<center><img src="http://www.twistedexperience.com/tcw/pics/posters/havocitaly/darkness.png">


"Darkness isn't one to back down from a challenge, not even when he doesn't know who his opponent is. Rookie?? Legend?? braindead zombie Mjoy? He just doesn't know and well that's half the fun isn't it?"</center>

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
For now we see through a mirror, darkly...
1 Corinthians 13:11-12

Prologue

Chicago, June 26th 2005

"And so we come to the final piece of the puzzle..."

"It's already in place."

Darkness's gaze pierced the shadows that cloaked Bleeder and his eyes met those of the demon. Smiling through the blood that coated his lips, he dropped the young Australian man to the floor in a heap and stepped towards the demon.

"You cannot be victorious," Bleeder vowed, unsheathing the weapon from the scabbard at his side.

The sword...

Not to be confused with similar weapons - like the katana favoured in the orient, or the scimitar of the middle-east. Such weapons are only called swords by westerners: a testament to their obsession with the weapon.

From the short, wide-bladed gladii stabbing swords of the Romans, through to four and a half feet of Spanish steel wielded by the warriors of the medieval ages and fine, narrow rapiers that changed swords from tools with which to butcher people into the implements necessary to showcase an art form.

Since the beginning of history, European warriors have wielded the deadly straight-bladed, double-edged sword with merciless efficiency.

In some contexts, it remains the king of weapons even in this modern age of guns and nuclear warheads.

There are still scenarios where honed steel trumps hot lead.

"That's mine," Darkness growled, baring his gleaming fangs at his enemy.

"Yours? I think not. Better men than you were born to wield this."

"I'm not a man," Darkness smirked, stepping over the corpse of his last victim and clenching his fists, "You know that."

"All too well," Bleeder replied, his eyes of shattered-glass reflecting the dull red light in the turbulent sky, "You gave up your right to this weapon when you failed yourself and everyone in this world."

"Nonetheless, it will be mine."

"You'll take it from me? Has your pride grown so all-consuming, Azrael?"

Darkness laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. He fixed his pinprick eyes on the Bleeder as he wiped the last of the Australian's blood from his lips, savouring the taste with his desiccated, blue-black tongue. "I am grown more powerful than you can begin to imagine, demon. I laid waste to your home and sacrificed your lover to the Abyss. You have nothing left to defend, so die quietly and give me your sword!"

As he spoke the last words, Darkness bounded forward with a speed that would have been terrifying if there had been a human on the roof top left alive to watch. Bleeder dodged him, rolling into a crouch and raising the sword of Aterius.

"I have nothing left of my own, perhaps, but as you have failed to keep your oath to protect this world someone must step up in your place."

"And will it be you? A demon?" Darkness laughed at the irony and charged again.

The blade cut into his dry, dead flesh beneath the leather jacket he wore, but Darkness's nerves had long-since died. The bite of pain was something he could no longer experience. He laughed manically as he grabbed the Bleeder's throat and easily lifted him off his feet.

"You have made a miscalculation, Bleeder," Darkness sneered, "I have discovered my destiny, and I have obtained the first element necessary to complete it."

Bleeder's strange eyes went wide.

"Yes. When Hades fell to me I came to Abbadon and forced him to do my bidding. With his death he gave me the six-hundred-and-sixty-sixth Mark of the Destroyer and in doing so confirmed that I will be the Antichrist. There is nothing you can do to stop me."

Bleeder struggled futilely against the grip of his enemy. Darkness merely laughed once more and pulled him closer. "Destiny is on my side, Bleeder," he hissed, "Soon I will find the last artefact and complete the cycle. Earth will fall, and Heaven after it. You and your kind have failed."

Bleeder thrashed out once more, but Darkness caught the blade in his hands, stopping the swing without batting a single, dead eyelid. He showed off the long fangs that protruded from his mouth and whispered the last words Bleeder would hear. "Let's see how much human is left in you, demon..."

His fangs plunged into Bleeder's throat, instantly slaying him as thunder cracked overhead. The demon's body seemed to collapse in on itself, crumbling into a twisted heap at Darkness's feet. Spitting the bitter taste of the infernal blood from his mouth, the former Shadow Slayer stooped down to retrieve the sword of Aterius Angelus from Bleeder's dead hands. He had to claw it out, but he took it nonetheless.

Another peal of thunder sounded across the city as Darkness raised the sword to the Heavens that he knew would soon be his. Lightning arced overhead as laughter and howls of the werekind echoed around the nearby buildings.

