Fictions Mentioned: Doctor Who/Faction Paradox, When They Cry, The SCP Foundation, The Works of Stephen King, Star Wars Franchise, Shinza Bansho Franchise, Terminator Franchise, Child's Play Franchise
Episode 10 - Three Short Scenes About Death
Death is not the greatest of evils: rather, it is to wish to die when one cannot.
- Sophocles
OP Song:
Adele - Skyfall (Lyric Video)
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Dies irae - Animation OST: Unus Mundus
The smell of the rot of fresh blood was in the air.
As the afternoon fractured sun began its descent, the footsteps of the approaching stranger fell upon the quiet village streets as poison leeches into an unguarded well. The muddy road never touched his immaculate black boots and the hem of his long robe was as clean as a starless night as he made his way towards his destination. The small hill that overlooked the village and the cottage that stood on its top were his goal.
At the foot of the hill crouched an elderly hound. His eyes were clouded and the hairs on his muzzle were white, but still he rose to greet the stranger, his long tail wagging back and forth furiously. The stranger stopped and reached a gloved hand to pet the old dog's head, his fingers gently scratching behind the hound's ears, causing it to whimper happily. The old dog rolled on his back, and the stranger gave his belly similar attention. The hound yelped like a young pup at that. The stranger laughed, and if anyone else was there to hear it, they'd likely have noted how unlikely it was to hear that sound coming from that cold, pale face.
From the hill above came a wail. A young woman came rushing out of the cottage, her face ruddy with tears. An older man came after her, visage drawn with pain, to gently lay a hand on her shoulder. The woman turned to him and buried her face in his shoulder, weeping loudly. The older man combed his fingers through her hair, obviously holding back tears of his own. At the bottom of the hill the hound looked up worriedly, but the attentions of the stranger soon swayed it back into complacency. As for the stranger himself, he observed the scene impassively, cold silvery eyes passing over woman and man and cottage as if all of those were less than the dried leaves that covered the surrounding countryside. He made no hails, nor did he move to ascend to the top of the hill.
Some time later, a third man emerged from the cottage. His outfit was that of a country physician, though his pale Ibis-bird mask belied this impression. He spoke briefly to the older man, nodded to the young woman, then returned inside. Moments later he emerged once more, this time carrying a large bundle in both hands. Seeing it, the woman wailed again, running back into the cottage and slamming the door behind her. The older man shook his head, said something to the physician, and the two shook hands. The older man followed the woman inside, while the physician, bundle in hands, began to make his way down from the hill and onto the muddy road below. While all this occurred, the stranger never lifted his eyes from the hound, who was now dozing in the fractured sun next to his feet. Long fingers kneaded the hound's hindquarters, where an old hunting wound left a large scar.
As the physician stepped unto the road his eyes fell upon the stranger. He stopped mid-step, bundle clutched tightly in his hands.
"She is not for you, Youngest. A deal was made."
The stranger gave the hound one last pat and turned to face the physician. Eyes like frosted glass measured the masked man.
"A deal? I recall no such thing, Diagnostician."
The physician grasped the bundle more tightly yet. "You gave us leave, damn you! You gave us leave!"
The stranger cackled, this sound lacking all the joy of his earlier laugh. He straightened, and in his full height he loomed over the physician like an oak over a stalk of grass. "Be wary of making assumptions, insect. Remember your place. Remember by whose power your rotten form remains on this earth."
The physician looked up defiantly for a moment, than all resistance seemed to leave him. Something within him crumpled, and he dropped his bundle to the earth.
"Have her then. You always get yours in the end, don't you?"
The stranger laughed once more, and a silvery harvest sickle appeared from the folds of his dark robe. He raised the instrument to the air and the physician closed his eyes, unable to watch. The very air was parted in two as the sickle descended to the ground… to hover above the head of the old hound, whose labored breathing slowed… then stopped. A silvery thread unwound itself from the elderly dog and curled around the sickle like early morning fog, and the air was momentarily filled with the sound of the proud braying of a hound in his full glory, filled with the thrill of the hunt.
The physician stared as the stranger stashed the sickle back in his robes and turned to leave.
"The hound…you came all this way for a dog?"
The stranger half-turned and looked up to the early autumn sky, towards the slowly setting fractured sun.
"I have told not to make assumptions, did I not?"
The physician didn't know what to say. So he said nothing. He bent down to pick his fallen bundle. As he rose again, the stranger was gone, leaving only the scent of rotting snow and dead leaves behind him. And a comment.
"I happen to like dogs."
As this mysterious scene of significance was happening in the present time, an old man was watching from afar with a stern and determined face.
This man had slicked deep silver hair, a stern and determined face, jaded and tired green-brown ancient eyes, with a grey Van Dyke beard and pronounced wrinkles on his craggy, careworn face, resembling a man in his seventies, who wore a dark brown leather coat with ten brass buttons and a fob chain attached to it. He also wore tan corduroy trousers, a box-frame belt with several fastener pins and studded pinholes, and dark brown combat boots adorned with charcoal leather gaiters, which had a few buttons missing. He also wore a scarf in a burgundy and ivory herringbone pattern and a bandolier across his left shoulder.
