Fragment Four

He stood upon the apex of the highest tower in the chrome city. Above him, the sky was an angry, broiling, dark mass. Flickers of lightning played dangerously among the clouds, casting him briefly as a silhouette to the people below, as they watched agape. He stood erect and eyed the storm. He knew the futility of arguing with nature, and he was not going to argue. He was simply going to say, ‘No.’ He was willing to sacrifice himself so that the people below could have a second chance; so that they could save themselves and become what they were supposed to be. He wanted them all to see his resolution; his sacrifice in the name of his race. He appeared incredibly small to the people below; like a flea on an elephant’s back. But for all that, there was unmistakable nobility to his plight.1

The air was charged. It was thick, like soup. Raw energy moved beyond the limits of human vision, vibrating between the molecules of reality. The air grated against its self; hot and cold colliding like giants battling in the skies. The clouds began to spin slowly, ponderously, and there was something terrifying in their perceived leisure; arrogance and a certainty of destruction; a promise of an end. His hackles rose as he felt himself absorbed in the atmosphere, feeling himself become a conduit. He opened himself fully, and his hair stood on end. He felt the tips of his fingers tingle with elemental energy, and his hands clenched and flexed uncontrollably. But his eyes remained fixed upon the eye of the storm from whence he knew the bolt would strike. He believed that he could stop it, because he had no other choice. He had faith in what he was doing. He opened his mind and felt the void within him begin to grow.2

The clouds spun faster and faster, creating a vortex of calm in which he stood, crackling and alive, yet calm and determined. He existed not just within the vortex of a storm, but within the vortex of Fate, and it seemed as though the Universe stood still to witness this moment. Time had no meaning, and the people below stood still like statues, their eyes glued to the spectacle. He let go of his rage and his indignation; his hopes and his fears. He became a conduit into nothingness. He became one with the storm. He understood its neutrality; its inevitability. He understood the world and its need for a release, and he felt, within that sacred moment, that the world understood his desire to prevent it, and sensed a profound respect. He emptied himself entirely of all concepts of challenge and battle, for he knew that such feelings would only spell his defeat. He could not fight nature.3

And then he sensed a gargantuan upheaval, and a change in the density of the air around him like an explosion which suddenly imploded, and a flash of white incandescence launched from the eye toward him. It was pure energy condensed to a degree which defied the imagination. Time stood still for him in that instant, as the bolt arched toward him. He felt the void within him grow upon the verge of consuming him, and he closed his eyes and raised a single hand, palm forward. The bolt struck, but he was no longer there. He had become a conduit into the Void.4

* * *5

The flash blinded the people below for several minutes, in which they cowered in fear and anticipation, not knowing whether they were dead or alive. But when they began to open their eyes, blinking in the light of a sun which has previously been hidden, they saw that the storm was no longer there. And when they turned their eyes toward the apex of the tallest tower, they saw that the man had also disappeared. He was gone. But they commissioned a statue to be built on the exact spot where he had stood, its eyes closed, its legs spread, its posture straight and erect, and its hand raised toward the sky, open-palmed and waiting, serene and determined. They named the statue, ‘Sacrifice.’6