The world began with an explosion.
There was yelling and screaming, too, as blooms of orange and purple sparked up into the night sky. But mostly there was a terrible, yawning ache—the kind of ache that only occurs when something nudges and wriggles itself into the very fabric of the universe, and the universe roils and undulates in confusion, shifting to accommodate that small, impossibly important something.
A conviction.
An idea that something was wrong with the shape of the world; that the shape of mankind itself could only attain a twisted, crippled caricature of perfection.
The flaming smoke-choked embodiment of human ideals was not justice.
It was a shift.