FOREWORD
This is going to be my most major undertaking in Fan Fiction. I enjoy this, as a hobby, and I don't usually want to take it too seriously. I aim to be a real author someday, and to do that I must focus on things other than established characters. However, once in a while, I feel like I want to splurge. This is an extravagant undertaking for me. This is fun, and I'm going to continue writing this for fun.
Queen's Brian May had a dream, once, and for 1975's A Night at the Opera, Brian had written a song about it. The song was Track 8, and it was a beautifully operatic song fitting of the nature of the album. A Night at the Opera defined Queen for most people. It included such great songs as "You're My Best Friend", "Love of my Life", and of course, the timeless classic "Bohemian Rhapsody", none stuck out to me as much as this one.
"The Prophet's Song".
Pick up A Night at the Opera and listen to this little hidden gem. Its mysticism will astound you.
On Slade. I felt compelled to add this. I did not like the angle they took with Slade in Apprentice. So I'm by and large taking my own take on what his goals were. And you may find it surprising that I wrote most of chapter 1 before I saw Apprentice. Slade Wilson, AKA Deathstroke the Terminator, was probably the best part of the original New Teen Titans comics, and for that, I say thanks Marv! I owe you again!
As all ways, you know I don't own these things, my dears, don't attempt to lay the blame squarely on me. Seal, Sting, those illustrious Brothers Gibb, and of course, Queen, they also aren't me. So don't try that angle either.
But aside from the name, Destiny is mine.
And now. READ ON.
The beginning saw existence of a chosen dream
But then came pain with energy
Striking on those she knew would uncover her lies
THE BEGINNING
A View of What Is To Come…
"Enter," Slade said, tiredly. He drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "I said, enter,"
"Excuse me, young sir," the haggard figure said, appearing in a spotlight before Slade's chair, "I have come to speak with you about so great a many things," he rested on his staff, barely able to stand tall, the weight of what appeared to be only skin carried his weak bones to the ground. Slade looked over the man, and sighed,
"A great many things, is it?" Slade said, tiredly, "I am suffering defeat and you wish to speak to me about a great many things?"
"You and I have met before, a long time ago, young man," he said, regardless, "When you were but a boy, I remember seeing great things of you, and now I must ask you to bring those expectations to fruition,"
"I see," the man was indeed mad, "How did you find this place?"
"The song,"
"Interesting choice of answer, old man," Slade said, "I'm not in the mood for this kind of joke." The old man didn't seem to hear him,
"I grow so old, the song is nearing its close, Deathstroke the Terminator," he said, "Only you have the strength of character to stop the coming tide!"
"Only me? What payment do you offer for this service," he asked, "I don't see you as a rich man, but perhaps you could motivate me otherwise?"
The old man coughed, barely forming a smile, "As mercenary as the song cried, young man. I do not have much for payment, but consider it for but a moment." His grip slipped on his staff and he fell to his knees. His lungs failed him, and he barely managed to wheeze, "My dying breath, young man, the song's end. Tomorrow the cycle begins anew. Humanity's time was short, was it not?"
"Old man, you've ceased to amuse me," Slade answered. There was no response, not even the haggard breath, "Oh, and you've ceased to exist. What a pity," the spotlight faded on the old man and Slade turned to his infinite view screens, "Wintergreen, get me the HIVE. I may have use of their services once again."
The old manservant bowed and the view screens became a honeycomb, the insignia of the HIVE was repeated over and over again. Slade frowned as the familiar old face came up on the screen, "Ah, Master Slade. Is there some service I can give you?"
"Yes, I want you to investigate something," Slade said. He waved his hand and Wintergreen produced the strange staff the old man had been carrying, "I need you to send a team to China. I imagine we shall find some answers there."
The bamboo staff was tossed to the ground, and its repeated character rolled on infinitely.
'Heaven'.
I see not they, I heard him say
So gray is the face of every mortal
THE PROPHET'S SONG
This is the ocean. The endless expanse of green and blue skies that distorts and wraps and suffocates. All life began in the ocean, but life doesn't dwell in the past. Perhaps once the ocean had been the utopia many imagined it to be, but now the oceans are worn and tired. The ocean is the darkness. In darkness, there is eternity, and in eternity there is death. The darkest depths of this ocean are home to magnificent cities of coral and illustrious visions of the twisted nether with their luminescent skins. The oceans are truly the cradle of darkness. Light cannot escape the dark hold, as it consumes it slowly, until finally at the deepest point, not an inkling of light enters. Here, there is no concept of light, the idea of light is not present.
Light burst forth from this nonexistence. Memories are made here, now. The light consumes, the light suffocates the blackness, and from its depths comes the form. So very small, so very childlike. It touches the rocks as though it is unfamiliar, as if it's alien. This is new life. New life is curious, and if it wants to survive, it must get hard.
It took a step, like a newborn, and fell. The water surged past it as it felt. The creature felt the pressure of the water, and banished it from him. The rocks around him cracked as the newborn walked. Slowly, carefully it moved. It tripped, fell on the sand, but persevered. Eventually, its steps were not awkward and clumsy, but soon grew to be graceful. It stared into the sky. It looked, searching, and then found what it seemed to be drawn to. There was a strange sense of darkness in the depths. The waves compressed in front of it, and it walked on top of the waters until it found a sealed cave. A gesture and the rocks crumbled into dust, and it walked within and saw blood stains and sins for the first time, "Hello," the creature said, its blonde hair clinging to its face desperately. The creatures that were feeding at this time looked up. The monstrous sea creature Trident stared at him a hundred times over from the fallen forms of a hundred Tridents.
"Who goes there?"
"I don't know,"
"How can you not know?" Trident demanded.
"I don't know. Who are you?"
"I am Trident the Perfect!" there was a bit of disagreement in the back, "Now give me your name, imperfect one!"
"I don't have one?" The person, apparently a young boy, looked at him, "What is perfect?"
"Perfection is me! Every muscle is crafted to painstaking detail, every word I utter is to be transcribed into the Book of Kings." Trident flexed. There was a cry from another, and then a scream as the speaker was slain by his rival. The boy watched this with morbid fascination. He didn't blink, he just watched, and as he watched, he learned.
"Really? Then I must be more perfect than you!" the boy laughed,
"You must be mad! Perfection is an absolute!" Trident said, angrily, "And I am that absolute,"
"I am... Mad? Very well, I am Mad," the boy smiled, "Absolutely!"
"What?"
"I think that's a fun word. The sound is fun. Absolutely!" Mad moved towards Trident, and the hundreds moved against him. He looked at them, "What's the matter?"
"You insult us with your brashness, swine," the Tridents chorused. Mad the Swine looked at them for an instant. He closed his eyes, "Die!"
"I think you should," he answered, and when he opened his eyes there was not even a bone left in front of his eyes. The boy laughed as he kicked about the dirt around him. He looked out at the expanses of the sea and sighed, "Oh, this won't do. Too much, just way too much. I don't like the color," he smiled, "I'd much prefer red."