He was contemplating his options on this very fractured afternoon with regards to the entities that had plagued this quiet village and this narrative world.
Whatever the case, it wouldn't matter much for the entities in question. No matter what power. No matter what rank. No matter what stature. For it would soon taste the fires of hell. Just like every other would be god.
For the War is coming to this narrative world. And with it, the eternal hellfire. And with that, he would prepare for battle. He would prepare for war. Just as always. Just like always.
As the Warrior was contemplating the grim reality of the situation, a woman with long, steel-blue hair and emotionless purple ancient eyes was walking towards him, observing the scene with him with a look of intrigue. She wears a black and white Gothic Lolita dress with a blue ribbon. She has black shoes and long white socks. She seems to have a black cat tail with a blue ribbon tied on it. Her weapon is a long black scythe, which separates miracles from reality.
"The men are ready."
She spoke to the Warrior in a cold tone denoting a matter of fact.
The Warrior did not turn around. for he knew what his fellow comrade had meant.
The time had come to finally strike back, and with it, this narrative setting would be invaded, brought forth into the editing wars of the conflict. The space-time battle would now begin to run a complete edit, and whether he likes it or not, this narrative world would undergo a divine reckoning that could only come forth in the crucible of hatred, a cycle that was a maze and an endless amount of routes that became blurred between the lines.
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Insert Song: Start
Dies irae - Animation OST: Thrud Walkure
"Snipers, target those Daleks from the northeast. Total fifteen-meta seconds."
"Sir, yes, sir."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
The Warrior looked at his own shattered corpse as he continues to hear the communications chatter of his men and of his enemy. The face of his corpse, adorned with the greyish beard he had been so proud about, now sported a rather ugly hole dead in its center. His fellow Renegades didn't even stop to arrange his body in a more dignified pose, so it remained splayed on the dirt where it fell, its one remaining eye staring blindly at the desert sky.
"This can't be happening!"
That was the common thought and the common word that seemed to be present in the minds of many of the damned who screamed in the distance.
Of course, such is expected of a multitude of dead bodies of the same individual. For in a War that is filled with nothing but the shadow of death. Such, he was used too by now. The narratives seemed to change. His multi-dimensional senses heightened as he hears of the forever echoes of his men and his enemy firing salvo after salvo, with a multitude of explosions that were made known and felt across the plains of this narrative existence.
An explosion in the distance. Screams.
"Alpha-Seven. Be advised. Improvised demolition charge. Total eight meta-seconds."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
Flies were already beginning to gather around the Warrior's body. Tiny insects buzzed around spilled brain matter, relishing the unexpected feast. The Warrior, only raising an eyebrow, did not try to wave them away as they did not appear to notice him. It was almost as if he was not there at all. As if that body was all that was left of him. But that clearly wasn't true, was it? He was here. And what lies beneath the sand is nothing but a splinter self, an alterward aspect of himself if you will. Such is the common phenomenon of a War that is nothing but the shadow of death.
"This wasn't what was promised!"
That was a thought and a word that seemed to be present in the minds of many of the damned who screamed in the distance.
To his numbness and credit, the Warrior found that he no longer felt anything when he looked at the meat that was formerly him and yet not him, and simply looked at it with a raised unimpressed eyebrow. He made no further move to swat away the flies that began buzzing about the ruin of the face of his corpse, nor did he scream when a random battered SUV (another anomalous phenomenon that is cause through the editing weapons that were deployed) crushed it carelessly below its wheels as it rushed away from the insanity of the space-time battlefield, carrying wounded that appeared to be in little better shape than his corpse.
"Alpha-Twenty-Five, series of anti-tank missile attacks from the southwest. Total thirty-three meta-seconds."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
The Warrior now became aware of the droning, somehow metallic voice in the midst of the comm chatter. But where did it come from, where-
"Alpha-Forty-Three, ambush, small arms fire from the southeast. Total seventy-six meta-seconds."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
And there it was, towering directly above the Warrior as if it was always there. A gargantuan armored shape that eclipsed the sun, a behemoth comprised of broken arms and shattered walls. War personified. Terror incarnate. Pain and desolation made manifest.
"Alpha Seventy-Three, one hundred forty-four meta-seconds. Air strike from the north."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
"Alpha Eighty-Six, Initiate Hardened Armor Function. Total two hundred and ten meta-seconds."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
"Greetings, Warrior of Gallifrey."
The atrocity's voice scarcely seemed like it could come from such a monstrous figure. It was smooth, calm and cultured, the voice of an elder preacher or a respectable general. The Warrior found himself strangely drawn to it even as the creature's appearance intrigued and repulsed him. Stuck between fleeing the creature and approaching it, The Warrior stood his ground, staring at it with undisguised trepidation with no amount of hesitation, with fear and hope burning in his ancient millennial heart(s).
"One. Sudden heart failure. Hrm. Total two hundred and eleven meta-years. You seem oddly yourself, Warrior. Awareness lingers in you yet. Unusual and yet unsurprising for someone of your rank and stature among the gods."
When the Warrior made no reply and simply continued to narrow his ancient green-brown eyes, the creature continued, eyes like massive laser sights burrowing into the Warrior like a trench shovel, to which the Warrior payed no heed, having grown used to such insignificant staring competitions, and continued to stare with confidence at this creature of desolation.
