The Judge & The 3 Arrows

The Wretch, The Monster, The Devil.

It was at the afternoon, 4:30. One of the most beautiful sunsets seen in a while, accompanied by the everlasting chaos that was the Civil War. Across many calderas, many culdesacs passed, the fire wouldn't be extinguished. Like coal fueling an open site filled in the misery of what was the fire that roared it to a bliss. It was in South Dakota, the head of George Washington fell after the attack set off by the renegades of the Mountaineers. It is a veneering sight to see, with bodies piling over the monument with blood smeared from rotten carcass, ever-present to embrace the old laws. The amendments, the founding fathers ever made was a disgrace as it is manipulated to the brim where everyone has the pen to rewrite history.

One day within Rushmore's Defensive Fortress, the armies shone over to the sight of Idaho's golden fury. the ministries have split the control of Greater Idaho into several independent states under the rule of its corrupt prime ministers. It was a hopeless dream they thought, that the Emperor himself resigned to death's embrace. And yet, death shall have no dominion. Rushmore is nothing but a mountain with art etched to its every crevice. They are no strangers to war, they've faced alot of them in the past. And there is no mystery to be told among them. One day, a strange broadcast aired within their radios. No one can respond to it, no one ever would believe anything the same again. Within all hopelessness, there's only insanity and the fall. Whatever Rushmore had heard, it let itself delve into its silence. And since, when the Mountaineers were going to attack it once more... All was empty. Only a plain fortress, who knows who killed them.

Within the ranks of the 3 men responsible for the coup, only darkness filled the office. The Judge wasn't there. Only 2 men, with one being fused into his own creation. Albert cannot speak anything, he's just an articulating device. The pharmacist, Walter Laugherty and Conan can only see and observe that whatever the Judge is planning, they certainly don't like it. A strange feeling strikes their guts the moment they sit within those comfortable chairs, the glass that was with wine now empty. Only solemn ambience filled the world they saw in chaos.

"...We can't do nothing, we have all that we need..." Said Walter.

"No.. There has to be. Albert had achieved it, we did too. But there's gotta be more. We can't just stop."

"But Conan, what else can we do after all the things we did?"

"I... We... We could make relations with others freely, w-we can... Uhh, solve world hunger. With help of this chaos we can influence United Nations to... to..."

Soon there was the sound of a music. Its slow, its inviting. Almost like a lullaby. Conan looked over and stood, reaching towards the door that was closed and opened it. Nothing. As he looked back, the lights were turned off. Only the glare of a coming rain followed, a thunder enlightened the windows to see that Walter is... decapitated. All of his limbs were gone, only but blood spurting out of the crevice of the spine, trickling into the floor and carpet like a pond that grows ever bigger.

He ran. He ran as fast as he can, away from the office that was. Running hellishly as the violin rushes towards its reff, and then to its utter change. It dynamically shifted its tone, it was pressuring. Pressurizing to the point that no man could ever take hold. He sweated, he sweats profusely with a confused mind. He can only see the exits opened to him but he is afraid of the unprecedented danger, the threat that doesn't manifest but observes. Vivalid's Summer From Four Seasons roared as the rain grows aggressively, angry towards Conan before darkness ruled the hall.

He sat down, the thunders grows more angry. He's hopeless, a gratitude sorrowfully deserved to the behest of God. The sounds of the violin approaches closer behind him.

"When the lambs is lost in the mountain, They cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf."

"God speaks... in the least of creatures... But you're not God."

The last of the true, the Mountaineers were trapped. The squad that was deployed to Rushmore, all trapped. Soon enough the monument was destroyed with thousands of dynamites, and only petroleum fire came about the mountain. A hellish sight for South Dakota anarchists, to remind them how one man orchestrated an opera of chaos. His echo, the Judge, heard across several states. The sound of his violin, harmonious yet aggressive stood tall as he dances above the rooftops of his own building. Albert, disconnected via a virus, dies under his own model and destroys his own company alongside his own soldiers.

They were watching, out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification.

War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is God.

Men are born for games.

*Nothing else.*

***