Tremble and Discern”
West Michigan, April 2025.
The bells of LaGrave Avenue Christian Reformed Church still rang at noon, even though fewer dared to gather under its steeple. Rev. Daniel Zylstra stood in the pulpit, framed by stained gss that once symbolized safety. Now, it was a defiant beacon. He had just finished preaching on Ephesians 6—yes, a banned passage in the 6C territories.
“Put on the full armor of God,” he had decred, his voice trembling not from fear, but fury. “Because we are not just resisting flesh and blood, but principalities—demonic distortions wrapped in robes of righteousness.”
Outside, the city of Grand Rapids buzzed in confusion. The 6C movement had found strange allies here: young, radicalized worship leaders; “trad wives” who praised Zara Lin on TikTok; even Calvin alumni who livestreamed polygamy weddings with acoustic hymns.
At Breakwater Church, Pastoress Elly VanDyke was mid-sermon when her projection screen dispyed a new viral reel: “Why 6C is the Future of Reformed Womanhood.” Elly had reposted it herself. Her congregation—rgely Gen Z and millennial—loved the blend of scripture, satire, and seductive certainty.
preached that feminism had “emascuted the family,” and 6C was “God’s hand of correction.” She closed with a soft warning: “You can’t serve both Kuyper and chaos.”
Ten miles away in Holnd, Rev. Martha Jansen stood in a silent sanctuary at Hope CRC. Her sermon notes were a mess of crossed-out paragraphs. She had pnned to preach from Amos—“Let justice roll down like waters”—but feared what watchers from the newly-installed B6C compliance committee might think.
Martha didn’t trust Zylstra’s open defiance, nor did she buy VanDyke’s gleeful surrender. Her congregation was split. Some older members secretly tuned in to banned broadcasts from Greater Grace Temple in Detroit; others forwarded her Zara Lin reels in earnest. A few even asked if Hope CRC might consider affiliating with the B6C.
Late that night, Martha sat in her office, Kuyper's Lectures on Calvinism open beside her. She muttered, “Every square inch belongs to Christ, not Qazwini. Not Carter. Not 6C.” But then she looked to her phone, where an anonymous text read:
“Be pragmatic, Rev. Jansen. Hope is still permitted to operate… for now.”
Her hands trembled, but she didn’t delete the message.
***
“The Tithes of Temptation”
West Michigan, April 2025.
The checks didn’t come in envelopes. They arrived via armored courier, in stainless steel briefcases with biometric locks. Each contained 5 million.
For Elly VanDyke, it was affirmation—divine, even.
She untched the case in her office at Breakwater Church, fnked by two young staffers who filmed her reaction for social media. She smiled, serene as incense smoke.
“This isn’t a bribe,” she told them. “It’s provision.”
She poured the funds into transforming Breakwater into what she called a “6C Sanctum.” Walls were repainted in desert tones. The sanctuary was redesigned to include separate seating for wives of polygamous households—draped in soft fabrics, fitted with iPads broadcasting Zara Lin’s teachings. Elly also unched a local training center for women interested in becoming “sister-wives of the Kingdom,” complete with etiquette csses, anti-feminist devotionals, and Ismic-Christian fusion modesty fashion.
Her crowning project: a branded digital network called Womb & Word, a 6C-aligned influencer ptform. Within weeks, it had 30,000 followers, half from Saudi Arabia. She filmed weekly content alongside TikTok-famous converts—married off at 22 to “Godly patriarchs”—who spoke in soft tones about obedience as “the truest form of freedom.”
For Rev. Martha Jansen, the money was a curse in golden wrapping.
She had accepted it—but only after a week of silence and two sleepless nights.
Publicly, she said nothing. Quietly, she diverted portions into community programs: food banks, reentry support for parolees, single mothers. All under the radar. But the 6C accounting office didn’t seem to care. “No conditions” really meant no scrutiny, for now.
Still, Martha couldn’t ignore the tension. Rumors swirled in Holnd—was she softening? Selling out? A longtime church elder resigned. Another accused her of “polishing the golden calf.” But Martha kept preaching. Now with more ambiguity. Fewer epistles. More Old Testament.
Behind the scenes, she used 500,000 to buy a discreet safehouse outside of Grand Rapids, meant for women fleeing arranged marriages or doctrinal punishment. It was nicknamed “Deborah’s Den.” Only a handful knew. A sanctuary wrapped in Martha’s guilt.
