Our scene begins as all things began. With nothing. A black screen and silence. But the black screen becomes scattered with static snow and the electric hiss of a breaking signal. And with that, we start.
As the static gives way to a picture, we are faced with a scene of what is to come. Or what has come, others may say. Ruin.
The ruin of urban life. Across the screen, ruin seems to rule supreme. Flickering lamps above briefly illuminate the decay of man. Gang tags of florescent paint grace the walls in their twisted displays of art. A burned out car sits forgotten, glorified only by the rust of years and stories once told. Trash blows across the broken pavement while the sound of car alarms echo into the uncaring night. The camera moves slowly, only responded to by the coughing of a derelict curled into a ball in a shop door, attempting to sleep off the works of the poisons in his system. The only constant source of illumination stems from a fire barrel, its flames and crackles offering some form of solace amongst the whisper of the city. The whisper of loss.
Finally, a voice breaks the silence. A slow voice and a clear one.
"Each light a prayer, each light a new hope. That is what so many members of the human race seem to declare with each candle they light. As if somehow, by bringing that one small iota of a light into the world, they can somehow stem the decay of their lives and their civilization. The plagues of crime, corruption, natural disasters, hate and ignorance. Yet, even as they form each new light as a promise, they continually propagate their own demise. They perpetuate each old sin with new ones, and find themselves sliding further into the quagmire that they created long ago. Yet, they struggle so, trying to escape and perhaps lighting their own inner candle, yet another promise that they can escape, and somehow they well. The result? They only drag others down with them, continuing their cycle of despair in which there is no escape. Even as it end, their light serves as a testament to their folly, for eventually all lights go out, and in time, it is the Night that crawls in and proves its dominance over the weakness of man. Yet, is fate unchangeable? Is humanity doomed to fail when the appointed time comes?"
"Some might argue no, that there is no such thing as fate, and that humanity is the master of its own destiny. For Humanity was graced with Free Will, was it not? However, no amount of Free Will, no amount of Hope, and no mere lighting of a candle will change what is to be, driven by the force of elements and something gapping from the dawn of time. Finally, now that time has come. Now, the advent that had been whispered of since the day my feet graced the battlefields of this place, since the first night when The Night bled beneath my hands, gracing my body with their very fluids of life, from the moment the first words escaped my lips to swear of what was to come, is at hand."
"Witness, they say. Recite, they call. Echoes into eternity, they promise. And yet this is what the results come to. With each witness, with each empty recitation, with each echo, we acknowledge the same end. And end, that comes here. An end, under the watchful Night."
The camera raises to the fire escape above the alley near the fire barrel. In the darkness, shadows shift ever so slightly, as if only the wind could move the black. Then, the movement of what looks to be a figure walking along the railing of the fire escape in an amazing display of balance. While shrouded, the figure's strange white hair briefly catches the light. At the edge of the escape, the figure crouches, a shadowy hand reaching up to grasp at one of the bars above him.
"Witness, they will say. Witness the end. With each location that the herald comes to, the promise is fulfilled. Recite with us, they cry. Recite with us the dirge of the harbinger and the power he brings. Promise, they will whisper. He promised the finale. And the Night fulfilled."
Finally, the figure begins to raise his head. Even with the little light from the fire barrel and the flickering of overhead lights, the pale face of a strange sense of nobility. Calm, detached. Dedicated. And yet, something in the grey eyes say something else. Predator. Raptor. Vanguard. The eyes curve up toward the sky as the figure twists his hand harder on the bar, his other arm resting across one of his bent knees.
"And now, the Night has come to here, to this place. A place of rich history of champions and glorified heroes. But all empires fall to us. Each before has withered and crumbled before the wake of the Ravager, and the breath of the Night. And so too shall this. Already, one has been chosen. One, who is about to become the first sacrifice to the glory of the Night. One, doomed to fail. One, who shall soon learn what terror can be. For from the mouth of the servant of the Night, its voice shall emerge to shake the souls of its foes."
With a graceful drop, the figure falls from the fire escape and lands near the fire barrel. Slowly standing, but remaining hidden in the shadows, the figure continues to speak while raising a black tape covered hand.
"We have The Top Destruction. An unknown. And more's the pity. For one can be considered an unworthy sacrifice. An unworthy lamb to be slaughtered on the altar of our future. However, a victim always becomes a future herald, a harbinger in their own right. They become a symbol of what others shall come to know as horror. The dark visions that make us question our next breath. Perhaps such is a worthy fate of this one The Top Destruction. While he may claim to bring greatness with him from where he once came, it does not matter. Here, in this new place, all are placed on equal plane. And thus, his laurels will not safe his neck from the block. The Night seeks to claim, and none shall stand against it. While he may claim to attain the necessary skills to compete with me, it is a huge hypocrisy on his part and indeed is a preposterous claim. You are a failure, TTD. Yet you can easily find excuses to make up for those same failures. It is people like you that sicken me."
"Perhaps here, and now, we have an offering that shall seek to glorify what the Night is to become. Already, voices clammer to name him the victor, even before the battle has begun. And thus, I shall do more than simply silence The Top Destruction. With his defeat by my hand comes the silencing of the voices of doubt. And a new whisper shall remain on their lips. A new name to hear and awake in fear. A new time. A new empire. But not one of the beginning, but of the end. Rejoice, The Top Destruction. For it is on your back that I build a new kingdom. One where each shall weep when the light retreats to the coming of Night."
"And this begins now. Listen closely, for what you hear is the Coming. The Genesis. And if you listen closer, you can hear your own end being hissed in the wind. Listen and heed well, for with each word you shall be overcome. With fear. With madness."
Suddenly, the figure's hand stalls and reaches forward to grab the edge of the fire barrel. As he does so, the figure's head slowly lowers until it hands and the figure's shoulders begin to shake. The figure's voice then emerges, not from his mouth, but from elsewhere. All around. The song of the night bird. The cough of derelict. The crackle of fire.
"Despair. For your age of mortals is ending. The stars fade from the sky, one by one, as the decent draws near. Take refuge in madness, for no other hiding place remains. The Night is begun."
"For I am The Arbiter."
"I am the Night Incarnate."
"I shall not be denied."
With a powerful shove, the fire barrel falls forward, casting its inferno high into the sky. Then, it begins to dim and slowly go out. As the flames cease, the figure is gone. But from somewhere, a haunting laughter is heard. Clear as a silver bell, the laughter echoes the same message. A new ending. A time long in waiting. A time, for the Night.