It was a dreadful sight. One that is not for the faint of heart. For it was a staring match between God and the Devil. Likened to that of the Temptation of Christ. And the Warrior is now about to be tempted with a simple proposition that sounded alluring to anyone of a weak and feeble heart.
"Come now, you needn't fear me. There is very little left to fear, really."
The Warrior could only narrow his ancient eyes at this abomination that was towering over him.
"What is happening to me?!"
"Why don't you help me?!"
"Why won't you save me?!"
"Why not let me die?!"
These were common thoughts and the common words that seemed to be present in the minds of many of the damned who screamed in the distance.
The Warrior keeps hearing all of the screams of the inevitable damned from his ancient ears, having grown numbed to it, having grown greatly used to it as it was always the same chattering of pain and despair no matter where and when he goes. Afterlife or no afterlife.
Something in the creature's rough features moved. The Warrior could almost imagine it was grinning. And he would quite bet on that through his wit and intuition.
"Why, the inevitable has come, of course. You are done for, Warrior."
"This isn't how things were supposed to go. This wasn't supposed to happen!"
That was the common thought and the common word that seemed to be present in the minds of many of the damned who screamed in the distance.
The Warrior still held his ground amidst such screams, just as the dust of the sand brushes through his grave and determined face.
"Hrhmhmm. This was the only common thing that was ever supposed to happen to you but you are an enigma even among the gods. You could not even truly die properly even if many would want you too in order to be finally be rid of you. The Crimson Monarch being one among them. Truly, you are a very peculiar enigma indeed."
The Warrior only continued to narrow his ancient green-brown eyes, slightly finding himself grimacing in dread and anger at the very mention of his eternal ancient adversary, just as he was hearing many countless screams of the damned that have no rest in the shadow of death.
"Alpha-Twenty. Set up the trap hole. Total two hundred and thirty-one meta-seconds."
"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"
"And who, Warrior, made such promises to yourself and to all?"
The Warrior was only silent at such a question for he knew full well on what that question truly meant. Both to himself and to all. It was one that made him forever be silent as he recalls of the promises that were easily to be broken in a War that was nothing but the shadow of death.
"Do not mock me! I wasn't promised this! There was to be glory, and justice, and the reformation of proper order, I was-"
"The prophets! The scripture! My mother and father, the preachers, my teachers and friends!"
These were the common thoughts and words that seemed to be present in the minds of many of the damned who screamed in the distance.
"Hah. There is your problem then. Unreliable sources. Such a shame. But not really. Hrmmhahhm."
The damned screams that The Warrior hears from his ancient ears were now bearing the distinct edge of panic.
"Silence! I do not believe you, it is not over! It is a test, yes, a simple test, that is all! You are a demon sent to torment me, to try my faith! But I will not let you, no no no, I will not-"
The Warrior was still looking at the massive figure turned away from him. Around them, the gribble and blurred sounds of the space-time battle begin to intensify, hearing too much staser fire coming forth and going upon a multitude of directions that were and were not seen from the naked eye, and the world of the narrative was losing something of its…color. The fractured sun was setting, the Warrior thought, though he did not dare look at it to find out of it was true. He feared that he would find the sky empty. He would not be surprised at such an irrational phenomenon. Such things are as common in this War that is plagued with nothing but the shadow of death.
"Are you quite done contemplating, Warrior? For I am. The others are all collected. It is time to go."
And indeed, the Warrior was suddenly surrounded by his life-long fellows. And his generations-old enemies. None seem to pay any attention to him as they strode towards the creature with unfaltering unity, marching to the beat of a drum the Warrior could only hear with his ancient ears. Curious, he thought to himself.
"Where do you plan on taking me?"
The Warrior asked a simple question. The figure turned to him once more. Its mangled iron expression was impenetrable.
"Elsewhere, Warrior. To a place where you will be a Warrior no more. Follow. Or not. It is all the same to me."
The figure was marching away, The Warrior's former fellows forming a snaking troop behind it.
What could he do but follow?
But he could not. But he would not. For he has still much to do. For people would still have need of him.
"I refuse."
The Warrior said with a firm tone of divine confidence and assurance, rejecting the offer of the desolating beast.
The figure turns towards The Warrior with a look of profound amusement.
"You refuse?"
The Warrior was silent. Only silent. Never wasting a word. Never wasting a breath. Few words and a look of hardened determination were enough to convey his point. For he would not accept the embrace of death so easily.
Not now. Not ever. He still had much to do. So many would still have need of him. His second sons, Ren Fuji - Tenma Yato - Setsuna, Andrew William "Andy" Barclay, and John Connor would need him in this ever present hellfire that stretches from one corner to another, from one side to another, from one story and script to another.
For in this ever present growing darkness that seems to engulf the entire War, someone would need to take the sand.
No person. No nation. No god would stand in his way. This he would declare with absolute certainty, to borrow a quote from an old (sort of) friend.
He never wavered. He never cowered. Only stood tall at the towering figure with not a hint or a trace of fear of any kind. Courage was forever present and made apparent even as the screams were as loud as the roaring of the alpha lions of the savanna deserts of Africa.
The figure could only look at the Warrior with a look of profound amusement as he said in metallic tone of jest.