"BEHOLD," Darkness bellowed into the night, "I AM DARKNESS, LORD OF VAMPIRES, SLAYER OF LUCIFER, HAMMER OF GODS, HERALD OF APOPHIS AND CHAMPION OF THE VOID! YOUR WORLD IS MINE!"

* * *

Tokyo Narita International Airport, Present Day

He always appreciated coming to East Asia. He had trained in this part of the world - broadly speaking - and it was almost like coming home. The politeness and calm decorum, even in a city like Tokyo, was a refreshing change from the hectic pace of life in North America.

The young man the TCW's affiliate company had sent to greet him bustled up and bowed as he shook his hand, "Welcome, Darkness-San, we hope you enjoy your stay in our country, we have prepared car for..."

Darkness had returned the bow, but now held up his hand, "That will not be necessary. I've come here to relax and I intend to find my own way around."

They would expect interviews and things like that. Already a small crowd was gathering nearby. They were clearly interested but maintained a polite distance. Professional wrestling was perhaps a bigger obsession in Japan than in North America, and the stars of TCW were always treated well when they visited.

Darkness pondered how they reacted to the man he had secretly come here to find.

They were nice enough at first. Always are. They think you're here to sell something though, do some interviews and be a celebrity. Well I didn't come here for that. Just needed a fucking break for once in my life; too much crazy shit going on.

He shouldered his bag as he left the airport, his newfound aide trailing in his wake. He nodded and raised a hand in greeting to another group of interested bystanders who recognised the tall Westerner. In America he could just pass for a biker or a goth, but here his appearance was simply too distinctive.

He was Darkness, and that made him a celebrity. It was something he didn't think he'd ever get used to.

You can't get used to it. Not if that's not the reason you got into this. All I ever wanted to do was wrestle - not for the money or the fame, but because it was in my damn blood. I was born to run the ring like my uncle did and, hell, I made a pretty good job of it. They still remember my name, that's the important thing.

The cab took him to a decent enough hotel. He told his new friend that he wanted to take a shower but instead he made his escape using the balcony. Darkness found he was still kind of stiff from his run-in with Drakus what seemed like an age ago, but he managed to scramble up to the rooftops eventually and made his way across the city.

He'd done some research before he got here. The name of the man he sought was still being bandied around, even though he hadn't stepped into a ring in over a month. People knew where he was staying, where he could be found. Somewhere in Tokyo, the only man he thought could make a difference was waiting for him, and he didn't even know it.

I came here to get away from all the lies, all the politics, all the shit. What I saw in that Church twisted my mind and made me want to stop doing this if that was where it led. So I took things back to basics; came somewhere where I figured I could just wrestle and be a wrestler. Well it turns out your name can only get you so far. It started out good, but eventually I made some bad decisions and found myself mired in the same old crap.

Not far now. Darkness hopped from building to building over narrow gaps as the sun set behind him, casting a red pall over the city. Neon lights began to blink on all across Tokyo as the night time city came to life again.

Didn't take long for them to catch up with me. I was there, just minding my own business in my room, trying to figure out my next step, and suddenly I have a door full of guys in suits who want to introduce me to their baseball bats. Not one of my better evenings.

Darkness made his way back to street-level and entered the rundown hotel on the outskirts of the city. He fumbled a note with Japanese characters hastily scrawled on it as he had little hope that they'd have English-speaking staff in this part of town and his Japanese wasn't up to much these days.

The pretty desk clerk fumbled a few English words and gestured him down a hall, giving him directions to the room he sought with a few pointed fingers. He nodded his thanks.

My head feels like shit. Is that blood I can feel? Jesus, this room is a fucking mess...did I do that? There's something wet underneath me...oh fuck...that is blood... How did this happen? I wanted to get away from this kind of bullshit, but maybe I'm the common factor, you know?

He rapped on the door.

Ugh...my head feels like its banging. Let me just...just...rest here for a while...let the banging stop...

No reply. Darkness waited a few moments before deciding to cut his losses. Checking for a few moments that no one was around - even though his Slayer Sense told him as much - he shouldered the door, forcing it open and nearly tumbling in.

Who...who the hell...?

"Fuck," Darkness said, the scene in the room being shocking enough for him to elicit a rare curse-word. He quickly took in the details: the destroyed suite, the smashed furniture, a pool of blood and the man he had come to find lying in it, a vicious head-wound pulsing fluid into the carpet.

