25 Hour Watch

Infinitely dark is the wasteland that connects the cities of man. Tonight this is especially true, but eventually this darkness is split by the magnetism of two lights: a distant neon that appears on the horizon and the guiding light of a train that grows ever closer to it. Brightness pierces the night. Not only does this pair cure the uncertainty of darkness, but they bring something steady to the silent wasteland. The hum of the train’s engine and the distant glow of life radiating from the neon city bring sound and animation to the desolate landscape.
Snow begins emptying from the sky. Endless streams of white come down to transform the wasteland and soon it is buried beneath a pure and gentle icing. But the snow can do little to the train for it is a fortress. A mountain of blackened steel that shakes the ground as it passes. And as the train makes its final necessary arc along the tracks its whistle roars. It echoes through the surrounding valleys as if to declare dominance over the earth.
It is snowing much harder on this final stretch of the journey. All sense of vision becomes lost as the temperature chokes the air into a thick white mist. The tracks lying ahead of the train are littered with ice and frost, which begin to crack and snap under the weight of the train. This creates a terrible noise that is not unlike the sound of crunching bones. But all is struck mute by another confident howling of the train’s whistle. It seems to be calling out to the neon city on the horizon, almost as if to announce, “I’m coming for you”.
Suddenly a face appears in the mist alongside the train. It belongs to a shadow; a dark assailant whose purpose and identity are veiled beneath the winter. But slowly the mist begins to lift around the Shadow’s feet. He is moving. Sprinting. Pounding out a very precise rhythm in the snow with a pair of black plated boots. Traveling with incredible strides the Shadow is nearly able to keep up with the train.
The mist ascends around the presence of the shadow; it rises in fear and reveals a figure dressed entirely in black; save for a leather belt around his waist colored like the snow that surrounds him. Similar in fashion to his boots he also wears black plated gauntlets. They cut through the wind in heavy strokes as he runs. The shadow is also carrying something. Tied upon his back there is an enormous object wrapped in tattered white cloth. This object is several feet in length; nearly as tall as its carrier and easily as mysterious. The only uncovered portion of the Shadow is a small opening in his hooded mask, revealing a pair of emerald eyes and a strand of stark white hair. The remaining mist disappears into the night, fleeing from the Shadow’s path as he turns his gaze upon the train.
Cutting his position suddenly toward the train he breaks the rhythm of his sprint and begins sliding. Snow from the ground scatters in his wake until the sliding Shadow comes to a stop. Suddenly he crouches and leaps into the air. The Shadow rises like a volley of arrows until his eyes meet the roof of the train. At this very moment, floating there, the Shadow and the train are the only two things in the world. Two black figures opposed in a wasteland of snow. Outsiders in the white. Frozen in time. They are a pair of warriors destined to clash.
As time returns to the Shadow he reaches for the object on his back. Discarding the cloth into the wind with his left hand he reveals a giant blade in the right. A sword that belongs only in nightmares. An instrument of death. The wind ravages the discarded cloth. The Shadow descends toward the train and drives his blade into its’ hull. This powerful stab pierces the trains armor, breaking the hinges of a door and knocking it inward.
A single unprepared guard is standing inside, sipping carefully on a warm cup of coffee. In the wake of the Shadow’s entrance, however, the guard’s hands leave his cup and begin to fumble for his gun. He manages to fire off a single bullet, but his target is too close. The Shadow is already positioned to attack; his body ducked and inclined. And with both hands grasping his sword, he swings. The blow lifts the guard into the air and then tosses him into the opposing wall. He instantly falls limp and drops to the floor. And as his body breaks, so to does his coffee cup: it shatters into pieces and disperses across the tidy rows of wooden planks that compose the floor of the train.
The Shadow wastes no time here. He proceeds to move toward the next train car, toward his intention without remorse. But his path is quickly impeded as the door to the next train car tears open to reveal a firing squad of automatic weapons. And they immediately fire upon him. A brilliant baseline of power bellows from their guns: a staccato rhythm of death, pounding for the Shadow.
Swiftly the Shadow elevates his sword to act as a shield. It deflects the initial volley of bullets and affords him time to change stances. Still using the sword as a shield he ducks low to the ground, moves forward, and gradually relinquishes the blade to his side. From under their next volley of bullets he comes charging. With his body leaned almost horizontally he travels as a human projectile toward their position in their doorway. Suddenly arriving at the center of their formation the Shadow attacks. With a wide stroke of his sword he silences the barrage of gunfire and three bodies fall to the ground like a flimsy set of dominoes. In the wake of his vanquished enemies a momentary calm fills the room. Returning from his fighting stance the Shadow releases the weight of his sword to one hand. He stands with an air of valor, but his eyes are ravenous.
There is a faint noise in the distance. Footsteps…moving steadily toward him. These footsteps are calm, slowly pronunciating with confidence as they approach from behind. Has he neglected to see a guard on his way in? No. Someone else is behind him and he knows exactly who it is.
The presence speaks quietly and with dark resolution, “Geta. There’s only one place for a fallen angel, and it’s high time I sent you there.” A long uneasy breath escapes from the mouth of Geta. Geta, the Shadow. And slowly he turns to face the voice. His eyes search the pathway of his entrance, back to the hole he punctured in the train. Past four bodies and a spilled cup of a coffee. Snow has gathered in the floor there, like blood appearing from an open wound. It is there that Akrid stands. Staring at Geta. The dark blue abyss of his eyes, like water poisoned by evil, carries the power of his words. Akrid’s hair is long and jet black. Many of its strands coil into his pale face like predatory snakes. He is dressed like darkness: black metallic shoulders and chestplate, loose black robes beneath them, and a black cape draped from his shoulders to the floor.
Geta removes his mask and throws it to the ground, allowing strands of stark white hair to fall into his eyes. He is very young and his skin appears pale like Akrid’s. Geta lifts his sword with one hand, pointing it directly at Akrid’s heart. “Your death alone would cleanse this world. Killing you will put an end to all-”, Akrid interrupts him with a single biting word, “Enough.” With a snap of Akrid’s fingers, Geta instantly falls limp. His dangling arms release his weapon, and the sound of ringing metal mutes the cry of pain that follows from his lips. Had it not been for some defiant strength left in his knees, he would have collapsed entirely. Instead Geta is forced into a kneeling position with his head bowed.
Geta struggles to move under Akrid’s spell. The crushing weight of some hidden gravity bears down upon him. Slowly, Akrid walks over and leans down to whisper in his ear. “You poor broken angel. Well, if you won’t exist in my Eden, then you won’t exist at all.” An eerie darkness resonates from his palm. Black energy begins to swirl and swell there. “Farewell.” Akrid drives his hand straight into Geta’s heart. And from his hand comes a horrifying beam of darkness. It tears into Geta. It carries him directly and violently through the roof of the train, which blows open from the force of the spell. Geta is lifted high into the air and then his body is discarded. Like a lifeless and tattered doll he is released from the beam of dark energy as it dissipates and leaves him to spiral and accelerate toward the earth. Snow explodes around the body as it finally makes contact. And the body does not move.
Geta…returned to the snow just as quickly as he appeared from within it. The whistle of the train roars out with bestial ferocity as it passes the corpse adorned in black. With the neon city just ahead, the train begins to slow and prepare for its entrance. Tiny snowflakes congregate around the once mighty Shadow. They seem to desperately try and erase the tragedy. And little by little he does seem to fade.