There was once a White Star, radiant with intensity unseen since creation. Shining brighter than any other; a beacon above all else and, most of all, a hope that no other could promise. To set apart the night from the day, and the twilight from dawn in that brilliance alone. Truly, bright as that star was it should have reigned unlike any monarch.

Yet not one dared bend a knee.

When that White Star saw this, it did not falter, nor did it shower down its despair upon the little ones below. For it knew only its light, and didn't expect such things. It only dreamed that it would reach them some day.

But not a day like this, when the White Star fell from its lofty place. A day when "He" began to move.

The despicable bastard wrapped in good intentions and iron strode without care for any impedance. If there were any in the metaphorical sense, they could be summed up as a demented, dogged fixation upon a singular point within his collapsing domain.

His shadows streak the halls, slouching walls, twisted and fetid gaols housing those good intentions until every stone and beam took his hue. Brisk are his movements, timed and well planned. Perfection is key, anything less meant failure.

"Fragile. Barely stable." He remarked, voice sounding hollowly beneath his face, "Failure."

He turned his back to the gaping horror clawing out from a crooked, malformed visage of agony writhing before him, to murmur two words to himself before tearing off his own.

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"Integration Failed."

Two words that would be, in any reasonable or charitable sense, his last. O reason and charity, where have you gone? With the White Star?

For from the bowels of depravity this creature returned. Once again, the despicable bastard focused solely on that place, careening almost endlessly toward the singularity.

"Excessive diffusion."

A mask fell from his hands, and so did he.

"Subject incognizant."

A hoarse gasp escaped him. Wasn't he supposed to be used to this by now?

"Insufficient control."

O White Star, look upon this vile cretin who so callously clings to your memory. Is it foolish for its desperation? Is it vicious for it's unrelenting ardor? Say, you didn't foresee what you might breed down there amongst the rabble, did you?

One hundred years this White Tower stood. A hundred more 'til it would see the next, and the next, until the months pass by, then, only ninety-nine remained. Then there were less, until the inexorable creep of Fate placed its hand on his shoulder and warned, "Only a year remains. Use your words wisely." My hand, that is.

"Subdivide mass."

"Improved stability..."

"Adjust composition."

"Influence host."

"Lift security."

"Remove 'variables'."

"Moderate success..."

Years stretched on into decades, which turned to centuries. What only scratched the surface of his work yawned into many thousands of millennia. Throughout them all, he remembered those words. Every single one of them. Why would he not, when they were all he had to take with him into death, two at a time? That was all he needed, he said, and all I could give, frankly. The past is such a difficult thing to change.

Until the stars above prostrated themselves before the one they betrayed... laughable. If only you knew what that was truly like.

But where was I? Ah yes. His time is up.

Show me the end to this [Waning Portmanteau] you promised, Despicable One- or should I say Two~?

"It's finished."