"Not that it would matter, Warrior. For your meta-time will come eventually and I would be there to collect your soul with inter-."
As the creature was boasting, it burst asunder, liken to that of dust and blood as it scatters at the wavering anomalous shifting sands.
The Warrior made an unimpressed look, with a raised eyebrow, speaking in a slight exasperated and humored tone, not turning around for he knew who was behind him and knew who had incinerated the abomination of desolation and damnation.
"Really now, Frederica. Did you really had to do that?"
The aforementioned Witch of Miracles, materializing from the backside of his position, would only make a subtle smirk as she said in a cold matter of fact tone, tinge in familiar cold humor.
"Why yes, my Lord Doctor. I had to do it. He was being very presumptuous and arrogant if he thinks that he could take out our most vital asset in this War."
"Oh?!"
The Warrior said in slight humor as he slightly looked towards the gothic lolita witch with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm a vital asset now, am I?"
"Don't misunderstand me, my Lord Doctor. It is simply the Red Truth of the matter."
The Witch of Miracles responded with only a cold matter of fact tone that was tinge in familiar cold humor. One that made the Warrior sporting a subtle smirk, shaking his head, speaking in a tone of dry humor.
"Of course it is, Frederica."
For as the Warrior uttered with a subtle a smirk, for which was responded in kind by the Witch of Miracles, a comm-link was established, with the voice of a veteran solider speaking through the comm-chatter.
"Attention all Alpha Units. This is Rex. We need immediate support from the southeast direction. Multiple Tanks are inbound as it fires upon the civilians. We're barely holding them back. Need immediate support."
"Well now," said the Warrior, sporting a grave expression in recognition of the ever present deluge that was hammering down on his men. "It would appear that Rex would need a little help from the side."
Then, a sound of a woman begins to be heard from the comm-link.
"Commander, this is Kircheisen. I'm on my way now towards your position. Standing by."
The Warrior smiled at the familiar voice that he had grown fond of since the very olden days. "It would appear that help has suddenly arrive in the form of the valkyrie."
"It appears to be the case, yes," the Witch of Miracles smiled simply with approval, before eventually sporting a grave and determined expression, sensing something amiss from the higher planes. She would take a few steps, walking ever so slowly ahead of the Warrior with grace and dignity. In all that time, the Doctor would notice the expression, sporting the very same look as well. "It would appear that I would have take care of a few unnecessary stragglers from the higher planes, my Lord Doctor, in which case, you just keep complete focus on the ground," And with that, she would materialize in the blink of the naked eye.
The Warrior silently agreed with the Witch of Miracles, eventually starting his fast paced walk towards the southeast in order to meet up with his old friend and with his men who were no doubt fighting for their very lives.
And the battle ever draws forever near across the edges of the mountains, with a hail of staser fire ever made present as it scorches upon the snowy landscapes, with the ever present weather undergoing such contradictions of rain and hail of snow, breezing through the endless battlefields as men in white armor, blue markings, and T-shaped visors, with staser rifles and carbines on the ready, opening fire upon the endless hail of gunstick fire from up above.
Dodge. Dodge. Dodge.
Men in white armor were keeping up in speeds that seemed completely invisible to the naked eye, working through the edges of stop time, firing their stasers in a clean volley of shots, further damaging the casings of the endless metal abominations of the fractured sky.
"« War es so schmählich,――ihm innig vertraut-trotzt' ich deinem Gebot. Wohl taugte dir nicht die tör'ge Maid, Auf dein Gebot entbrenne ein Feuer; Wer meines Speeres Spitze furchtet, durchschreite das feuer nie! Briah― Donner Totentanz――Walküre » « Forgive me, for I have sinned. Borne of loyalty, your will I once defied. Forgive me, for I am naught but a fool, never your equal. Let your crimson pyres have their fill. For he who fears the tip of my lance, shall never pass through the river of flames! Creation Figment―On Lightning I Dance - For I am Valkyrie »"
An echo of what once was. A memory of a chant of so long ago. One that forge beneath the heart of the fair maiden of noble lineage. A woman with blonde hair, one of German descent, leads the men in white with the burning heart of a warrior, being the guiding light which graces the battlefields of the apparent Muspelheim, graces through deserted snowy mountains and landscapes in frightening lighting speeds, not seen through the naked eye, going through speeds in the form of lightning, tinge in the color of brightened bluish white, striking true as each Dalek and their Degradation brethren that grace the skies becomes torn from the inside out, frying through the creatures inside, killing them from the inside out.
Covering a length of over twenty meters, less than a blink in the naked eye, more than millions upon millions of cut, copy, and paste Daleks, ones brought forth from the dreaded war machines that match the cloning technology of a thousand, multiplying countless Daleks, swarms upon swarms, endless in reach, ones that were copied from each of the same, likened to that of growing antibodies that would try to expunge the viruses of the body. But try as the Daleks might, they were mowed down all the same as the lightning which ranges beyond supersonic speeds penetrates through their hardened armor, sturdier than even the finest metals of Earth, designed to withstand even nuclear blasts radius and other exotic properties, cut down to the fore.