He rushed towards the man and heaved him upright. Blearily, through glassy eyes that weren't seeing him properly, he mumbled the same thing he had last time the two of them had been in this position.

"X?"

"Don't worry," Darkness said as he lifted up Gideon Flint, "I'll get you to a hospital..."

Acid Misfit's head lolled to one side as Darkness rushed him through the hotel corridors.

They say, when you're on the cusp of death you can see into the next world. I guess they usually mean Heaven or something, but I know that that sure as fuck wasn't the world I saw then...

The golden-brown liquid sluiced into the glass and Mann accepted it with a grateful smile. Decent liquor was hard to come by, but Flint kept a bottle of brandy back for visits like these. Mann was not a heavy drinker, but sometimes it takes more than coffee to get you back on your feet - especially these days.

The bandages on the pale man's side were holding, but they'd have to be changed soon judging by the blood seeping through. In happier times Flint would have taken him to a hospital, but institutions such as that were little better than glorified morgues. AIDS was rampant, and those that didn't die because of complications related to that were vulnerable to a dozen more diseases in the filth and squalor of the gutters.

It still terrified Flint that this state of affairs persisted even in America and that it was so much worse in the rest of the world.

"So, what can you tell me?" the priest asked, taking a small sip of his own brandy. The news reports were less than useless and so Flint depended on more direct sources for his information.

"A treaty was signed in the ruins of Paris last week. The fighting is going to stop, but they're kidding themselves if they think this is going to save any more people."

With the death-toll in the hundreds of millions, Europe was already mostly depopulated by the conflict that was being called ‘The Last World War' and it was no surprise that the survivors would cling desperately to whatever small hope was left. That they had taken this offer and signed a treaty meant that they still didn't understand the true nature of their foe.

"What does it mean?"

Mann sighed. "Total disarmament, division of nations into puppet states controlled by his followers. Conscription."

Flint's eyebrows rose. The war had already spread to Asia and Africa and, with the world's industries and commerce drying up, nations across the globe were experiencing hardships. Flint also knew that the widely acknowledged fronts of the war were only a small part of the larger picture.

"Troops have already landed on the east coast, Gideon," Mann elaborated, "We think he's at large in North America now - somewhere near the Great Lakes, probably Chicago."

"You've felt him?"

Mann nodded quietly. He was stripped to the waist, his mid-length chalky white hair just brushing his pale shoulders. There was little else to say, and Flint wished he could offer some solution, but if Jason Mann knew of none then anything he could say would be a mere platitude.

"Any word from the Vatican?"

Mann ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head sadly. "As far as I know, Kahn is still holed up there with the rest of the Order. I've tried to get a message through, but the whole city has been bombarded into rubble and the place is swarming with Shadowspawn."

Flint always asked about the Vatican, in the hope that Mann would tell him something about the Papacy itself rather than what was left of the Shadow Slayers. The only time he had pressed for information the mournful look in his friend's eyes had told him not to ask the question on his lips. Father Flint had begun to suspect that his Church now only existed in name alone.

"Who did this?" Flint asked, changing the subject and gesturing at the wound on his companion's side.

Shifting his weight uncomfortably, Mann gave a grimace, "Goddamned wolves of his..."

"Wolves?"

"They used to be Slayers - good ones too - but he's found a way to induce lycanthropy. I let my guard down when they still looked human."

"Did you kill them?"

"No, just did enough to drive them off. I'm not sure I'll be so lucky next time."

Flint nodded and stood up. He crossed his small living room and picked up the brandy decanter again. It felt like a good time to be drinking.

"I spoke to Bush," Mann continued, "You'd think someone like him would be willing to listen to the truth, but he treated me like another one of the doomsayers on every street corner these days."

"Did you show him your tattoo?" Flint asked, turning around.

Mann looked down at the body art in question. Wrapped around his arm was a series of black, interlocking rings, nine in total. Second Circle. "I showed him, but apparently they don't brief presidents on things like that anymore."

Flint returned to his seat with two more glasses of brandy. Most of the world continued to bury their heads in the sand, ignoring the evidence of their own eyes. It was easier to just pretend that the armies sweeping the globe were normal men and gloss over the rotting flesh and pinprick pupils in their eyes. Pretend those fangs weren't there, and not question why they only fought battles at night...

That ought to be a weakness, but their leader commanded enough other creatures to make up for it. The wargs were united under the banner of the Abyss and things that should never have seen the light of Earth's sun now walked beneath it.

"Is there any hope, Jason?" Flint asked after a long pause.