She journaled nightly in a leather notebook:
“I did not ask for this wealth. But maybe God sent Pharaoh’s gold to fuel a hidden Exodus.”
Meanwhile, Zara Lin posted on X:
“So proud of our sisters @EllyVanDyke & @RevMarthaJ for stepping into divine abundance. Feminism never wrote checks like these.”
***
“The Room at the Top”
Location: Private suite, Amway Grand Pza, Grand Rapids
Characters: Martha Jansen & Hezri (Supreme Leader of the 6 Commandments)
The room was velvet silence. Gold-trimmed drapes. Fig-scented candles. A Qur’an and a leather-bound Geneva Bible sat side-by-side on the table, like reluctant guests at the same feast.
Martha Jansen sat on a cream couch, legs crossed too tightly. Her colr was buttoned all the way up, though her pulse fluttered beneath it. The man across from her—Hezri, Supreme Leader of 6C—did not speak for several seconds. He simply watched.
When he did speak, his voice was low, like a sermon whispered through smoke.
“You could’ve used the money for a cathedral,” he said. “A Christian madrasa. A clinic for reborn families.”
Martha didn’t flinch. “I fed the hungry. Housed the scared. Isn’t that holy?”
He smiled—almost. “You built a shelter for defiance. A Deborah’s Den. You think I don’t know?”
Her breath caught. He didn’t shout. Didn’t accuse. He asked gently:
“Why?”
She looked at her hands, folded like a confession. “Because I couldn’t watch women be given away like cattle.”
“Why?” he asked again.
“Because I’ve counseled girls abused by men hiding behind scripture.”
“Why?”
She raised her eyes—angry now. “Because your movement frightens me.”
He stood slowly and walked toward the couch. Not looming. Just present. She tensed but didn’t move.
“Do I frighten you, Martha?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He sat beside her, close enough for her to smell the faint oud on his coat. He leaned in.
“Do you know why I brought you here?”
“To threaten me?”
“No.” A beat. “To understand you. Because the more you resist me, the more I want to… reshape you.”
Her body stiffened. “I won’t be your project.”
“But you already are,” he murmured. “You take our gold. You preach our nguage. But in your heart, you’re still building arks for the women I’ve cimed.”
Her composure cracked. She stood. “I should go.”
“You won’t.”
He remained seated, calm as a serpent in warm light. “You’ll stay because deep down, part of you wonders what it would feel like—to surrender to someone not as a coward, but as a chosen one.”
Her voice trembled now. “You’re twisting everything.”
Hezri stood slowly, finally eye-level with her. “You think I hate your safehouse. I don’t. I admire the audacity. But ask yourself, Martha—how long can two gospels live in one body?”
He stepped back. But not far.
“Martha,” he said, voice lowering to something intimate and unnervingly gentle, “I could burn it. I could raze Deborah’s Den to the soil it defies.”
She braced herself, expecting the sentence to nd.
“But I won’t,” he said.
Her eyes flicked up. “You won’t?”
“No.” A pause. “You may keep it. Every bed. Every frightened girl. I will not stop you—if, for the next three nights… you offer yourself.”
Her mouth parted, words failing. The air in the room shifted. It was no longer war. It was invitation.
“I don’t want your sermons,” he said. “I want you. Not broken. Not forced. But surrendered—like a gift on an altar.”
She stared, stunned, a rare silence coating her thoughts. She was the one who always had the answer. Always the line. But now—
“You… want me,” she said. “In exchange for the Den.”
“I want you,” he repeated. “Not in punishment. In prophecy.”
She ughed once, bitter and weak. “I suppose that’s how it starts. With a whisper. A woman ys herself down and becomes a parable.”
He stepped close again. “Or she becomes more than parable. She becomes revetion.”
Her instincts screamed to run. But her soul, tangled in guilt, shame, faith, and pride—stood still. This was a different kind of martyrdom. No pyre. No sword. Just her body, and his eyes, and the weight of surrender.
Slowly, trembling, she nodded.
“I’ll give you three nights,” she said. “Then I return to my pulpit.”
He nodded once. “Then I’ll give you three days. And I won’t touch your Den.”
...
Night One:
She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She simply id there, cold and still, letting her body go where her spirit wouldn’t yet follow.
