Spiritual Superheroes – Chapter One: The Iron Fist of Agamemnon Petrovsky

Introitus

In the neon-drenched sprawl of New Shanghai, Jupiter’s most populous metropolis, Descartes huddled with his team in a cramped apartment reeking of dubious takeout and teenage dreams. At twenty, he was the youngest prophet, his face still etched with the rebellious innocence Saturn’s oppressive regime sought to crush. But defiance simmered in his eyes, a quiet fire fueled by years of stolen glances at forbidden texts and whispered tales of rebellion.

Tonight, however, their rebellion wasn’t confined to dog-eared manifestos. Descartes and his three companions, Maya, Kai, and Jin, were Meditations – a term whispered with reverence and fear in the Universe’s underground. Through rigorous spiritual training, they had achieved divine grace, and existed as emissaries of heaven and earth, on the very frontier between reality and the ethereal plane. This clandestine skill made them the superheroes against the looming threat – a coven of rogue witches and sorcerers who, fueled by a dark pact with Saturn’s tyrannical Commander Agamemnon Petrovsky, aimed to plunge Jupiter into bloody civil war.

Their enemy wasn’t some ragtag band of fanatics. These sorcerers, led by the enigmatic Sybille Lilith Morwen, wielded forbidden magic, their whispers capable of twisting minds and inciting riots. Their goal: to crown a puppet king, the ruthless Senator Ms. Oldgin, and turn Jupiter into a pawn in Saturn’s insatiable game for galactic dominance.

Descartes adjusted the worn copy of “Discourse on the Method” tucked into his backpack – a flimsy shield against the forces they were about to face. Tonight, they weren’t just teenagers with a cause. They were the first line of defense, a flicker of hope against a rising tide of darkness. As they entered a meditative state, the flickering neon lights of New Shanghai dissolved, replaced by the chilling certainty that this wouldn’t be just another night of rebellion.

He disconnected his apartment’s electrical and information systems, and locked his doors and windows, leaving only the air conditioning on. He sat in the position of the middle lotus flower in his prayer room, facing the image. of his divinity.

He would continue his fight for the soul of humanity.

Chapter One: The Iron Fist of Saturn

The year is 3,424. Neon signs pulsed a garish welcome to weary travelers arriving in Philadelphia-Saturn, the sprawling capital that choked the life out of the once-prosperous, now derelict Saturnian landscape. Towering arcologies scraped the perpetually cloudy sky, their metallic sheen a constant reminder of the new order. Thousands of tiny spaceships’ shadows were creating a ceaseless sensation of movement on the ground. Gone were the vibrant, self-governing city-states of Saturn’s past. Now, a single, iron fist gripped the gas giant: Commander Agamemnon Petrovsky.

Agamemnon Petrovsky, a man whose ruthless ambition was as vast as the planet he ruled, had risen to power with the backing of the Syndicate – a shadowy network of corporations that had long coveted Saturn’s immense resources. With their financial muscle and covert operations, they had helped Agamemnon Petrovsky topple the previous, fragmented governments, uniting Saturn under a single, brutal banner.

Lilith Morwen, the African-Venusian leader of Historical Spiritualism, a neo-socialist sect that amalgamated various heterodox beliefs, was at the height of her influence when she orchestrated an elaborate ritual to transfer the power of Saturn to Petrovsky.

Morwen, infamous for her history of crimes against humanity, including kidnappings, assassinations of judges, and campaign financing with underworld money, had managed to evade all charges and emerged not only unscathed but also a multimillionaire.

Her strategy: to victimize herself and cover up her atrocious acts against the now-extinct Saturnian middle class with sweet words. She claimed before her judges that her kidnappings were acts of love, extorting capitalists who exploited the poor with meager wages. She justified the murders as mistakes, confusing the victims with criminals. As for the underworld money, she attributed it to her peculiar love for the criminal world, a way of fighting for honesty, life, and peace.