Mann waited a long moment before replying. "Some. Our intelligence reports that he still has one element left to obtain before he can complete his plan. If we can keep it from him..."

"But he is still too powerful for us to defeat, even now."

"Yes, unless we can surprise him."

Flint frowned, but saw that a new light was shining in Mann's eyes. After months of hopelessness, he suddenly saw a faint promise of victory.

The Slayer stood up, pacing rapidly, and then slower as his speed started to dislodge his bandages. "We know what he wants, if we can lure him to a place where we have the advantage...then...then...ambush him...yes!"

"You think he'd come in person to obtain it?"

"I don't doubt it," Mann said, "He trusts none of his servants as much as he trusts himself - he is more powerful than any of them and, if he finds out the place we'll lure him to, he won't be able to resist."

Flint narrowed his eyes, "Where do you have in mind?"

"Your church, Gideon. There's no ground on this planet that favours me more."

Flint had to agree with him, though his heart was full of misgivings for Mann's desperate plan.

* * *

One Week Later

Two grey wolves padded across the floor of the supremacy force's temporary headquarters in downtown Chicago. They bled from dozens of cuts and Darkness curled his lip in anger and distaste at their failure.

"You let him escape, didn't you?"

The two beasts seemed to rise up on their hind legs and smoothly transformed into human shapes, both looking as sheepish as they had in wolf form. "He was more formidable than we expected, master," the braided brother growled, unable to fully shake of his bestial mindset.

"I told you he wouldn't be a pushover," Darkness snapped as he pushed himself forward on the chair he was using a makeshift throne. He stood up and walked towards his werewolf servants, ignoring the blood and viscera that spattered the chamber that had once been part of Chicago's city hall. The butchered forms of various local politicians were hanging from meat hooks attached to the wall. Most of them were dead by now.

"You underestimated him, but you forget just whose son he is," Darkness continued, looking from one man to the other, "And that his Slayer training makes him that much more powerful against us. Did you at least give him something to remember you by?"

The short-haired brother nodded, smiling. His more stoic nature gave him better control over the canine instincts he constantly had to suppress, "He was bleeding heavily when we left him."

"Enough to kill him?"

"If he finds no refuge, yes."

Darkness nodded, some of his disappointment with his warriors now fading. In truth, he had never expected them to kill Mann, but it was enough that they had wounded him and made it clear that they could find and attack him at will. "He'll find his refuge," Darkness mused, "He still has friends."

The vampire lord paused. "Where did you find him?" he asked after a moment.

The two werewolves exchanged a glance, "It was northern California," the braided one replied, "Not far from Sacramento."

"Ah, then I know where he can be found..."

He told the werewolves no more, simply dismissing them before turning to the window of the office that overlooked the Chicago skyline. It was a moonless night, but the blazing fires on every street lit up the sky in its place. The sound of gunfire and clashing weapons greeted his ears and he smiled.

The police had been overwhelmed in days, even their SWAT teams little match for even the weakest of his servants. The National Guard proved equally ineffectual and then the army had been brought in. That played into their hands. Chicago had become a war zone, gradually reduced to ruins as his warriors - vampires, wargs, werewolves and some things that were better off nameless - had free reign, feeding off the local populace while the American forces had to bring supplies in.

Their ability to demoralise was perhaps their greatest asset though. Corpses of hundreds of thousands of former Chicago residents were hung in prominent positions along every street. His troops were incapable of empathy, so they were quite happy to fill the city with the screams of the dying and the tortured.

Victory was swift, and only a few small pockets of resistance remained.

"Make sure you get away from that window before the sun rises, rookie..."

Darkness whirled, his face contorted into a snarl of fury, but there was no one there. He cast out with his Slayer Sense, seeking any sign of an intruder, but he knew there would be none. The familiar voice had haunted him since he had arrived in North America and he knew his old enemy was at large somewhere.

"Jack! John!"

The two werewolves rushed into the room a second later to see what their master wanted. They looked at him, waiting for orders and it took Darkness a few moments to articulate his wishes.

"He's here..."

"Who?" Jack, the one with the long braid, asked.

"You know who..."

John nodded, "Should we try to find him?"

"Find him and kill him...no...bring him here...I want to see his face before I destroy him."

Nodding, the two werewolves sank down into their canine forms and raced from the room like arrows from a bow.

* * *

Somewhere in the partially ruined city, a small tent still withstood the anarchy without. Here, in the US Army's compound, a Special Forces captain sat on a makeshift stool, poring over reports from front lines across the country.