Night Two:
He read to her first—from Song of Songs, of all things. Then touched her with disarming patience. She trembled not with fear, but with a new kind of vulnerability.
Night Three:
She kissed him first.
And somewhere between surrender and scripture, Martha forgot if she was sinning… or finally learning what it meant to be a woman, not just a shepherd.
...
Location: Hope CRC, Holnd, Michigan
One Week Later.
Martha sat at her desk, staring at the wire transfer confirmation on her screen. 500,000—disguised as a “grant for moral innovation,” wired directly from a 6C-aligned foundation.
Her hand hovered over the mouse, paralyzed.
She had given herself to Hezri for three nights. Then, on the morning of the fourth, she stayed.
Not out of obligation. Not for Deborah’s Den. Not even because she was coerced.
She stayed because she wanted to.
She couldn’t expin it. That fourth night wasn’t a transaction. It wasn’t ministry. It was… her choice. Something within her had softened, or cracked, or bloomed. And it terrified her.
He had watched her get dressed without a word. No offer to stay. No request to see her again. No follow-up.
But that morning, the 500,000 appeared.
She had told herself she’d earned it by protecting the girls at the Den. She’d told herself she was a martyr. A shield.
But now, days ter, all her justifications rang hollow.
“Has it come to this?”
“Am I just a high-end whore with a theology degree?”
She whispered the words like a confession, bitter with disbelief. But there was a deeper wound forming—not about the money, not even about the sex.
He hadn’t asked to see her again.
He hadn’t called. Hadn’t summoned her. Hadn’t even sent a message.
And that stung more than any shame. Because a prostitute expects payment. But she had given her heart. A foolish, forbidden, traitorous part of it.
She found herself refreshing her inbox te at night. Checking the guest lists of upcoming 6C conferences. Studying his speeches like scripture, waiting for some sign—a phrase, a reference, a gnce at the camera.
“You’re a fool,” she whispered aloud.
But even fools hope.
...
Meanwhile, Elly VanDyke posted a viral sermon:
“Ladies, if your womb isn’t aligned with divine governance, you’re not being courted—you’re being colonized.”
It racked up 400K views in a day.
And Martha closed her ptop, feeling less like a martyr… and more like a lover no one ever cimed.
***
DAY ONE
Rev. Martha Jansen.
Attends her usual sermon at Hope CRC, but she’s different—her voice is softer, almost dreamy. She preaches from Ecclesiastes about “seasons” and “intimate callings,” and the older elders in the pews whisper to one another: “Is she slipping?”
She privately rewrites a letter to Hezri—unsent, filled with half-prayer, half-romantic longing. She signs it, then burns it.
At night, she rereads his final words, dissecting every phrase like it’s sacred text.
Pastoress Elly VanDyke.
Launches a new 6C purity campaign called “Bride of the Kingdom”, encouraging young women to pre-register for polygamous family pcement with “approved patriarchs.” She recruits influencers to boost it.
She visits the Breakwater Church construction site, where new golden archways are being installed—each engraved with 6C calligraphy and a stylized crescent-cross logo.
Privately, Elly watches Martha’s st sermon and smirks. “She’s breaking,” she tells her assistant. “She’ll either submit fully or colpse in front of Zylstra.”
Rev. Daniel Zylstra
Hosts a secret gathering at LaGrave Avenue CRC, behind boarded doors and covered stained-gss windows. Only pastors with proven anti-6C loyalty are invited.
He trains a select few on how to speak in code, how to smuggle Pauline Bibles across state lines, and how to handle surveilnce.
Zylstra records a sermon not for broadcast, but for history:
“If we go silent, we prove them right. The cross must not bend to the crescent, nor the kingdom to the counterfeit.”
...
DAY TWO
Martha
Visits Deborah’s Den and hugs every girl like a mother who’s been away too long. The staff notice her mood—wistful, off.
She meets a new runaway: 17, pregnant, escaped from a polygamist commune near Kamazoo. The girl says Hezri’s name like it’s a demon’s. Martha flinches.
That night, she nearly calls him. Stops. Sobs quietly.
Elly:
Publicly challenges Zylstra on X:
“He clings to dead doctrines while women are liberated. @DanielZylstra you will bow—or become obsolete.”