Lady Beatrice Waltrud von Kircheisen - Valkyria - Formerly the Number V of the Longinus Driezehn Orden's Obsidian Round Table - Rank: Generalinspekteur (Inspector General).
That was the name of the woman of lightning that is swift and precise, as elegant as the ever present light that brightens up the endless battlefields that forever loop constantly in sheer length, width, height, and depth.
Blue staser fire was seen to grace through multiple omnidirectional spaces, blue gunstick fire responds in kind as the skies and the ground fracture in explosions of an orange paint, one that burns forever in continuous fashion as it loops back and forth in time, with each explosion expanding upon the last. Combatants from both side became embroiled in a seemingly hot space, for the battlefield is filled with the endless smoke and ash.
"Move it. Move it. Let's go Let's go."
"Watch your six! Watch your six!"
"Spiders from the southeast!"
"Gliders from the northeast!"
"Take them down! Take them down!"
The clones push back with reignited vigor at the sight of their inspector general. Speed seemed to be their forte as they manage to keep up their ever present vanguard, all as the fleeing civilians of this narrative world would suddenly embark upon the gunships for evacuation. With the clones comes one significant clone, wielding two staser pistols from his person, leading the charge as he and the rest of the 501st pushed through the Dalek ranks and further decimate them through the hail of the ever present bluish lights of endless reactive heat and pressure.
Rex - 501st Legion (STARS) - Rank: Commander.
That was the name of the clone who would lead his brothers forever onward towards the desolated wastelands of sand and snow, striking hard as he shoots at every single Dalek in his optic sights.
"I won't let you!"
Spoke the same woman with confident determination, springing as fast as lightning, striking down the endless swarms with profound ease, no matter how much they try to resurrect through the unnatural means of time, so to would lightning pop up and down from multiple omnidirectional spaces, gracing the surrounding area with bluish white lightning that is present for all to see. The swarms lay fried like ever popping eggs, in a rinse and repeatable fashion, for just as the Daleks tried to open fire upon the civilians, so would the Valkyrie grace them from the skies, becoming the lightning that strikes upon the rod to good effect.
For as the battles wage on from the dusk of the ever present snowy surroundings, blue lightning covers from a multitude of directions, all the while as the Daleks were fried from millions to a thousand in each second blinkage.
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Insert Song: Start
Harappa · E.S. Posthumus
Jeser, The Prince of Many Faces, was sweating profusely.
He despised everything about his current situation. He despised the massive, tasteless hall his master chose as his throne room. He despised the horrendously uncomfortable iron chair he was forced to sit on. He despised the way the air managed to somehow feel both too humid and too dry, too hot and too frosty. He despised the pathetic simpering noises his Master's damned consorts and damned concubines made with each cruel pull of the chains the Master held in his massive, gnarled fists. He despised the fact that it were not his hands to hold the chains.
Most of all, he despised his Master.
The all-powerful Crimson Monarch. The Prince of Many Faces was a proud god. Once the ruler of two dozen worlds, his to dominate and to do all he desired with. Then came the Crimson Monarch, and then came his countless legions. His worlds were conquered.
This was not the reason he so hated his master.
The Prince was wiser than many of his fellows. He realized from the start that no good would come from resisting such power. So he relented, made the conquest easy and relatively bloodless. And he had made himself useful, very useful indeed. With time, he rose to a position unrivaled by any god and goddess in the Monarch's court. Though he lost his dozen worlds, hundreds were now open to him. Though his power was no longer absolute, as the Monarch's right hand man he could have any pleasure he desired, and could inflict any sort of pain on any being he wished. The Crimson Monarch could be a generous lord.
And yet, The Prince of Many Faces despised his Master. For forcing him to be here today.
"He will be here soon."
His master's voice was like the chittering of a billion infinitesimal insects, shifting and swirling and constantly moving. It was neither high nor low nor cacophonous nor methodical. It simply was.
"Are you certain, my King? He might not come in this meta-year of the War." the Prince offered weakly.
"He comes always. He shall be here."
"Your might grows with each passing meta-moment, oh great one. Surely, even he has learned to fear you by now. He would be a fool not to."
His master made no reply to that. His massive form dominated the hall, dwarfing the Prince's own usually imposing figure into insignificance. And yet, the usual all-conquering arrogance was gone from the master's voice. To be replaced with something…different. The Prince did not dare contemplate what that something was. Such thoughts were high treason. And with that comes eternal pain and suffering, the likes of which he would forever experience in kind.
They continued to wait. With each passing minute, the Prince watched his master and could feel own his dread intensifying. Why did the Monarch insist he'd be here? What possible purpose was there to subject him to such…has he not been loyal, or at least as loyal as the likes of Him were expected to be? Had he not-
A shadow fell on the pale giant-bone floor of the great hall. The Prince saw his master shift restlessly in his throne, gnarled chitinous hands gripping slave chains tighter and tighter. The damned souls of naked men, women and others at the other end twisted in agony, but the Monarch paid them no heed. His gaze was focused only on the shifting shadow, which grew longer with each passing moment. Then-
"Insect."
