The Bellators

3:6:5

Inside the dark bedroom, only the traces of light emitted off the blue holograms consuming the room bring clarity to the space, for beyond the leaf window is the black night sky embellished with the purple clouds of nebulas and glittered with twinkling white stars. Below the night sky, the golden cities on the cloudy islands shine in their own golden light, for every tower functions as a beacon, providing life when the sun wouldn't.

That is all past the window however, for inside the room itself even with the holograms there was no life, for the light they emit is minimal and still shrouds most of the room in darkness with corners in shadows.

What is partially also covered in shadows is the man seated by the desk, his back turned to the door to keep his gaze on the stack of screens in front of him. His white locks of hair sit on his nape and dangle over his shoulders, but other than that he's featureless

Maps and globes levitate in the air behind the chair, some above the bed as well, the globes representing Earths that slowly spin in a consistent animation.

On the white table, the man in the room holds one of the blue screens, his eyes scanning the contents in search for any forgotten attributes of his enemy which he could find exploitations for, as he has amassed a grand archive which theoretically functions perfectly for the occasion.

Yet his face doesn't appear so victorious, as instead after reaching the bottom of the sheet, he groans in defeat and throws the screen to the side, where it then fades into nothingness, being taken off display as he then picks up another to begin reading.

Those azure eyes move from side to side rapidly, his head steady as are his hands. His eyes reflect the blue light of the holograms, the words partially visible off of his irises.

Again the man tosses the sheet into deletion, but rather than picking up another he instead places his elbow on the table where he can rest his cheek on his hand and release another groan of discontent, still surrounded by a mighty stack.

His head tilted as it's rubbed against his open palm, the man's eyes trail off of the remainder of the logs he has on the table and instead to the leaf window, where his eyes instead reflect the purple light of the nebulas and the white dots of the shimmering stars, just as it did a decade and half ago.

Beautiful is the night sky, it nearly always was, the wondrous cosmic design of the purple clouds amongst the infinite white specs, which backdropped perfectly above the golden islands in the distance, glowing on their own.

Gazing through the window, the man just silently watches with his head resting against his hand, meditating silently to himself with wrinkles on his pale forehead. He then glances back at his stack, and then returns it again to the window. His eyebrow then raises, his face tightening up as a thought comes to mind.

Inside the dark bedroom, all of the traces of light emitting off the blue holograms consuming the room vanish, ridding clarity from the space and transforming it into a dark abyss, for all the globes, maps, and sheets disappear simultaneously.

Only the distant light brought by the window can give the room luminosity, but it hardly does, effectively making the room shrouded in shadows including the man seated by the desk, whose head is still resting on his elbow.

That changes however as he leans upright and raises his head before then slipping his elbow off of the desk and to his side. He furthermore maneuvers the chair backwards, away from the desk, and has it pivot to the side.

Finally, the man stands up from the chair after the long day of work, and he faces the exit of the room, his locks still as his body has become a silhouette, a dark figure in the void.