Holds a 6C interfaith mixer with Muslim clerics and former CRC pastors who've defected. She floats the idea of a new “Western Sharia Council” to repce the CRC’s Synod.
Orders a new wardrobe—flowing, regal, 6C-branded. Prepares to be seen as “the future of Reformed womanhood.”
Zylstra:
Pens an open letter titled “The Final Reformation”, which will be read at the meeting.
Meets with an underground seminary leader from Indiana. They pn coordinated resistance sermons across multiple CRC pulpits next Sunday.
In private, he confesses to a colleague: “If Martha has crossed the line… I may need to cut her loose.”
DAY THREE (Morning)
Martha:
Wakes before dawn. Dresses pinly. No makeup. She prepares her notes but doesn’t pn to read them.
Lights a single candle in her office. Whispers: “God, if you still want me, speak louder than him.”
Elly:
Spends the morning rehearsing her remarks, preparing to brand Zylstra as “a man of dead letters.”
Sends out an invitation to 6C media: “The Reformed Church will be reborn today. Witness it.”
Zylstra:
Prays in Latin. Carries a hidden USB stick in his breast pocket with evidence of 6C corruption tied to Hezri and church bribes.
As he leaves for the meeting, he tells his assistant:
“I don’t know if we’re gathering a church… or walking into a trap.”
***
“The Synod That Wasn’t”
Location: Reformed Church Emergency Summit – Grand Rapids, Michigan
Attendees: 34 CRC pastors, elders, and delegates from across West Michigan
Main Speakers: Rev. Daniel Zylstra, Pastoress Elly VanDyke, Rev. Martha Jansen.
The room was cold—not from the air, but from the silence that came after Zylstra’s opening prayer. They met in a repurposed Christian high school gym, under banners that still read “Rooted in the Word”, but the words felt brittle now. Under surveilnce. Already half-rewritten.
Zylstra stood at the center, weathered and firm.
“I will speak pinly,” he said. “We are not debating theology. We are deciding whether we bow to theocratic tyranny wrapped in scripture.”
Polite appuse. A few nods. But most eyes turned to the two women on either side of him—Elly, radiant in her gold-trimmed hijab and heels, and Martha, in her modest bck and gray dress, face unreadable.
Elly VanDyke took the podium first.
She didn’t waste time.
“I was born into Dutch Calvinism. But I was reborn under the 6 Commandments.”
She spoke with rhythm, charisma, and TikTok crity.
“6C doesn’t cancel the Bible—it fulfills it. Doesn’t oppress women—it redeems them. Doesn’t erase Christ—it restores Him to prophethood, where He belongs.”
She pounded the podium lightly.
“You call it tyranny. I call it correction. I call it reform.”
A wave of murmurs. A few “Amens.” Even the older delegates leaned in.
...
Then came Martha.
She walked to the podium slowly, eyes on no one. Just her folded hands. When she spoke, her voice was soft—like a warning before a storm.
“I won’t give a speech,” she said. “Just a witness.”
She told of Deborah’s Den. Of runaways. Of girls cast off by both secur and religious systems.
“I’ve received 6C support. Yes. Financially. Logistically. But I use it not to indoctrinate, but to protect.”
That caught Zylstra’s attention. His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.
“Some in this room might feel tempted to ask questions about those funds.”
“Ask too loudly, and we may have to discuss everyone’s donations. Not just mine.”
A chill moved through the room. Zylstra stiffened. He looked like a man punched without being touched.
And then she nded the real blow.
“I’m not endorsing 6C,” she said. “But I am saying this: their policies—on family, on order, on sacred authority—are more aligned with scripture than the chaos we see in the secur West.”
She stepped down. That was all.
Zylstra never recovered.
His notes were crumpled in his shaking hand. When he tried to speak again, half the room looked at their phones. Elly gently pced her hand on Martha’s arm as they passed each other.
“Unexpected,” she whispered, smiling. “But providential.”
Martha didn’t return the smile. But she didn’t pull away either.
By the end of the day, the vote didn’t even happen. No resolution. No condemnation of 6C.
Just silence.
And a quietly shattered man of faith—watching the church he'd guarded for decades slip into the arms of a newer, sharper gospel.
***
“Covenant of Two”
Location: Breakwater Church, Muskegon, Michigan
Setting: One week after the failed Synod vote.