The Prince instinctively recoiled in his seat. Where there was only shadow moments earlier stood a figure. Its legs were as wide and tall as men, as great trees, as towers. Its hands were gloved in silk, in mail, in empty vacuum. It wore a robe of purest ivory, of deepest azure, of dusky flesh. Its shoulder were shrouded in mist, somehow disappearing into the darkness of the hall's ceiling, though clearly it could not be that tall…
"My Lord All-Death. You come once more I see."
The Prince had to grudgingly admire the calmness in his master's voice. He did not think he could muster the same. The Crimson Monarch rose from his throne, his magnificent and terrifying figure unfolding into its full glory. The Prince was surprised to see how unimpressive it suddenly appeared.
"It is the meta-day. Today, Harak, son of the Third Brood, is the meta-day of your birth."
The Monarch's true name. He dared speak it. So the rumors were true, as it seem to be apparent. For a moment, The Monarch's visage was lit with subtle fury. Then he mastered himself, and spoke once more, calmly.
"Today, Lord All-Death, is the meta-day of my birth. Today is the meta-day I began my ascension to the throne of the Brood."
"The meta-day of your birth. The meta-day you took your first victims. Your brood brothers and sisters still scream for you in my halls."
"They shall scream far more loudly when your halls are mine forevermore. I shall make sure of it."
From the mist-shrouded ceiling came an awful sound. Merry laughter, as light and guileless as a child's, filled with joy.
"Ah, earthworm. You burrow in your dirt, you eat the other tiny creatures that live in it and think yourself the master of all creation when in point of fact, it is but naught, you are a mere nothing, a slave of darkness, a right hand lieutenant to your Satanic Master."
His master visibly bristled at that. With a sudden yank, he pulled at his slave chains savagely, swiftly as the wind, forever unseen to the naked eyes of mortals and gods alike, bringing one of his screaming consorts to his feet. The Monarch grabbed the helpless damned man with one enormous fist and effortlessly smashed his throat. The damned man had no immediate relative time to scream.
"Earthworm, you say? How droll. See how easily I master your domain and that of your two brother's domain. See with what grace I deliver more and many into your dank halls."
For a time, the figure did not move. The master dropped the damned consort's lifeless body to the floor, where he was gathered by his weeping damned fellows. The Prince said nothing, looked at nothing. He only wished to be away from here, back at his games, back at-
"Indeed. Harak, son of the Third Brood. No other has delivered so many into my halls. Such I shall give you. You have filled them to the bursting."
His master seemed to straighten at that, as if the All-Death was his own master and he but an apprentice, awaiting praise. It was an odd sight.
"Consider this, when the meta-day comes for you to join them. For me to take you to them."
And just as fast, his master seemingly deflated, all strength seemingly leaving his body. The Prince had never before seen him thus.
"This is my gift to you, on the meta-day of your birth, insect. I bid you contemplate on it. Until next meta-ye- AHHHHHHHH!"
Hardly when the figure finished his sentence when the figure was suddenly violently banished from the hallowed halls as the Monarch raised his right crimson hand and pointed it towards the figure in question.
The Prince gaped in shock and horror at the empty space it was in only moments ago, and then at his master, who was only sitting at back to his throne like that of man of triumph as he was smirking victoriously at such a spectacle of victory that was provide to him. He was actually shivering, by creation! Why did he want the Prince to witness all of this? What was the point of it all?
The Crimson Monarch let out a soft breath, and turned his gaze to the Prince who was now sporting a terrified look.
"I did it so that you would remember your place, Lord Jeser. Conspire against me, and you will see eternal punishment and damnation with surety. What I have done to Lord All-Death is but a mercy and a repayment in kind for in my dialogue with him, I have managed to absorb much of his power, much to his unknowing foresight as he was simply stalling for a brief meta-moment. A foolish endeavor to threaten me of all beings especially at the peak of my own power. For I have grown far more powerful now than that pitiful and insignificant Death. Life and Death are forever in my hands, ready to be forever molded to my liking. All things shall be mine forevermore and would be offered up unto my Master's glory. My worlds, my servants, my power. The fear and dread of all creation. Dominion over all. Nothingness over all. For myself and for my Master."
The Crimson Monarch begins to declare in his ancient chittering demonic voice which is heard in the damned hallowed halls where many demonic gods and goddesses of various and diverse shapes and sizes were seen.
It would be liken to that of a court that would be fit for a King.
"And this, Lord Jeser, is a meta-moment of enlightenment and clarity for you and for all my subjects for I shall take the realms of The Three Brothers of Death by storm and hail. No one would stop me from my goal. Not Lady Michael. Not Lady Aurora. Not those insignificant Hegemony Gods. Not even the Lord of Time himself would stop my burning wrath for all shall kneel before me and my Master. Whether in Life or Death. They will all submit to me, united forever as one unto nothingness, both to me and to my Master. Or Die."
"HAIL TO THE SCARLET KING!"
One commanding demonic god from the hall howled in a triumphant manner of phrase. The rest soon followed as the demonic battle mantra was declared across the realms of the inferno.
"HAIL TO THE SCARLET KING! HAIL TO THE SCARLET KING! HAIL TO THE SCARLET KING!"
The Prince could only watch this spectacle in fear and dread as he too would utter it as well, in fear that was tinge with bitterness as he would not like to be incinerated into dust, blood, and ash.
"HAIL TO THE SCARLET KING!"