How long would Morwen continue to evade justice? That was the question on many minds, hoping that one day the truth would come to light and she would pay for her crimes.

Physically, Morwen was a striking figure. Tall and slender, she moved with an ethereal grace, her movements deliberate and elegant. Her long, flowing robes, adorned with intricate symbols and mystical seals, trailed behind her like a dauntingly alive altar. Her image contrasted with her actions. A woman who preached love and peace while perpetrating massacres. An angelic figure hiding the souls of the sacred priests who sacrificed Jesus, a God she did not hesitate to cite as her greatest inspiration. How had she managed to escape punishment, to sue the State, and be rewarded with millions of credits? Her charisma and her ability to manipulate public opinion made her untouchable. The mass of lackeys at her service, pseudo-intellectuals, and artists who denounced truth and goodness as a “subjective” discourse serving only the shrewdest oppressor, adored her as “The ultimate victim,” “the martyr of forgiveness for the underworld and impunity,” ignoring the irrefutable evidence of her crimes and leaving behind a mass of wounded and dead crying out for justice.

Morwen’s piercing eyes, the color of stormy seas, seemed to hold the secrets of the universe within their depths. They radiated an otherworldly wisdom. Her voice, rich and melodious, demanded attention, resonating with an authority born from years of spiritual exploration and enlightenment.

Despite her outward serenity, there was an intensity in Morwen that belied her calm demeanor. She possessed a fierce intellect and a relentless determination to achieve her goals, regardless of the cost. Behind her enigmatic smile hid a mind sharp as a dagger, capable of piercing the veil of reality to glimpse the truths that lie beyond.

Morwen’s most notorious ritual, meticulously planned for months, had one singular aim: to consolidate Petrovsky’s political power. Leveraging astrology and the sect’s murky ties to the underworld, Morwen and her followers crafted an environment conducive to power transfer. Rumors swirled that the ritual involved offerings to Moloch, the Spartan deity associated with war and sacrifice.

The chosen moment coincided with Petrovsky’s political zenith, just after winning elections through fraud and manipulation. Cloaked in ceremonial attire, Morwen stood at the altar’s center, encircled by her devotees. Petrovsky, also adorned in white ceremonial garb, faced her, poised to receive Saturn’s power.

As the ritual commenced, Morwen intoned chants in an unknown tongue to her followers. The room crackled with energy, anticipation swirling among the attendees. At the peak of the chants, Morwen raised her hands, channeling Saturn’s infernal darkness into Petrovsky.

He felt a surge of power coursing through him. Stronger, more assured, and more resolute than ever before, he knew he was ready to lead the Historical Spiritualism movement, ushering in an era of selfishness and cruelty under the guise of peace and goodness.

The ritual succeeded. Morwen had effectively transferred Saturn’s power to Petrovsky, anointed leader of Historical Spiritualism. With this newfound power, Petrovsky was determined to dominate the universe, leading thousands of souls into the depths of nadir.

Morwen’s piercing eyes, the hue of storm-tossed seas, seemed to harbor the universe’s secrets within. They exuded an otherworldly wisdom, hinting at her myriad nightmares and crimes. Her voice, rich and melodious, commanded attention, resonating with authority forged through years of spiritual exploration and enlightenment.

Despite her outward calm, Morwen possessed an intensity that belied her demeanor. She wielded a fierce knack for deception and an unwavering determination to achieve her goals, regardless of the cost. Beneath her enigmatic smile lay a mind as sharp as a dagger, capable of skewering truths to fit her narrative.

Petrovsky’s possession also triggered a wave of upheaval and conflict. The ramifications of his infernal incarnation reverberated throughout the galaxy, resurrecting Marxism and its parasitic adherents not as a political party, but as a religion. Infused with Saturn’s power and Moloch’s spirit, Petrovsky became an omnipresent figure. His image adorned every intergalactic congress, where he squandered millions of credits on journalists, vainglorious interviews, and propaganda, as if Saturn were not the poorest and most destitute planet, but the most prestigious in the universe. His voice echoed through the streets, his spurious message of peace and prosperity disseminated by his followers across the networks.

