The Church of Umbra was, at this point, reconsidering its entire life's choices. For centuries, it had been a quiet — albeit very, very murdery — sanctuary of secrecy.
And now, the front doors had been unceremoniously kicked in, boots had stomped all over its sacred marble floors, and, worst of all, someone had knocked over a very expensive, incredibly pointless decorative vase. It was on.
The officers had expected resistance. They had not expected the resistance to start quite so dramatically. From the very moment they stepped past the threshold, the chandeliers above groaned ominously.
Then, with the subtle grace of a stage performer with too much free time, they detached and came plummeting down like divine retribution.
"Traps! Move!" bellowed the lead officer as his team scattered. One officer performed an elegant forward roll; another went for the classic 'sprint while screaming internally' maneuver.
One rookie, however, made the unfortunate decision to simply stare at the chandelier, like it had personally insulted him. He was seconds away from becoming part of the church's very expensive flooring when, at the last second, the sniffer hound yanked him out of the way with a growl that could only be translated as, I can't believe I have to babysit you.
Meanwhile, the assassins had made their grand entrance. From the rafters, the walls, and even behind an innocent-looking curtain that was most certainly not just a curtain, masked figures emerged.
They were clad in deep blacks and shifting shadows, moving like whispers on the wind. The leader of the assassins — a woman whose mask was slightly fancier, which, in the unspoken laws of villain aesthetics, meant she was in charge — tilted her head at the officers. "You should have stayed home."
"We tried." The lead officer cracked his knuckles. "The paperwork said otherwise."
The first clash was immediate. An assassin flicked his wrist, sending a flurry of small, glowing knives through the air. Instead of flying in a simple arc, they changed direction mid-flight, zigzagging toward their targets like particularly vengeful mosquitoes.
An officer countered by slamming his boot on the ground. The marble floor cracked, and an ether-infused pulse shot through it, causing the knives to swerve wildly — one impaling itself into an unfortunate, centuries-old painting of what appeared to be a very unimpressed saint.
Another assassin flipped forward, his entire form distorting as though his body had been sketched in with unstable ink. He shimmered, flickering in and out of visibility, making it impossible to predict where he actually was.
The officer facing him sighed, cracked his neck, and then blindfolded himself. The assassin froze mid-lunge. "What?!"
"Don't need to see you," the officer said, adjusting his blindfold with an unnecessary amount of swagger. "I just need to hear how bad your footwork is." There was a beat of pure, unfiltered offense before the assassin lunged forward. A flurry of blows followed — too fast for the naked eye, punctuated only by the occasional insult about the assassin's very subpar sense of balance.
Meanwhile, another officer had opted for a far simpler approach. The sniffer hound — still carrying the wounded pride of being the most competent member of the squad — launched itself at an assassin.
The assassin attempted to dodge. The hound adjusted mid-air. The assassin dodged again. The hound adjusted again. Then, in a final, glorious display of the exact laws of physics and probability, the assassin turned one last time — only for the hound to be exactly there, jaws clamping down on the masked figure's arm with the victorious energy of a dog that had finally caught the mailman.
From his quarters, the Pope of Umbra was witnessing all of this by closing his eyes... yes he had limited clairvoyance, gripping his cup of tea like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
He took a sip. He immediately regretted it. By now, one assassin had combusted in a controlled burst of blue fire (it was fine, he seemed to like being on fire). Another officer had summoned a shield of pure, crystallized wind to deflect a particularly aggressive wave of poison-tipped darts.
Someone — he had lost track of who — had somehow weaponized the church pews. The Pope slowly reached for a stack of resignation papers he had pre-prepared for emergencies. Just in case.
An officer with a short temper and a very large ether-created hammer swung at an assassin who was made of almost entirely mist. The hammer passed through harmlessly.
The assassin snickered. "You can't hit what isn't solid."
The officer huffed. "Oh yeah?" A gloved hand reached into his belt. A vial of glowing red liquid was uncorked. A very, very unwise decision was made.
The officer chugged the contents, exhaled, and then — quite literally — breathed fire onto the assassin. The mist-form assassin screeched as his own vaporous body was forcibly reintroduced to the concept of evaporation.
In another corner of the church, a squad of officers were currently engaged in a rather intense standoff against a trio of assassins, who had — against all logic — synchronized their breathing, movements, and attacks to be exactly the same, as if they were one person split into three bodies.
One officer frowned. "Alright. You take the left one."
Another officer squinted. "Which one is the left one?"
"...Good question." All three assassins struck simultaneously, and the fight resumed with enthusiastic violence.
Far away, Lucifer was watching with a warm cup of tea, deeply satisfied. He took a bite of his scone, watching as an officer flung an entire assassin out of a stained-glass window (the assassin was fine — he landed on another assassin).
Another officer was currently being chased by way too many sentient knives. Someone had, somehow, conjured a very large chicken as a distraction. Lucifer nodded approvingly.
"Ah," he murmured. "Art." Barachiel, who had been recording everything, talked through telepathy. "You think the Pope's resigned yet?" She lampooned.
Lucifer sipped his tea. "Give it five more minutes."
As the chaos continued, the Church of Umbra came to terms with the fact that today was, objectively, the worst day in its very, very long history. And the day wasn't even over yet.
The pope wanted to leave the place and start a new life, but the people who went to check if the exit was safe had not yet returned, maybe they decided to take in the scenery. Maybe it was high time he just took the exit.