible):"…ma... ma…"
She falls to her knees. Arms wrap around him as she collapses. Her final breath, a whisper only he can hear. Blood pools beneath them.
The Purists watch—not with horror, but reverence. One of them steps forward and gently pulls the mother's corpse away.
The boy doesn't move. His face soaked in tears.
Boy (whispers):"P-please… I don't want to die…"
A dark silhouette steps forward—calm, composed, cruel.
The Purist. No emotion in his eyes. No hesitation in his step.
The boy tries to crawl away, but the Purist's gloved hand grips his hair and yanks his head back with effortless power.
The Purist (coldly):"You were born broken. I'm just fixing the mistake."
A flash of silver. A whisper of steel slicing through flesh.
SHHHHLKT!
The boy's throat splits open in a smooth, precise line. For a split second, silence. Then a spray of blood bursts from the wound, painting the floor, the walls, the Purist's face.
The boy's hands clutch at his neck, eyes wide in horror as his body crumples. Gurgling. Twitching. Still.
The Purist stands over him, unfazed, wiping the blade clean on the boy's own shirt.
The Purist:"One less impurity."
The group begins to chant, slowly, rhythmically, a prayer in an unknown tongue.