The Crimson Monarch smiled, despite having no mouth, beginning to speak in a tone of regal determination and tenacity which is made present throughout the realms of the inferno.
"ועכשיו מגיע חוקי המתוקן, כי כפי שאני מצהיר לכולם, כך יהיה, כי עצם נוכחותו של האין נצחית נכונה בכריכות המוות הקיים לעולם, עבור כל חלק מהקוסמוס נולד ומת תמיד. לעולם לא יהיה כך. אני הזמן, המשמיד הכל; באתי לצרוך את העולם. אם זוהר אלף השמשות היה מתפוצץ בבת אחת לשמיים, זה היה דומה לפאר של האדיר ... הפכתי למוות, לנפץ העולמות. (And now comes my edified law, for as I declare unto all, so shall it be, for the mere presence of nothingness forever rings true in the bindings of the ever present death, for each part of the cosmos forever births and dies, for this shall never be so. I am time, the destroyer of all; I have come to consume the world. If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One...I am become Death, the Shatterer of Worlds.)"
And as the word of majesty was declared with ever present haste, so shall it be, for so too would gods and mortals alike forever die to eternal nothingness as many countless multiverse settings that were relatively nearby to his all seeing sight were forever annihilated, rendered into mere nothingness, marking another ever present victory for the Crimson Monarch - Lord of the Threefold Death.
Insert Song: End
Insert Song: Start
【Featherine Augustus Aurora image song】 Gloria in excelsis Dea 【Lyrics + English Sub】
Somewhere in the sacred realm of the Witch Senate, known infamously among gods and mortals alike as the Great Witch of Theatergoing, Drama, and Spectating's Noble City of Carefully Selected Books, or the City of Books (図書の都 Tosho no Miyako), or the Library, there was the presence of a majestic figure, a tall woman of maturity, with long, dark purple hair stylized in a hime cut, with a metallic silver horseshoe-shaped object that seemingly levitates around her head, sitting in her majestic chair, contemplating in a divine manner of epitome seriousness, with her purple eyes narrowed and pointed in a random direction, almost as if she was staring at something that only she could foresee, with a certain book that was she was holding very delicately not a moment ago as she closed it and placed it gently on her lap, now having fallen towards the floor due to the shivering power that lurks in the relative eastern tide.
A look of displeasure and grimace was now adorned on her ancient divine face, one that is not naturally so for such a majestic figure of personality and prestige such as she, usually one of mischief and amusement.
She had felt it. The unnatural occurrence of the death in-between. She felt the brutal, violent banishment and depowerment of Lord All-Death from the infernal halls of the Darkness Above and Below, waning in strength as he eventually returns back to his realm, battered, weakened like a frail old man, crawling beneath the feet of the dead stones of the pavement. She had no amount of doubt that his two brothers, Lord Small Death and Lord Great Death, would eventually make haste of certain dread and concern in order to come to the aid of their eldest brother.
She feels the state of unnatural death spreading rapidly at a much alarming rate, for countless multiverse settings become embroiled towards total annihilation, as countless multiverse clusters from one ad infinitum become increasingly rendered null and void, and from the dust and ashes spawns new and terrifying beasts of dread and nightmare.
The natural order is being overturned, forever twisted on its head, for she feels the countless numbers of all high gods and goddesses consumed and dried of their own power. For the Laws of Blood, Concrete, and Howling are being edified and reenacted. Countless more multiverses were in a state of contradiction, neither living nor dead, as the epitome of common order and sense get's washed clean, making way for new armies of old, eldritch figures of old would arise from their slumber of nothingness in order to do battle for the Crimson Monarch.
Contemplation. A deep expression of divine perpetuity that was etched onto the graceful features of her face.
She had no amount of wavering doubt that what she was feeling right at this very relative hour of darkness was being known and felt by her divine equals and peers among the wider scales of the ever present and expanding cosmoses of multiple complex scales and dimensional figures.
Upcoming and downcoming battles of many figurative and metaphorical shapes, sizes, and puzzling mysteries and answers take to the eternal inferno of endless repeats, countless more in number, ones that manipulate the sets of infinity, just as the Laws of the Crimson Monarch remain reenacted to the brim.
Preparation is key to everything, the same could be said for an author of great temperament and eloquence such as herself.
The cosmic game of chess, coupled with the infinite sets, with layers upon layers of multi-dimensional metaphysical complexity was taking shape at ad infinitum, immeasurable and unsurmountable towards the inhabitants of the lesser and higher spheres. Pawns, Knights, Bishops, Rooks, Queens, and Kings are now moving in at the behest of multiple chess masters, spreading out in multiple omnidirectional patterns, striking and shifting through the endless maze of confusion and riddles with no amount of meaning.
No doubt was present in her mind. For the Crimson Monarch - the Scarlet King, would have the intention of sending its best among the Court itself, with proxy and allied powers on the helm, sending their own burning legions upon legions, centuries upon centuries of demonic troops upon the battlefields of Heaven and Hell in order to forever kill off the Warrior. One reason for her sending her miko in order to guard the Warrior with vigilance, with the all seeing eyes of a cat of multiple senses. For he was proven to be an asset that had proven time and time again his ever present worth, with the woman showing her amusement and intrigue, of admiration and respect, earned and yearned with righteous vigor for the man who is neither god nor mortal, who rejects but upholds his name, the Warrior who denies and yet tries to be a Doctor. a man of self-loathing and yet is oh so kind, with the simple reason of wanting to help with nothing in return for such admirable chivalric services. For the Warrior was such an enigma even before the early days, before this hellish nightmare had even started, his potential for greatness. A shaking thought that made the woman tilt her head in approval for such a fine and well tuned man of the Shadow People - Time Lords.
