ONE WEEK AGO
There was once a boy.
He was a bit on the shorter side, and quite skinny too, with hair a sickly, white color, and red bloodshot eyes. He had an equally red jacket, its left side running with a black strip, the words "01" emblazoned on it.
He also appeared out of nowhere.
From out of thin air, his body fell to the dirty, musty floor of the grimdark alleyway.
He awoke quite groggily, the sleep leaving his eyes before he shot up in a panic.
For you see, he was not at his home, or at the place he last slept. He cautiously searched for his surroundings, his body tense and alert. Someone must have brought him here, the question is, where are they?
Remembering himself, his hands dug into his pockets—he didn't fall asleep with jeans on last night, to search for a wallet, or perhaps a phone. As he did so, it was almost impossible to not notice the clunky, bright red slab of metal that clung to his arm like a second skin. On it was a peculiar metal plate, with this red hourglass symbol located at its center.
"Wha—What is this? Get it off, get it off!" He yelped, trashing his hand in the air as if trying to shake off a bug.
He fell unceremoniously to the ground, his face meeting the floor as his feet tripped over nothing. As he got up, he saw the pile of old, wet newspapers that had been left to rot. Reading the headlines, he couldn't help but laugh in despair.
He propped himself up, back sitting against the stone-cold wall as he stared listlessly at the paper, reading and re-reading it over and over again, to make sure that what he was seeing was actually real.
Brockton Bay News: Local Protectorate makes it back home from Canberra Endbringer attack! He read the headlines again and again. His head fell back with a hard thunk.
And Nemesis laughed at the madness of the world.
There was once a girl.
She was dressed in a crisp, tailor-made suit from some Italian brand. Her skin was like pale olives, and her hair fell in waves, cutting off just before the nape of her neck. A fedora sat lop-sided on her head, like how a king wears his crown.
There was also a worm in her head, telling her what to do.
"The path has changed." Her words echoed into the bland white walls of the Cauldron round table.
Her words had a visible effect on the heads of Cauldron gathered all around her. Being who she was, it was only reasonable that her words held a discernable weight, being Cauldron's most valuable asset and all.
Alexandria remained impassive, yet beneath her stoic exterior, she was brimming with anxious energy. Eidolon perked up, not usually concerned with the trivialities that came with managing a multi-dimensional spanning secret organization. Legend leaned forwards, concern etching his features. The Number Man simply raised a brow, waiting for further clarification.
"Will this change negatively affect our goals?" Doctor Mother asked near instantaneously.
"No," Contessa replied. If anything, it would speed it up. There were lesser steps now, and the path was much shorter than it ever has been before.
The overall mood simmered down after her statement, and the room was filled once more with statistics and resources that they could use and exploit. They didn't question her further, didn't need to. Her path was absolute, and it would lead them to victory.
Once the meeting was over and everyone had left with their goodbyes, Contessa soon left too, to fulfill her own obligations and responsibilities.
"Door to Ravager." She spoke softly, her words a faint whisper in the wind.
In her hand was a pistol. It was unlike any other pistol manufactured before. She stuck her arm through the shimmering, evenly cut rectangular portal and dispensed two shots. She pulled her hand back out, and the portal closed.
And she continued to dance on the stage like a puppet entangled in its strings.
There was once an angel.
She was fifteen feet tall, a titanous woman sculpted of pure white marble, her naked form enveloped by countless pinions of varying size, from where great feathered wings shrouded her nubile form. Her face was appealing, with a high nose and delicate cheeks. Her beauty was marred by her blank expression.
She was the Simurgh. The hope killer, Endbringer, and other similarly flattering titles.
She once saw into the future. Predicted it, every man, woman, and child in the world lay in her reach. She used to divine the future in months, years, decades, and even centuries.
And then that all changed in a singular moment. In one event, a wildcard threw out the board and her carefully laid pieces.
It was vexing. Irritating. All that work and effort, undone within the blink of an eye.
No matter. She simply had to look into the future again. She would reset her board and her pieces, and she would—
She would—
She—
She couldn't see.
For the first time in her existence, the future became unpredictable.
From centuries of long-spanning plots, she was reduced to a measly week. And in all her predictions, she could only see the red flash of a strange hourglass symbol, the common denominator in all her visions.
Every future she viewed, every prediction she made, she saw wild, alien creatures, all originating from that… device. And sometimes, her vision would end in a sea of stars, a pair of verdant things like theater masks so large and unfathomable glared down at her puny form.
And then her divinations would abruptly cut, always within a week. Sometimes there would be a few hours, a day or two difference, but it was measly enough to be inconsequential.
This would simply not do.
The Simurgh received no warning.
In one future, where she viewed the [WILCARD] threaten [SIMULATION], there was another flash of bright red and there was this creature that looked like something made out of yellow melted candle wax. On its head was this steel, bulky prison that entrapped its head within its heavy bars. There was the clicking of locks and a strangled hiss as the cage creaked open.
And in the void of space where none could hear, the Simurgh screamed.
