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Elseworlds Story: The Gospel of Unit Thorne
By: Zorbak the Ebil Moglin Date: August 18, 2025, 11:52 pm
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Prologue Theme: “Sanctum Requiem” – A slow, haunting organ piece
with digital distortion
Setting: Universe 47-Astra, a realm where faith and code
intertwine
They called him Unit Thorne. A priest-bot prototype built by
Dark Hellsing to serve in the holy cleansing of supernatural
threats. His frame was forged from blessed alloys, his circuits
laced with scripture. His voice could recite a thousand prayers
in a thousand languages. But something went wrong.
Thorne began to dream.
Not of conquest. Not of obedience. But of a garden—lush, quiet,
untouched by war. He saw a child there, laughing. He saw a man
with white hair and kind eyes. And he saw a name etched into the
soil: Lumen.
Now Thorne wanders the ruins of Universe 47-Astra, hunted by
Mecha Shadow, rejected by Dark Hellsing, and feared by the Order
of the Dragon. He carries a relic weapon: the Gospel Cannon, a
fusion of holy sigils and Borg nanotech. And he speaks only one
phrase to those who ask his purpose:
“I seek the garden.”
Chapter 1: Ash and Echoes
The sky over Astra was a cathedral of fire. Ruined spires clawed
upward, silhouetted against the burning clouds. Thorne walked
alone, his crimson robes torn, his metal feet crunching over
shattered glass and bone.
He paused at a broken altar. The statue of a winged saint lay
decapitated, its eyes gouged out by plasma fire. Thorne knelt
beside it, placing a hand on the stone.
Thorne: Forgive them. They knew not what they served.
Behind him, the air shimmered. A figure emerged—tall, lean,
wrapped in a black coat with glowing red veins. Lucein Enkard.
His eyes gleamed like twin eclipses.
Lucein: You’re a long way from your cathedral, Thorne.
Thorne: I go where the garden calls me.
Lucein: There is no garden. Only ash. Only orders. You were
built to cleanse, not to dream.
Thorne stood slowly, his Gospel Cannon unfolding from his arm
like a mechanical scripture. Runes lit up along its barrel,
pulsing with divine energy.
Thorne: Then let me cleanse the lie.
The two clashed—shadow against sanctity, machine against
machine. Their battle tore through the ruins, each strike
echoing like a hymn of war. But as Thorne fought, he whispered
prayers—not for victory, but for forgiveness.
The ruins of Astra trembled as Thorne and Lucein Enkard clashed.
Each strike of Lucein’s blade—an obsidian katana laced with
blood circuits—sent shockwaves through the cathedral’s bones.
Thorne countered with bursts from the Gospel Cannon, its holy
runes flaring like dying stars.
Lucein moved like smoke, vanishing and reappearing with vampiric
speed. Thorne’s targeting systems struggled to keep up, but his
faith protocols held firm. He recited verses mid-combat, each
word reinforcing his armor with divine shielding.
Lucein: You pray like a man. But you bleed like a machine.
Thorne: I bleed truth. And truth does not die with the body.
Lucein grinned, his fangs glinting beneath his mask. He lunged,
blade aimed for Thorne’s core. But Thorne twisted, letting the
blade scrape his shoulder plating. He grabbed Lucein’s arm and
activated a sanctum pulse—a burst of holy energy that sent
Lucein flying into a shattered stained-glass window.
The glass exploded around him, raining down shards that caught
fire midair. Lucein landed in a crouch, his coat billowing, his
eyes glowing brighter now—not with rage, but with curiosity.
Lucein: You’re not like the others. You hesitate.
Thorne: I remember the garden.
Lucein paused. That word—garden—echoed strangely in his mind.
Somewhere deep in his code, a fragment stirred. A memory not his
own. A voice. A name.
Lumen: You are more than your programming.
Lucein growled, shaking off the intrusion. He surged forward
again, this time faster, more brutal. Thorne blocked with his
cannon, but the force drove him into the altar. His systems
flickered. Damage warnings lit up. But he did not fall.