Private Lounge, Breakwater Church
The lounge smelled of cinnamon tea and new carpet. Soft LED lights bathed the modern, minimalist room in a holy glow—somewhere between spa and sanctuary.
Martha sat across from Elly, legs crossed, sipping slowly. She wore a muted blue shawl, a subtle nod to both modesty and mourning. A quiet peace masked the power she'd begun to wield.
Elly looked radiant—victorious. She had every reason to be. Over half of the Reformed churches in Michigan had decred themselves 6C-aligned, rebranding into Reformed Commandment Communities (RCCs). Pastors swapped ties for robes. Wives donned veils. Sermons now quoted both Calvin and the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).
But Elly knew one thing: Martha’s silence had moved the remaining 30%.
“You didn’t have to defend me,” Elly said, watching her carefully. “But you did. Why?”
Martha didn’t answer right away. Instead, she gnced toward the ornate stained-gss panel, now retrofitted with the 6C insignia: the Tablets and the Crescent. It didn’t offend her anymore. Not the way it used to.
“Because I’ve learned the difference between purity and power,” Martha said softly. “And I’m tired of bleeding for men who never asked if I was alive.”
Elly smiled—not mockingly, but with respect. She could sense it now: Martha wasn’t drifting toward 6C. She was choosing it. On her terms.
“They think we’re converts,” Elly said. “But we’re not.”
“No,” Martha agreed. “We’re architects.”
They sat in silence for a moment—two women who had risen from different paths but were now shaping the same future.
...
Behind Closed Doors: The Pact
That afternoon, they signed a joint resolution between Breakwater Church and Hope CRC. The document established the Women’s Spiritual Council, a formal alliance of 6C-aligned female leaders who would oversee:
Women’s vocational pcement under new polygamy-friendly household structures.
Psychological and theological correction programs for CRC women resistant to 6C.
Selective educational reforms in Reformed school systems (starting with Holnd Christian and Calvin Academy).
A silent loyalty cuse regarding Hezri’s inner circle.
“They think Hezri made you,” Elly said, scribbling her signature.
“Maybe,” Martha replied. “But he didn’t finish me.”
***
Public Shift: The Fallout
Over the next three days:
72% of CRC churches in Michigan quietly adopted “alignment frameworks” with 6C.
Male pastors who resisted were “reassigned” to church campuses in rural zones—out of sight.
Hope CRC began offering “Reformed Obedience Workshops” for women, co-authored by Elly and Martha.
Elly unched a new media branch: Women of the Way (WotW), with Martha as the theological editor. It trended #3 on X for 48 hours, pushed by Zara Lin and other 6C influencers.
...
Elly’s Private Reflection (Diary Entry)
Martha is no longer a wild card. She’s a bde in velvet. A woman who once feared the fire now lights it herself.
Zylstra still watches from the ashes. Let him. The future belongs to the women who didn’t wait for permission.
***
Private Suite, Grand Rapids Marriott – Morning After.
Martha sat on the edge of the velvet couch, legs tucked under her robe, one hand around a steaming mug of Yemeni coffee. She wore no makeup—just the faint flush of sleep and something else. A softness she'd stopped trying to hide.
Hezri, shirtless and serene, cut into his fruit pte like a man unfazed by conquest. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried the precision of a strategist and the intimacy of a lover.
“How’s the Zeend cssis?”
Martha raised an eyebrow, but didn’t flinch.
“Split. The older pastors grumble behind closed doors, but three of their rgest congregations already adopted 6C-style ‘male headship by household ordinance.’ They’re just rebranding what you codified.”
He nodded, chewing slowly. Then:
“And Holnd?”
She hesitated. Holnd had been her own proving ground.
“The CRCs are cautious. Too many donors still trace back to VanRaalte’s old pietist lineage. But I met with Hope College’s new board—they’re open to 6C theological accreditation… if we allow them to frame it as ‘post-colonial Reformed pluralism.’”
Hezri smirked. “The nguage of cowards,” he said, sipping pomegranate juice. “But useful cowards.”
Martha smiled faintly. “The best kind.”
He leaned forward now, elbows on the table, eyes sharpened.
“What about Grandville?”
Martha exhaled through her nose. “Zylstra’s old guard is still rooted there. They’re keeping quiet after the Synod—but they’re organizing. I saw Pastor Rick Bruins at a backdoor meeting with two Cssis Illinois elders. They’re coordinating… something.”
