Scion Zero: Genesis

Scion Zero: Genesis
Clouds of ash breath heavily, but never exhale.  Threatening to devour the sun, they blot themselves across the sky as warships on a crimson sea.  Each as black as death, and yet each growing darker with every passing moment.  Lit only from the blistering fires that dance below their shadowed faces, they chase one another high above the earth.  The flowing forms blanket the masses below in a night that will never see dawn.

Below the clouds of smoke, bodies stacked as tall as towers burn bright and fierce as though the very souls of these empty husks were igniting within them, freeing them from the prisons of flesh.  Blood flows like drying rivers between the stacked corpses.  It coats the ground with its thickness, and reflects the light of the fires above it.

A single form cuts a slash within the silent scene.  High above the bloody ground it stands with hard edges that break the soft contours of the dead that build the scenic skyline, and metallic walls that reflect no light push towards the sky.  Towering above the remains of warriors and women it raises still, higherh, a colossus.  Towering above the tips of the flames that lick the swollen clouds of ash, it threatens to touch Heaven, but falls short.

Far below the towers peak, movement stirs.  Without a voice behind it, a hand finds its way from beneath the broken bodies.  It pulls itself self free and soon is follow by an arm and then a head.  The face takes a deep breath, searching for air, and chokes on the death.  He pulls himself up, finally free, and fights to his feet.  Falling quickly to his knees, he finds no strength left to stay standing.  He finds no strength left to cry out.  He finds no strength left to question, “Why?”

Somewhere above the smoke, a star shines.  He watches it, as its light breaks through the blackness piercing the smoke as a dagger through skin.  It strikes the sharp building with no reflection.  Without warning the star is on Earth.  Its light a thousand times brighter, the flames attack it and are made to burnout.  Then the star screams to the seven angels to rise up as one, and they cry into the blackness with a voice that shatters smoke.  Lighting streaks the sky, and the star on Earth touches the tower.  The black metal shards that met the sky are fallen, and the thousand voices of the banished lords cry out with the angels, the sky touches earth, and the world becomes white.


Furrowing his brow, the man’s eyes blink open as he catches his breath.  A bead of sweat rolls accross his forhead and down along his cheek to spalsh against the metal that surrounds him.  Sitting in a chair that melds from the smooth silver material that makes up the interior of the vessel that he calls home so much of the time, the man runs his gloved hand through the blond hair that falls all the way across his back.  He sleeps very little, but when he does the dream is always the same.  Since he was a child he has smelled the black smoke and felt the blistering heat from the flames whenever he shuts his eyes.  The very first night he has the dream was the same night he learned that his father had died.  It has haunted him, teased at his fears and toyed with his senses ever since.