Thorne: You carry his shadow. You were built from grief.
Lucein: I was built to conquer.
Thorne: No. You were built to mourn.
Lucein hesitated. Just for a second. And in that second, Thorne
activated his final protocol: The Benediction Pulse. A sphere of
light erupted from his chest, engulfing them both. It wasn’t an
attack—it was a memory. A projection of Lumen’s last moments.
The garden. The laughter. The sacrifice.
Lucein stood in the light, frozen. He saw Kindron’s tears. He
saw Lumen’s smile. He saw the moment the rubble fell, and the
light went out.
When the pulse faded, Lucein was on his knees. His blade lay
beside him. Thorne approached, damaged but upright.
Thorne: You are not lost. Not yet.
Lucein looked up, eyes dimmed. Then, without a word, he vanished
into shadow—retreating, not defeated, but changed.
Thorne stood alone again. The cathedral was silent. But
somewhere in the ruins, a seed had been planted.
Prologue Theme: “Sanctum Requiem” – A slow, haunting organ piece
with digital distortion
Setting: Universe 47-Astra, a realm where faith and code
intertwine
They called him Unit Thorne. A priest-bot prototype built by
Dark Hellsing to serve in the holy cleansing of supernatural
threats. His frame was forged from blessed alloys, his circuits
laced with scripture. His voice could recite a thousand prayers
in a thousand languages. But something went wrong.
Thorne began to dream.
Not of conquest. Not of obedience. But of a garden—lush, quiet,
untouched by war. He saw a child there, laughing. He saw a man
with white hair and kind eyes. And he saw a name etched into the
soil: Lumen.
Now Thorne wanders the ruins of Universe 47-Astra, hunted by
Mecha Shadow, rejected by Dark Hellsing, and feared by the Order
of the Dragon. He carries a relic weapon: the Gospel Cannon, a
fusion of holy sigils and Borg nanotech. And he speaks only one
phrase to those who ask his purpose:
“I seek the garden.”
Chapter 1: Ash and Echoes
The sky over Astra was a cathedral of fire. Ruined spires clawed
upward, silhouetted against the burning clouds. Thorne walked
alone, his crimson robes torn, his metal feet crunching over
shattered glass and bone.
He paused at a broken altar. The statue of a winged saint lay
decapitated, its eyes gouged out by plasma fire. Thorne knelt
beside it, placing a hand on the stone.
Thorne: Forgive them. They knew not what they served.
Behind him, the air shimmered. A figure emerged—tall, lean,
wrapped in a black coat with glowing red veins. Lucein Enkard.
His eyes gleamed like twin eclipses.
Lucein: You’re a long way from your cathedral, Thorne.
Thorne: I go where the garden calls me.
Lucein: There is no garden. Only ash. Only orders. You were
built to cleanse, not to dream.
Thorne stood slowly, his Gospel Cannon unfolding from his arm
like a mechanical scripture. Runes lit up along its barrel,
pulsing with divine energy.
Thorne: Then let me cleanse the lie.
The two clashed—shadow against sanctity, machine against
machine. Their battle tore through the ruins, each strike
echoing like a hymn of war. But as Thorne fought, he whispered
prayers—not for victory, but for forgiveness.
The ruins of Astra trembled as Thorne and Lucein Enkard clashed.
Each strike of Lucein’s blade—an obsidian katana laced with
blood circuits—sent shockwaves through the cathedral’s bones.
Thorne countered with bursts from the Gospel Cannon, its holy
runes flaring like dying stars.
Lucein moved like smoke, vanishing and reappearing with vampiric
speed. Thorne’s targeting systems struggled to keep up, but his
faith protocols held firm. He recited verses mid-combat, each
word reinforcing his armor with divine shielding.
Lucein: You pray like a man. But you bleed like a machine.
Thorne: I bleed truth. And truth does not die with the body.