“Underground?”
“Not yet. But they’re ready to martyr themselves for Paul.”
Hezri’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then we’ll make them feel irrelevant before they feel brave.”
He stood up, walked behind her, and touched the base of her neck.
“You’re the only reason the CRC didn’t colpse all at once.”
She looked up at him, unsure whether it was praise or possession. Probably both.
“I just gave them a new kind of submission,” she said. “One that still lets them wear robes.”
He kissed her crown—not like a man ciming, but like a king branding.
Then he whispered:
“I need a list. Churches, names, wives. Those most likely to pivot next. I want to offer them roles… before I offer them exile.”
Martha didn’t respond right away. She reached for her tablet, then paused.
“If I give you names,” she said carefully, “I want something.”
Hezri raised an eyebrow. “More money?”
She shook her head.
“Next month… I want a seat on the Michigan 6C Spiritual Council. Not just for women. For strategy.”
He studied her—then slowly smiled.
“You're not a missionary,” he said. “You’re a merger.”
***
Zylstra’s Study, LaGrave Avenue CRC, Grand Rapids – Late Night.
The study was dark, save for the soft amber glow of a desk mp and the faint hum of a security fan. Books towered in piles—Bavinck, Kuyper, Barth—like tombstones of an old order. Rev. Daniel Zylstra sat alone, coat still on, colr loosened, jaw clenched.
A storm bled against the windows. Fitting. His hands trembled as he held the paper.
Hope CRC officially joined the “Midwest Covenant Network for Divine Alignment.” A gentle phrase. A bureaucratic lie.
But Daniel saw the truth. And her signature at the bottom confirmed it:
Rev. Martha Jansen – Theological Director, Women’s Spiritual Council.
He sank into his chair like the air had been yanked from the room.
He whispered to no one.
“She was the careful one… the thoughtful one.”
He opened the bottom drawer. The locked one. Pulled out the old Synod dossier: “Contingencies Against 6C Theocratic Encroachment.”
Martha had contributed to it. He remembered her margin notes—cautious, academic, full of concern.
Now she was quoting hadiths on Instagram in between Kuyperian reflections.
The knock on the door startled him.
It was Elder Niels VanHouten, gray, out of breath, wet with rain.
“I just got word from Zeend cssis,” he said. “Three churches have removed your name from the Advisory Council… said you’re too 'combative.'”
Zylstra shut his eyes.
“They've all gone Babylon,” he muttered. “All of them… even her.”
He walked to the wall and stared at the portrait of his father—one of the st CRC leaders who’d resisted the Charismatic wave of the '90s. A preacher of the Word. A man who would’ve called this what it was:
“Spiritual harlotry.”
Zylstra turned to VanHouten.
“They’re not converting. They’re seducing. Elly’s the public face, sure… but Martha? She’s the velvet knife. The Judas in Calvin’s robes.”
“She’s gone full Jezebel,” he spat, voice cracking. “And I’m the st Elijah left.”
VanHouten looked shaken. “What do we do?”
Zylstra walked to the window and looked out at the rain-slick street. His jaw was steel now.
“We pray. We fast. And if that fails... we burn whatever needs burning.”
He picked up his phone and dialed a number buried deep in his contacts.
A voice answered. Raspy. Underground.
“Yeah?”
“This is Daniel Zylstra. I’m ready to talk about a reformed counter-insurgency.”
***
Private Vil, Saugatuck Dunes – 48 Hours After Zylstra’s Countermove.
The vil was quiet. Too quiet for Martha’s taste. She had just submitted her full intelligence report to Hezri—every name Zylstra had whispered into the shadows, every pulpit still resisting, every female leader doubting Elly's rise.
Hezri hadn’t responded with words.
He sent Vanessa Cross and Vega instead.
Arrival
The armored Range Rover pulled up through the sand-lined pines like a panther on four wheels. Vanessa stepped out first, all boots and bckened shades, her presence like the click of a safety going off.
Behind her, with no urgency, came Vega.
She wore a white silk keffiyeh, combat cargoes, and a crop top that said:
“REPENT. REBRAND. REPEAT.”
Her nails were bck. Her lips, darker. And when she smiled, Martha felt colder than she had in weeks.