“Money is for those who need it!” became the deceitful slogan of Petrovsky and his renascent party, neosocialism, the ideological inspiration of Historical Spiritualism.

Agamemnon’s first act as ruler was the swift and brutal elimination of private property. Everything—from vast arcologies to vast agricultural vats feeding the Jovian population—belonged to the state, or more precisely, to Agamemnon Petrovsky himself.

His second command was the creation of the formidable Ministry for Antidemocratic and Unique Rogue Objections, MADURO, directed by two ruthless socialist radicals, the Wally brothers.

Ivanoff and Progrev Wally were well-known figures in Saturn’s security network, their names synonymous with an iron fist that crushed any dissent. The mere mention of them sent a tremor through the air, a silent reminder of the ever-present threat that hung over their rebellion.

Ivanoff was a man sculpted from granite. His broad shoulders, clad in a perpetually rumpled grey uniform, seemed to carry the weight of the regime itself. His face, etched with deep lines that spoke of a life spent enforcing order, was dominated by a hawk-like nose that seemed to perpetually sniff out dissent. Cold, grey eyes, devoid of any warmth, scanned every room he entered, leaving those unfortunate enough to meet his gaze feeling like insects under a microscope. The way he held himself, ramrod straight with a perpetual scowl, projected an aura of absolute power and a complete lack of tolerance for any deviation from the established order. He was a man who commanded obedience, not respect.

Progrev, in marked contrast, was a figure of nervous energy. His slender body, wrapped in a meticulously tailored black suit, seemed to be perpetually in motion. His face, framed by a youthful mane under a metal mask serving as a magnetic shield, stood out with a large, aquiline nose and restless eyes that darted around the room like a trapped animal seeking escape, betraying a constant undercurrent of anxiety. Despite the expensive suit, there was a manic glint in his eyes and a twitch to his lips that spoke of a man on the edge, clinging to power with desperate fingers. His every movement, from the way he fidgeted with a gold chain around his neck to the way he spoke in rapid bursts, betrayed a gnawing insecurity – a ruthless enforcer, yes, but one driven by fear rather than conviction.

Fear became the currency of the new regime. Public tortures and executions, broadcasted live across the Saturnian network, served as a chilling reminder of the consequences of dissent.

People huddled in their cramped quarters, whispers replacing open conversation. The vibrant cultural tapestry of Saturn, once a kaleidoscope of traditions and beliefs, was swiftly fading under Agamemnon Petrovsky’ iron fist. Yet, beneath the suffocating blanket of fear, a flicker of defiance remained. Whispers grew into hushed conversations, stories of past freedoms exchanged in the dead of night.

Meanwhile, the rest of the solar system watched with bated breath. Agamemnon Petrovsky’ consolidation of power was a tremor felt across the celestial expanse. Jupiter, Saturn’s closest neighbor, a giant beauty harboring secrets beneath its swirling atmosphere, was seen as the obvious next target. Would Agamemnon Petrovsky, his war chest overflowing with Saturn’s riches and his army bolstered by the Syndicate’s ruthless mercenaries, attempt to expand his empire? Or would he turn his gaze outwards, towards the vast unknown beyond Pluto?

The answer, like a storm brewing on a distant ringed giant, hung heavy in the inky blackness of space. In the bustling spaceports of Mars, whispers of war mingled with the clang of metal and the roar of departing spacecraft. On the tamed ice plains of Pluto, astronomers trained their telescopes towards Jupiter, their hearts filled with a dread as cold and vast as the cosmos itself. The once peaceful expanse of the solar system stood on the brink of a new era, an era in which the iron fist of Saturn would be confronted by a handful of prophets, all anointed by the Creator at the same time on different planets, for blessing of—Oh, sacrilege!, five different divinities.