“The Lettered do not want what we want! They walk the path of death and damnation; a path that cannot be followed!” priest-father Morgath bellowed, a droplet of spittle leaving his lips and landing on the gleaming plate of glass on which scrolled the words of his speech.

Morgath’s bald head was sickly pale, a stark contrast to the gleaming white of his tunic, which had emblazoned on it a crimson-red cross. His meaty hands pounded the gunmetal lectern with each point he made.

The Lettered were not to be trusted. Anyone caught bearing the crimson “A” was to be reported immediately.

“Turn it off,” Paul snarled, as the miniature translucent image of Morgath disappeared from atop the holo-pod. Paul gripped the arms of his worn chair and pushed himself up, grunting slightly with the effort.

“We’re all clear on the plan?” Paul asked, receiving gentle nods from the dozen surrounding him. As he spoke he fingered the weathered scar in the shape of an “A” on the back of his left hand.

“Then let’s go.”