The usually calm and quiet midnight sky above the sleeping city of Lucrea slowly came to life as a mysterious light pierced through the clouds in the form of many rays; turning the once dark sky into a stage with spotlights seeming to take aim at the city below. The source of this light—a massive something—silently emerged from its blanket of clouds. It eased its way across the starless sky, eclipsing the moon with its titanic size. Shimmering with a brilliant light, it sailed through the sky, catching the eyes of those who had begun to rouse from their slumber.

One by one, eyes found their way to the structure—those still caught in the whims of the night, the ones working late to save face or to keep grace, some peeping out their windows when they should be in bed—all enthralled in the faint red light humming in their eyes and ears. “What the hell is that?” from one man, and no one answered. No one had heard him. To everyone else, there was nothing but the structure; and as sound and light blended…no one could move.

The sky opened again, this time even wider, exposing an orange paste, dripping from its atmospheric skin like a sludge rain in colorful disguise. The air became contaminated with a chemical smell that burned nostrils and flared skin rashes. Small portions of the land and building were eaten up, and as people began to gain control—they scattered. There was no shelter, any haven would dissolve, leaving them exposed to the shower, dissolved in the deluge. No roof could have prevented the executioner’s water gun from spraying acid into a city-wide panic. Nothing could dissipate the anger from the cultivation of universal wrongs. They cried out from the atomization of their selves, but their tongues were snapped back by the onslaught. Despite the pain, a cry rang out in the streets, a screaming heard to all and caused by those few with tongues and a basic function to make noise left—and it pierced everyone and they stopped moving for an instant and they felt more pain from the cries than from their flesh burning.

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Before an hour had passed all of the life in the city had been gobbled up, and an orange glob existed in the place that moments ago held life and structure—and it pulsated, and it laughed, and there was more for it to do and to kill and the end of days was not a red fire in the trail of four horsemen but a flubber of amorphous orange that bounces about gathering mass and fear. There will be no news of its attack, no warning of any kind to arrive. There were subtle quiets among the starry night as it unfolded, unsettled by points of violent genocide, and quiet once again placing peace in pieces in place.

The orange blob was out of view only for a moment before someone emerged from the rubble—a thin man with brown hair and bandaged arms. His eyes were fixed onto the structure still in the sky. He knew what it was, had been planning for this day, but he had not planned for the chaos from before. He could not let it cloud his thoughts--it was random and horrific but it did not concern him. As he looked back to the sky, he saw the structure—well, fortress—become veiled in darkness, rendering it invisible. The man turned from the sky and darted into the woods, knowing that today would be the day that Seymour Kauffman would finally come out of hiding.