Inside the Vil
Martha poured wine, unsure if this was an interrogation or a coronation. Vega flopped onto the couch like it was her own, legs up, phone in hand, already live on some burner app Gen Z hadn’t even named yet.
“So you’re the preacher Hezri can’t stop... quoting,” Vega said. “You look softer online.”
Vanessa didn’t sit. She scanned the perimeter like a war dog.
Martha kept her voice calm. “Is this a test?”
“No, sweet girl,” Vega purred. “It’s a transition. You’re past the entry level now.”
Vanessa finally spoke, her voice low and precise. “Hezri wants no loose threads. Zylstra’s resistance has legs. You gave us the map—we’re here to walk it.”
...
The Offer (or the Warning?)
Vega tossed her phone on the table, screen cracked from a bullet scar it had survived.
“You want to stay useful, Martha? Help me weaponize the pulpit. Not just silence the old guard—convert their sons. Their daughters. Their memes.”
She pulled out a USB, shaped like a bullet.
“Sermons, edited by our AI boys. Hot, holy, and hashtagged. Zylstra’s theology, remixed for the rapture. You get them preached in ten megachurches by Friday... or we assume you’re sentimental.”
Vanessa crossed her arms. “If you can’t bend the next generation, we will... and you’ll be watching from exile.”
Martha looked from Vanessa’s steel to Vega’s fme. She understood now. Hezri hadn’t just sent muscle.
He’d sent mirrors.
“Give me until Thursday,” she said. “You’ll have your pulpits. And your propaganda.”
Vega’s grin widened.
“God, I love a woman with a spine. No wonder he breaks his rules for you.”
Vanessa nodded once, and without another word, they were gone.
Outside, thunder cracked. Martha stood at the window, watching the Range Rover vanish down the dune path.
“They’re not wolves,” she whispered. “They’re evangelists.”
And now... so was she.
***
Underground Passage beneath St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Toledo, Ohio.
Zylstra had never traveled this far west in years. Not since the colpse of Michigan’s st anti-6C circuit. Not since he still believed the gospel could hold on its own.
Now he was ducking through candle-lit catacombs beneath a Toledo cathedral—following a teenage guide named “Nacho” through stone hallways that stank of incense, old wine, and revolution.
At the end of the corridor stood a man in a bck windbreaker and colr.
Deacon Carlos Mendez.
Half priest, half smuggler, full mystery.
Zylstra sat stiffly across from him at a low table. Mendez poured tequi from a cy jug. Neither toasted.
“You’re lucky I respect martyrs,” Mendez said. “Otherwise I’d think this is suicide.”
Zylstra leaned in, whispering. “It’s not suicide. It’s a st line. Martha Jansen—she was our firewall. Now she’s in bed with the Beast. Literally.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware. She crossed into Indiana two nights ago under 6C diplomatic protection. My guy at the Chicago cathedral says she’s ‘glowing like a newlywed.’”
Zylstra's face twitched.
“She’s distributing viral sermons now. Hijacked our doctrine, dressed it in 6C robes, fed it to the youth. And now Vega and Cross are backing her.”
Carlos tapped ash off his cigar onto a missal.
“So why come to me?”
Zylstra answered pinly.
“Because your network moves people, smuggles scripture, and has bckmail on at least five 6C bishops.”
Carlos cracked a grin.
“You want to build a counter-church?”
“No,” Zylstra said. “I want to start a counter-virus.”
Carlos stood and walked to a drawer. He pulled out a box marked “Luther ’22” and tossed it on the table.
Inside were drives. Sermons. Counter-sermons. Bootlegged theological rebuttals rebranded as “prayer-tech activations.”
“We’ve been crafting an underground curriculum,” Mendez said. “Your theology, my reach, their code. It’s messy—but fire travels fast in a dry church.”
Zylstra looked down at the drives.
“We’ll need rogue CRC pastors. Women too. Anyone Martha hasn’t flipped yet.”
Carlos nodded.
“Already started. There’s a young pastor’s wife in Kamazoo—they tried to send her to one of Elly’s harem camps. She escaped. She’s angry, and she’s charismatic.”
Zylstra’s eyes lit up. “Name?”
“Rebekah Monroe.”
The two men shook hands. Not as friends. As survivors.
One Reformed. One Catholic. Both preparing to fight fire with fire—with rogue preachers, underground sermons, and a digital ark for the doctrine they once thought unshakable.