Prologue
When the sun shines down on the Colosseum, casting shadows across the seats and giving the impression of people filling them, one can almost picture its former glory. The greatest symbol of power over men, built and celebrated by the greatest empire in history. With eyes closed, one might be able to hear the wild screams of attendants, nobles and peasants alike calling for blood. To be entertained.
At night it is different. Night is the domain of the dead. At night, a man stands in the center of the arena. It is quiet, except for those who know how to listen. In the silence, he hears the cries and moans of the slain. Warriors and slaves whose blood once stained the ground he walks on. Hundreds of thousands of souls whose lives were fed to the pleasure of their betters.
He finds it delectable.
This man, if he could still be called a man, once had a name. A human name. A name he, like many rulers of men, discarded in his quest for power. He found it fitting, as he abandoned humanity, to also take on a name with which he would rule them. He now calls himself Arkham.
The cries of ghosts vanish. He is no longer alone.
Arkham turns around and sees four figures standing before him. In the front is a short, pudgy man with blond hair. He wears a long white coat with a crisp matching suit underneath. His eyes are hidden by his large round spectacles which reflect the moonlight. His features remind Arkham distinctly of a toad.
Behind him is a lanky man, also dressed in a white coat. He wears a strange jumpsuit underneath which seems to have been cut in half, leaving his midriff exposed. His glasses are also odd, with three lenses covering each eye.
Flanking the two are a man and a woman, both of which exude an aura of violence in their own way.
The woman stands glaring at Arkham, her face pulled into a lopsided sneer. Her features are further distorted by that tattoos which cover half of her face. Even in the darkness, Arkham can recognize some of the occult markings that decorate her and, indeed, can feel some minor magic emanating from her. He finds it more impressive than the huge scythe she carries, slung over her shoulder. Still, such a creature attempting to wield a power greater than itself disgusts him.
Arkham's eyes linger on the last man on the right. He is exceptionally tall, and his features are mostly obscured by his cap and the upturned collar of the World War II greatcoat he wears. Crimson eyes gleam in the night, watching Arkham with the calmness of a loyal guard dog. Arkham considers this man the most dangerous of the group.
"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show," Arkham says, calmly. His gaze drifts across each member of the group, watching them all equally.
"So sorry to keep you waiting, mein Freund," the short man says with a grin. His speech is heavily accented with German. "I simply had to see the sights. It has been so long since we have visited Rome. I must say, I adore your choice of meeting place. Such a splendid monument to bloodshed wherein to conduct our business."
Arkham regards the man for a moment, then nods. "You have it, then?"
The other man's smile widens. "Doktor!"
"Of course, herr Major," the thin man replies. From his coat he produces a small scroll, displaying it to Arkham. When Arkham doesn't respond, he tuts and unfurls it, revealing a well-detailed map.
"As you requested," the Major says jovially. "I must say, I was surprised to have found a use for this. I had dispatched my own agents to the location years ago and only found some old ruins. Scholarly, certainly, but nothing practical."
There is a question in the man's tone, and that question answers one of Arkham's.
'So they don't know what they've found,' he thinks. He finds it advantageous to keep it this way.
Instead of answering the Major's question, Arkham reaches into his minister's coat and withdraws a simple leather journal and presents it to them.
"The occult knowledge you seek is detailed here," he says. He had considered deception earlier. But their request is simple enough for a man of his knowledge. And there is no need to dispose of a possible tool, especially if their information pans out.
Yet even one such as Arkham can still appreciate irony.
Something kicks up the dirt, and there is a sound of metal slicing through air. Almost too late, Arkham yanks his arm back, leaving the journal to topple through the air as the woman's giant scythe buries itself in the ground in front of him.
The Major laughs in honest amusement.
"My my, Lieutenant," he says. "I did not expect you to be so slow."
"This old man is faster than he looks!" The woman responds, her sneer turned into a manic grin at the anticipation of violence. She pivots and brings her scythe arcing upward with such force that a shockwave carves a trench through the dirt before her.
But Arkham is simply gone.
The Doctor yelps in surprise as Arkham is suddenly beside him. Before he can react, Arkham thrusts his palm forward, sending the thin man flying while leaving the map behind. Arkham snatches it out of the air just as he feels cold metal pressed against his temple. He glances to his left and sees the tall man leveling an old Mauser with an extremely long barrel at him, those bright red eyes still calm as ever.
Arkham quickly reaches up and bats the barrel aside just as the shot rings out, the bullet barely missing his temple. When the man shifts to re-center his aim, Arkham is once again nowhere to be found. The arena is once again quiet, the sudden burst of violence ended.
"That fotze!" The woman snarls. "I'll hunt him down and leave him a smear on the streets!"
"Nein," says the Major. "We have what we came for, and that was far more fun than I thought it would be. Captain, kindly scrape the good Doctor off the ground."
Without a word the tall man holsters his pistol and walks over to where the Doctor landed, picking up and planting him on his feet.
"Ah, sheisse..." the Doctor says, holding his temple. "What happened? I blinked and then I was flying through the air."
"Nothing to concern yourself with," the Major says dismissively. "Please verify the journal's contents."
The woman scoops the leather journal off the ground with her scythe and flings it at the Doctor. He yelps and manages to catch it after fumbling for a second. Flipping through it, his demeanor calms and eventually turns into rabid enthusiasm.
"Yes... Yes!" He says, excitedly. "With this occult knowledge combined with my scientific research, I believe I can finally create the immortal we need!"
The Major's own grin grows wide, and his teeth almost shine in the moonlight. "Excellent. My friends, let us return home. We are in the final days of our rehearsal. Soon it will be time take center stage..."
Arkham watches the four warily from the top of the Colosseum, carefully hiding his presence from their inhuman senses. Only after they leave does he dare unfurl the map in his hands.
It does not lead to where he would expect, and he has reason to doubt its validity given the betrayal he just experienced. Still, he cannot help feeling a thrill of anticipation. Perhaps it is fate, but somehow he knows it is true. He holds in his hand the location of the ruins Temen-ni-gru. His final bid for power will soon be at hand.
For all the lives lost in the Battle of London, far more of the living were forever changed after the crises that gripped the globe. Millions were left without homes, lost their families, or were forever damaged physically and mentally. As nations struggled to rebuild from one horrific night, many found themselves without even a purpose. The creature was no exception.
The creature, for it had no name, was one of the earlier products of Millenium's efforts to find a way to kill the vampire Alucard. It was made back when the Major was still looking to meet his foe power for power. To that end, the creature had been a hybrid of scientific and occult research, with the intent to channel the power of an ancient and terrible god. It was soon discovered that Millenium lacked the magical prowess to bring forth such an entity and, like all toys, the Major grew bored of, the creature was tossed away, put into stasis until a purpose could be divined for it.
When the creature next awoke, his creators were gone. They had left to go on their grand war, leaving behind all their failed experiments for whatever fool would be unfortunate enough to find them. Eventually, the power to the hidden facility failed, and the creature found himself utterly alone.
Men can find new purpose when they need to. They adapt and redefine themselves throughout their life. The creature was a man, once. Now it was nobody. Worse, it was a monster, a manmade thing with a singular design and intent. An intent which reflected the cruel and twisted mind of its creators. It had no other purpose, no method of change.
So when the creature found an old leather journal in the drawer of a desk of an abandoned office, one with evil and ancient magical knowledge, it found a way to fulfill its purpose. With all the ravenous joy as the monsters who made it, it would bring doom to the world.