Prologue
Some place in the world, I’m not very keen in telling you where, but somewhere in the world is a room, a room where absolutely no light could get in. A room that is probably darker than space itself. It’s not a very large room, probably no bigger than a child’s playroom, with an abnormally large steel door, and in the very back of this room sat a man, he wasn’t a very large man, and he was of average build and of average height. He wore a cloak, as black as the room, which completely engulfed him. He was tapping his foot, the only noise inside the room, he was waiting, albeit impatiently, for someone to arrive, and they were late. He didn’t approve of lateness.
A very soft knock came from the steel door, so soft, that one would think that he hadn’t heard it. Then again, he was no ordinary man.
“Get your ass in here now Manson.” He growled, literally. The large door creaked open slowly, and a man, taller than the man in the room, peered from the entrance. No light came from the open door, it was as if even more darkness crawled its way into the room, and the room only got darker. Manson held a very dim flashlight in one thin bony hand, he held it low to the ground, and the other was holding the door open.
“What took you so goddamn long?” the man asked again, his voice was rugged, grungy, as if he had been screaming for hours on end until his voice gave out.
“The Rebels… They were trying to stop me from getting to you, because they knew what I had.” Manson gasped, it wasn’t until then the man had noticed that Manson’s clothes were ripped and torn, usually he was dressed to the upmost sluttiest, but his clothes were hanging off of him, blood dripped onto the floor of the room, and Manson was taking very shallow breaths.
“Are you getting blood on my floor, Manson?” he growled again. Manson glanced and beamed his flashlight at the small puddle that he had made, the light reflected off of the bright red liquid.
“I-I’m sorry sir. So very sorry, I-I didn’t know. I-I just” Manson immediately hushed as the man had lifted a callused hand.
“Doesn’t matter, you’ll be cleaning it up anyway. Do you have the key?” he asked.
Manson nodded slowly and reached a bloody hand into his pocket, he pulled out a rusted golden key, a very vintage looking end to it, like the keys from old prison movies, and at the top of the handle was a pentagram, with humps coming from each side of the upside down star. He started to limp his way towards the man; the door slamming shut behind him caused him to jump. He started to shake and continued to make his way towards the black mass of a man. Manson was terrified of this man, absolutely terrified. He was almost like the devil’s incarnate, he radiated evil and wickedness. Manson dropped to his knees before him, holding back his whimpers of pain, he held his palm flat out and the man gracefully took it.
“Now go find a bucket and some water and clean that blood up, I can smell the rust in the room.” He ordered.
“You sure it’s not from that goddamn key I almost got killed for?” Manson asked in his mind, his eyes widened in horror as he realized his mistake, before he could speak, his body was lifted up and hurled at the door, his head clanging against the steel reverberated in the room.
“Watch what you think around me Manson. We’ve talked about this. Now go.” He demanded. Manson jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room as quick as he could, the door slamming shut behind him.
The man then looked down at the old key in his hand, not only could he smell the rust, but he could smell fire, he slid it down and brushed his fingers against the pentagram, ice cold.
“Getting better I see, job well done Andy, job well done.” He said to no one in particular.
I’m sure by now you’re wondering who the man is, shrouded in black?
His name is Exodus.
