The artificial skydome sun shone down on the forested ground, as a few dozen armor-clad figures strode through the underbrush and the overgrowth towards a ramshackle building in a lonely clearing. Each of the knights making their way towards the place had an air of seriousness about them, as if something important to them would be happening on this day, and at that place. Hoods were pulled down to the point of masking more than half their wearers' faces. Every operant visor was flipped downwards. No bright or vibrant garb was seen, but dulled and darkened cloth and metal. One by one, the knights filed into the building.
"Welcome, my fellow brothers and sisters," exclaimed a knight dressed in a white and red cloak, who evidently had been waiting for them. "Today, we will gather to see each other as individuals for the last time. Today, the Church of Unison fulfills its destiny on this mortal plane! We will stand as one, we will fight as one, we will rule as one! We are one!"
Anyone unfamiliar with this group probably already would've realized what they were on about. You see, looking past all the fabrications, the pep talk, the encouragement, plain and simply, the Church of Unison was a cult. Founded by an unknown high ranking knight, they believed that transferring each of their individual consciousness, knowledge and skill into one vessel would create the ultimate super soldier, a weapon to end all wars. Some members were grizzled veterans who just wanted the conflict to be over with already, others were brought in by peer pressure and the promise of being a god among man, and some just had nothing but their knowledge and skill, but couldn't eke out a living.
"Today, my fellow knights, we join together 'til death to fight the forces of evil! We will be immortalized in the halls of justice and legend! Today, we unite."
"Stop right there," said a knight, as he and five others drew their Valiances and stood up. "You're under arrest by the Spiral Order, Preacher, for evading prosecution, knightslaughter, and unauthorized experimentation on sentient beings. Give up now, or we'll take you down the hard way."
"Oh," sneered the one known as Preacher, "You'll need more than six knights to stop us. We've gone so far in our goal, did you really think we would have no security on this fateful day?"
As he spoke, several Knights jumped up and attacked the five other Spiral Order knights, knocking them out as the leader watched helplessly, restrained by one of the cultists.
"When you first joined us, I had such high hopes for you. I thought wrong, evidently. Such a waste. How long ago was it when you joined us? Five months? You know too much. By now, you've probably disseminated every little thing you knew among the top brass. They'll be coming for us. You've cost us much, and for that I bid you, goodbye."
At that, Preacher flicked his wrist, and a revolver slid out from his sleeve. He expertly caught it by the handle, spun it around into position, and fired.
"Take the others outside," he said to the grunts restraining the five other Spiral Order knights. The cultists nodded in assent, and dragged their unfortunate quarry outside.
Screams echoed through the air, and they went back in, minus the Spiral Order knights.
Well then, it's time. I'll give you all ten minutes to say your last words before you shake off the chains of individuality. Make them count."
Preacher went upstairs.
As the room erupted into a flurry of noise and chatter, two Knights sat away from the rest. They had not known each other so much, but they were now in deep conversation.
"My Vog. That was terrifying."
"I know. Suddenly I feel like I don't want to do this anymore."
"You too?"
"You don't, either?"
"Well, I realize that if, perchance, a multitude of individual consciousnesses are packed into one body, there won't just be pooled knowledge, combined skill. There'll be different opinions, different goals, different desires. We'll be so conflicting, we'll go mad."
"I'm not for sharing a body with heartless killers and the like, but your reasoning works too. What's your name?"
"Emilia. Yours?"
"Marten."
"Alright, listen. I know for a fact that we're going to have to... Well, to put it bluntly, "kill" our individual bodies, in order to unite. So here's an idea: we "fake" the method of death as everyone else does it for real. Once they start drifting away, we make a run for it."
"Sounds like a plan. Alright. Stay close."
At that moment, Preacher came back down, bringing a heavily armored knight body. There was no sign of activity from within.
"Well, my brethren, this is it. The moment we've all been waiting for. Please, come over here and take a syringe. One per knight, so don't get greedy!"
Once the congregation had gotten their needles, Preacher set a palm–sized receptacle on the table.
"Now what we need to do is to take a sample of our individual energy with the syringe, and put it into this. Now get going!"
"We'll be noticed if we don't give our samples," said Marten. "C'mon, follow me."
He dug the needle into his inner elbow, and winced as he drew out a glowing red liquid. Emilia did the same, and wound up with a brilliant emerald green. The two of them joined the others in walking to the altar and draining the samples into the receptacle.
"Excellent! Almost done! Now let me just do this-" said Preacher, as he closed the object's lid, shook it vigorously, and then pressed a button, at which point it extruded several needles from its other end. He then stuck it into the chest of the inactive Knight.
The Knight began to shake, as the energy was emptied into its body. Its colorless grey facade began showing a sign of color, as mismatched eyes, both in shape and coloration, opened and gazed upon the world for the first time. Despite this and the heavy breathing through its gas mask, there was no other sign of activity from the body.
"Now, let us bid farewell to our separation! Jansen! Get the drinks!"
"Yes, my lord," said one of the cultists, as he walked into the backroom. Seconds later, he wheeled out a large tray full of shotglasses filled with wine.
"This is Glasterdam wine, used in the past by many royals to celebrate victory. We today celebrate nothing less than victory, so let us drink! A toast! To Unity!"
"To Unity!" shouted the crowd.
"Alright," said Emilia, "I'm damn well sure there's poison in that drink. Remember, look like you're drinking, but don't let it get past your lips. Your sanity depends on it."
"Roger that."
And so, they drank. Or at least pretended to, as everyone else but Preacher did so.
"Damnit, Preacher will go last! He'll probably shoot us before we even make it to the exit!"
"Don't worry! Just wait until everyone else fades away. Look! They're starting to lose consciousness!"
As Marten pointed out, everyone else was starting to slowly close their eyes and stop breathing.
"Wait! We need to look like them too, or we'll be noti-"
"Hey! What are you two doing?"
"...Schidt."
"RUN!" shouted Marten, as he leaped over the chairs and made a beeline for the exit, with Emilia close behind.
"Why, you insolent little bastards," grumbled Preacher, as he loaded his revolver.
"Door's locked!" Emilia swore under her breath.
"Should've never come here if this was on your mind," shouted the cult leader. "You're not leaving in your individual bodies, you filthy rats."
"You'll want to get a second opinion on that," shouted Jansen, as he rolled the wheeled tray straight into Preacher and knocked him down, then got the handgun and shot the lock out. "Come on! Let's go!" he exclaimed, dropping the revolver as he bolted towards the door and kicked it open.
As they ran through the woods, Marten looked back and saw the cult leader smiling madly, while holding the revolver to his jaw.
He barely looked away before the shot rang out.
As the three of them got to the lift, they heard the sound of the house being destroyed by something, or someone, powerful.
As the lift stopped at the Arcade, they stared up vacantly at the light of the sun, before collapsing from exhaustion.