The Beginning Ends, 4.18.09

Fate is more than an ultimate end. It is a journey. It is the means by which people adapt and grow, ultimately becoming who they are determined to become. Dawn of Destiny set the stage for a war - a battle for the survival of the human species. Soldiers became more than last names. Men and women took their first steps toward immortality. In Outlaw Trigger, immortality stumbled. Righteousness lost to passion, as love fell prey to lust for revenge. Alliances crumbled. New rivalries were born.

David closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The spray of hot water crashed against his face and neck as he slowly lowered his head.

Room14 was occupied yet quiet. It was like that almost every day. It had been that way for three months.

The former NYPD officer turned the shower knob and shut off the water. For a moment he did nothing; he only stared at the tiled wall that formed the back of the curtained stall.

"Move it, Dave," said Becan. "Some o' us are bleedin' waitin' our turn."

All waves begin with a ripple—a defining moment that sets into motion a series of critical events, each one magnified by the last and in sole control of the one to follow. A trigger. Predetermination wavers as the staunchest of certainties becomes compromised.

From just outside the room, from the archway of the open passage, an observer clapped his hands arrogantly.

Dostoevsky placed one hand on his hip, huffing slightly as he wiped sweat from his face. He didn't even have to turn around. He knew the identity of the observer without looking. "What do you want, Strakhov?" The three battered slayers on the ground before him struggled to stand.

Oleg leered from the archway. "Can a good EDEN soldier not talk to his commander after a mission? Or am I not allowed to speak to Nightmen?"

It is not a question of whether or not one has a purpose. It is a question of acceptance. When the rod of free will is released, which way will it fall? Can the heart of a righteous man overcome the shadow of rage? Or are some lions destined to wear horns?

It stared at him, as it did every morning—the antithesis to the woman he loved. Her rival for affection. It always beat her out. The fulcrum armor beckoned him like an irresistible curse, from its haunting blackness to the bold defiance personified in its horns. It gave him all the companionship he required.

On April 18th, the beginning comes to an end.

Whose hero will rise?