Post by Vilicious on Feb 17, 2018 9:17:50 GMT -8
{Stars shine high above, as they have since the Galaxy Network's creation. Galaxies spin galactic dances in their imperceivable way, and the network's sky manifests as a real-time, open planetarium. A vast expanse of unchanging, battle-scarred (by centuries - no evidence of a titanic battle remains), and otherwise almost featureless alien metal unfurls beneath those stars; an almost transparent platform-for and monument-to the grand being that sometimes resides here. In the absence of its overseer and in the absence of those that would seek him, the only sound is a vague drone of immense power resonating through the area.}
Present
The debris on which a figure here sits is uncomfortable. It has been uncomfortable for hours (Days? Months? Has it been years?), and, the figure assumes, it will remain uncomfortable for time immeasurable (Not that it can measure time of any length, right now). The figure's armor is uncomfortable. Existence is uncomfortable (The figure meditates on this, and time passes - time is irrelevant to it). What awoke it from its reverie?
The memory fades, and returns as the meditation ends (Existence is uncomfortable - discomfiting - no... unbearable, it decides. Existence is unbearable). The stars move, galaxies edge along in their dances almost perceivably.
Another has died (unbearable). Disappeared (tragic).
Two final spasms of a heart echoed in his own (again). That is what awoke him (the figure's jawline is unmistakably masculine). He had considered the question before, and spent considerable time considering. What would happen when the sleeper wakes? Would the world be at peace? Would the world be? Would he care?
Thrum-bum.
His chest hurts (uncomfortably, he thinks). He looks down at the axe across his lap, looks down at the helmet beside him, looks down and wonders what happened all that distance below that it should hurt him here, in his isolation. Reality feels... loose. Recently shaken. Someone plucked its string and watched the vibrations to try and find something better, and everything had merely returned to its place. No... Almost everything. Two eyes open, cold stars open in the darkness, challenging the sky to stop them. A gray face with a mouth set like granite mourns the past. The fog of awakening passes.
Negative reaches up and pulls his gorget into place, buckling it deftly with one hand. He reaches down and grasps the top of his greathelm, and dons it with certainty that he has not felt since... long ago. The Scion stands, and looks to where the Titan had been. He remembers...
Years Past
Ion: "...Do not forsake the life Eon gave you, when he himself could not continue."
Negative had waited for those remaining to leave before even unfolding his arms. A childish gesture, but truly: Their entreaty was illogical, and their hope was... was it misplaced? It had proven out once and again. What would they have him do, that they would so earnestly hope to speak with him? Play part in their pathetic dramas? Fight their pithy wars?
Armored legs walked ponderously, seemingly without guidance, to the crater in which Epoch had fallen. The molten net had cooled now, and so Negative had sat at the edge, lamenting the losses of leader and brother both. The rusted armor below greeted him in silence, its outstretched hand shy the vorpal blade it had so frequently brandished.
Negative: "Was this all that awaited you? I saw futures of glorious battles and utter victory for us, brother. Wrong, was it, that I should have deigned to hope we would fight side by side, again, for but a little longer...?"
Time passed, and the black knight began a long consideration...