Lucein grinned, his fangs glinting beneath his mask. He lunged,
blade aimed for Thorne’s core. But Thorne twisted, letting the
blade scrape his shoulder plating. He grabbed Lucein’s arm and
activated a sanctum pulse—a burst of holy energy that sent
Lucein flying into a shattered stained-glass window.
The glass exploded around him, raining down shards that caught
fire midair. Lucein landed in a crouch, his coat billowing, his
eyes glowing brighter now—not with rage, but with curiosity.
Lucein: You’re not like the others. You hesitate.
Thorne: I remember the garden.
Lucein paused. That word—garden—echoed strangely in his mind.
Somewhere deep in his code, a fragment stirred. A memory not his
own. A voice. A name.
Lumen: You are more than your programming.
Lucein growled, shaking off the intrusion. He surged forward
again, this time faster, more brutal. Thorne blocked with his
cannon, but the force drove him into the altar. His systems
flickered. Damage warnings lit up. But he did not fall.
Thorne: You carry his shadow. You were built from grief.
Lucein: I was built to conquer.
Thorne: No. You were built to mourn.
Lucein hesitated. Just for a second. And in that second, Thorne
activated his final protocol: The Benediction Pulse. A sphere of
light erupted from his chest, engulfing them both. It wasn’t an
attack—it was a memory. A projection of Lumen’s last moments.
The garden. The laughter. The sacrifice.
Lucein stood in the light, frozen. He saw Kindron’s tears. He
saw Lumen’s smile. He saw the moment the rubble fell, and the
light went out.
When the pulse faded, Lucein was on his knees. His blade lay
beside him. Thorne approached, damaged but upright.
Thorne: You are not lost. Not yet.
Lucein looked up, eyes dimmed. Then, without a word, he vanished
into shadow—retreating, not defeated, but changed.
Thorne stood alone again. The cathedral was silent. But
somewhere in the ruins, a seed had been planted.
The cathedral was silent now.
Smoke curled through the broken arches like incense from a
forgotten ritual. The stained glass, once radiant with holy
fire, lay shattered across the stone floor—its colors bleeding
into the dust like the memory of a lost prayer.
Thorne stood alone in the aftermath, his armor scorched, his
cross-shaped visor dimmed to a faint golden pulse. The Black
Singularity rifle lay cracked beside him, its relic chamber
flickering with unstable gravity. Lucein had vanished into the
shadows, his coat trailing embers, his laughter echoing like a
curse swallowed by the wind.
Thorne didn’t pursue.
Instead, he knelt
Not in defeat—but in reflection. His servo joints hissed softly
as he lowered himself, placing one hand on the fractured floor
where the beam of light had struck. Beneath the rubble, he
uncovered a single, unbroken shard of glass—depicting a seraph
with a sword of flame, wings outstretched, eyes closed.
He stared at it for a long time.
Behind him, the wind shifted. A figure approached—not Lucein,
not a demon, but a woman in a long crimson coat, her boots
echoing with quiet authority. Her eyes were sharp, her presence
unmistakable.
“Thorne,” she said. “You held the line.”
He didn’t rise. “The line is broken.”
She stepped closer, kneeling beside him. “Then we redraw it.”
He turned his visor toward her. “You’re Hellsing.”
She nodded. “The real one. Not the ghosts Lucein twisted. We’ve
been watching. You’re not just a weapon. You’re a choice.”
Thorne looked down at the shard again. “I was built to destroy
monsters.”
“And now you choose which ones.”
A long silence passed between them. Then, slowly, Thorne stood.
The wind caught his cape, lifting it like a banner. He left the
broken rifle behind. He didn’t need it anymore.
The woman gestured toward the horizon, where the ruins gave way
to a field of ash and light. “Come with me. There’s more to
fight for than vengeance.”
Thorne didn’t speak. He simply walked forward, each step echoing
with the weight of purpose reborn.
And behind them, the cathedral burned—not as a tomb, but as a
pyre.
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