Chaotically Neutral

Prolouge

"Winston, get back here! You'll die in this weather!"

The cry of the older man fell on unopened ears. Winston, a young descendant of what was once known as a sunflower, continued to walk out into the field. Strong winds of the thunderous storm were brewing in the skies ahead. The rain was beating down against his light green skin as his hazel brown eyes began to scan the grassy waves in search for something. 

Cries for him to reconsider whatever crazy plan he was conceiving in his mind became ever distant with fleeting importance as something caught his attention. A small glimmer that seemed to vanish whenever looked at was illuminating a portion of statically tense air in his peripherals, so he began to make movements towards it whenever he was able to see its exact location.

Upon his arrival at what he had thought to be a magical part of his natural field, it felt as though time had stopped. The air around him grew thick, and the skies went entirely black. There was no sign left of the strange flicker of light he had seen, and Winston broke out of his hypnotic-like state and grasped the full reality of his situation. Lightning cracked threateningly above him, but the energy that came from its powerful bolt offered no light to break through the suffocating darkness. 

He was horrorstruck. Losing all physical motor skills, he frantically began to look around as the lightning grew closer.  A small voice appeared in his head, one that sounded as though it belonged to a demon from the fourth circle of damnation limbo. What it was saying was indecipherable, but his any answers to his confusion became invalid and forgotten at what happened next.

His body was on fire. Whether it was physically showing or not, he wasn't sure, but he could feel the lightning cutting through his arms and legs, leaving its vine-like scar as it went. His body began to petrify itself, but before death could stop the pain, there was that same demon that had tried to make communications before stopped the petrifying process.

This act wasn't one of a guardian angel sent down to free Winston from the inescapable jaws of death, but rather that of an unholy being. It began to rip the boy's conscious self away from his physical person. The pain was excruciating; it was what people would describe when they said that there were worse things than death. Lungs collapsing, heart-stopping, brain losing the ability to think about what was going on, and before he was able to let go of life, he felt all-consuming icy darkness taking over. 

But after that, everything went silent. Winston was no longer alive, no longer in existence. His body fell to the ground, now a hollow shell. Whatever soul Winston had was replaced by that same chaotic demon that had ripped the boy's soul away. The smell of burning clothes filled the air, smoke coming from the burnt-out fabric. The clouds parted, leaving the sky a grey, but still calm color.

"Winston!" The old man cried out, running up to the boy, clearly coming out only now that the storm had finished. He knew that something like this would happen. He knew that if his grandson figured went out into the wind as strong as this the chances of him surviving were little to none, but the harsh reality of his death refused to be comprehended.

"For the love of God, please be okay..." He knelt on the wet grass that was directly next to the death of the young boy, grabbing him and rolling him onto his back. There was a look of tranquillity over his face, and if one hadn't just seen the brutal scene of his death, they would have assumed that he was simply in a deep sleep.

That is, until his eyes snapped open, a burning blue taking over the previous brown shade of his irises.

He shoved the older man away from him, rolling onto his stomach to make pushing himself off the ground and getting in a standing position much more comfortable. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at his hands and began to ball them into fists and move them into everyday hand gestures. He began to touch his face, the grainy texture of his singed clothes, and the soaking wet blonde hair that was atop his head before getting a feel of the world around him by kneeling and brushing his hands against the grass beneath him. Muttering words of bitter satisfaction, Winston nodded to himself in and turned to talk to the old man and to ask, "What year is it?"

"324794.009."

The boy nodded again, getting up from the ground and taking another look around his body. He spoke to himself about the apparent age of his body, which was around 64 years (a solid 16 in Earth time) old. A look of realization appeared on his face when his gaze snapped back to the adult.

"The end of the world is coming." 

The old man was utterly speechless. This odd sight absolutely boggled his ancient mind as he fumbled around with the words in his mouth, wondering what he should comment on first. The fact that the boy he raised from a seedling had died rose from the dead, and then had a complete character change in a matter of seconds was enough to break someone. How casual he was about his clothing nearing falling off his back, or how through all of this commotion, his voice seemed to be the one that he knew from the very beginning of Winston's life.

His confusion was invalid; however; when he settled on a general topic, he wanted to discuss and opened his mouth to speak it, the boy had vanished.