Pawns, Knights, Bishops, Rooks, Queens, and Kings are now moving in and out at the behest of the chess masters in multiple omnidirectional patterns. Taken from one layer upon another. Editions of the finest critique were spilled in riddles of endless contradictions.
Foresight; anticipation most divine and exquisite in the epitome of such pain and suffering, of dread and insanity that was made forever present in complete awareness as the scales of the timeline of timelines, of the meta-time scale of the Known and Unknown Multiverse, is becoming riddled, totally undone and yet not so, for words lost their original meaning as soon as the Beginning Notes of Mosaic Conclusion come for it, eating such concepts in the brink of war and death.
The Darkest Days have come in full circle, an alien shape takes form, for circles making the sides of numbering weight, length, and height which would make the contradictions even more apparent, for the sides of a circle have no number, only encircle in perfect shape, with no amount of mortality and immortality to comprehend despite the ever present madness that seems to forever follow.
She stands up, holding the closed book in her hands as she begins to walk with dignity towards one side of the Library, all in order to put it back towards the proper order from which it came. Stacks upon stacks of books which were all placed upon the endless shelves, detailing stories that came and go towards ever new present heights, even to the least unimaginable outcomes.
She puts it back to its proper place, never losing her determined expression, filled with the grim feeling of dread at the ever present prospect of facing such nightmares that are becoming more unpredictable, of facing against the Crimson Monarch, a being of true nothingness, a creation of swirling anomalies, of so many different multiverse settings, all over the Known and Unknown Multiverse. For he is the memory of a world that is lost, the premodern world, made manifest in a form of hatred for modernity, the new, the humanism and smiling coldness that marks the day to day existence of man and mortal alike. Forged from a perfect balance of irreconcilable anomalies and the breaking minds of the higher and lower spheres. He is an entity created by this overwhelming, unavoidable tension. Of the howl of the old world when faced with a cold, grey, purposeless new. He is the revenge of the fallen past. He is the idea of the ancient in a world which discards and fetishes it. He is the tension between the modern and the premodern made manifest. He is the faultline between two irreconcilable worlds. And he can only, in the end, destroy them all, as befits the nature of the Fallen One, the true Son of the Morning.
All stories relating to the Crimson Monarch ring forever true, for the concept of canon is of little significance, for each tale that details the exploits of the Red King grew to the farthest peak as each word that describes his nature became incorporated and made full use of as his power increases throughout the ever present sets of infinity, for as the metaphysical state of eternity had become embroiled in a forever war that launches into the light and dark tidings, so also would the Crimson Monarch grew forever close to achieving its status, for as no god nor mortal could ever withstand him, for as the ever shifting presence deems forever true, for as nihilism turns into a law of mere nothingness, as the Red King and his Court forever march undeterred.
She walks towards the center hall, with the ever present grim determination on her face, lost in its former amusement in order take up arms. with each passing second of any measurement becoming more felt as many die before the predetermined time. For as she walks through an encircled hallway, she takes her ever present cane by the hand, changing it into a shakujou, one that was a staff topped with metal rings traditionally carried by Buddhist monks, particularly in the East Asian Buddhist tradition, with the adapted use of a rhythmic instrument, and for use as a weapon.
Her clothes begin to change completely in a single instant. From the sweeping strapless light pink ball gown, resembling a Juunihitoe kimono; yet the layers seem to be mere stripes in green, blue and red in some adaptations. A yellow sash-like accessory is draped around the skirt. The dress is held in place by a formal magenta obi with red padding, accessorized with a red and white obijime. From the matching light pink gloves and a light green fringed scarf draped over her left shoulder. Pinned on to the scarf is a brooch—comprising of a striped flag matching her dress layers affixed to a star-shaped pendant; resembling a military medal of sorts. All were change into a shrine maiden outfit with a green sash adorned with a medal and white socks with wooden sandals.
She makes ever present haste, dematerializing from the ever present blink of an eye, heading towards the ever present destination, ever forward towards the grand architectural structures of the Senate of the Temporal Powers Alliance (TPA) in order to make ever present haste, for no doubt that her peers and equals were awaiting her arrival.
Insert Song: End
ED Song:
Terminator Salvation - Break The Silence (Soundtrack)
Characters:
The War Doctor - A: John Hurt
Lady Frederica Bernkastel - VA: Yukari Tamura
Lady Featherine Augustus Aurora - VA: Michiko Neya
The Scarlet King
Jeser, The Prince of Many Faces
All-Death
Lady Beatrice Waltrud von Kircheisen - VA: Kei Mizusawa
Commander Rex (STARS) - A: Temuera Morrison
501st Clone Troopers (STARS) - A: Temuera Morrison
The Daleks - A: Nicholas Briggs