"Sir?"

His aide poked his head inside the tent and the captain nodded for him to continue. "There's someone who wants to speak to you..."

"Who?"

"He won't give his name, but he said that if we described his tattoo you would..."

The captain interrupted him, "Does it look like a bunch of rings around his right arm?"

"Uh...yeah."

"Show him in."

The officer returned to the reports, growing more miserable the more he read. They fell back from every front, demoralised and beaten by superior forces. Across the eastern United States, the same story as Chicago's was being told. New York in ruins, Washington abandoned with the President and staff holed up in a bunker somewhere, Boston rising up to join the invaders thanks to some weird cult. It didn't look good.

He looked up to see the man who had just entered his inner sanctum. Without waiting for an introduction, he offered his hand, "My name's classified," the captain said, "But if you need something to call me, I suggest something like ‘John Doe'."

The smaller man returned the handshake, "I'm Dragon. Shadow Slayer. I think you guys are going to need my help."

Dayton; Ohio, December 2nd 2005

It was as bad here as anywhere else. Rubble filled the streets as explosions reverberated through the skeletons of what had once been towering office blocks.

"Move! Move!"

The Special Forces Captain who had half-jokingly told Dragon to refer to him as John Doe ordered his troops forward through the ruins of downtown Dayton, laying down a curtain of fire as they advanced. It was daylight, which meant the enemy were weakened, though things had changed since the earlier stages of the war - they were fighting men now.

Conscripts from Europe and Asia made up the bulk of the opposing army now; hard-faced and dark-eyed warriors whose lives had already been destroyed by the creatures they now served. With nothing left to lose, their families and homes destroyed, they might as well have been the living dead. They were joined by a small number of Americans too - men from cities on the East Coast that had surrendered rather than stand up to the invaders. They were either conscripts fighting out of fear, or those lost souls who had sworn their allegiance to the one who called himself The Master.

Cultists, in other words.

Against such a force, the US Army could hardly fail to be victorious, for they were better armed, trained and organised. But these were times of little hope, when every man who took up arms could name a dozen friends and family he had lost in these dark times. And then, come the night...everything changed...

"Drive them back!" Doe shouted above the explosions surrounding him, "We have to take this block before sundown!"

What gains they could make had to be done in the light, and then when it was dark they hunkered down and defended as best they could against the elite troops of the enemy. Come morning, they counted the dead and missing and prayed it would be less than the night before. It never was.

Tanks and APCs rumbled up the street, withstanding the worst that the ragtag human soldiers of the enemy forces could throw at them. Slowly, inch-by-inch, they pushed back the lines and bought themselves precious breathing room amongst the ruined city.

* * *

New Orleans

The South hadn't risen again, but it was still standing. As much as modern society might bemoan the legacy of America's conservative Christian past, now was finally the chance for the iron faith of the much derided Southern Baptists to come into its own. In a part of the country where there was seemingly a church on every corner, the weapons to resist the Enemy were plentiful.

In New Orleans, however, things were somewhat different. Another power lurked there that would resist the Abyss until its death.

The gate of Baptiste's compound opened slowly to reveal a man dressed entirely in white standing in the sweltering darkness of the marshland outside.

"I didn't think you would come," the blind shaman said slowly.

"My mission must be completed. The war hangs in the balance."

"Of course. Come in; I have what you seek in my vault."

* * *

It was a moonless night but the crystal clear sky seemed to allow the starlight to illuminate far more than it should. As Doe wandered through the remains of what had once been one of Dayton's finest hotels, he reflected sadly on the state of affairs that their forces found themselves in. Driven back on every front; for every gain they made they would lose far more. It had cost him the lives of over thirty of his men to secure this one building, and even that would do them little good.

The doors were barricaded and a full platoon was stationed in the lobby with weapons at the ready. The elevators had been disabled and squadrons of guards stood on every landing of the stairwells. Those men that had earned their night's rest were barracked in the large dining room, rather than risk being alone in any of the hotel suites.

They all knew that the vampires would come soon and that they would be forced to pay even more dearly than they had already for this miniscule amount of begotten ground.

Doe would never admit it even to himself, but this was an entirely unsustainable war.

No force on Earth had ever been prepared to defend itself against enemies like these and he couldn't help wondering why even the Shadow Slayers had been so ineffectual if stopping such things was supposedly their job. It was as if some quirk of fate had rendered them much weaker than they should have been over the years.

He held up his hand to stop the two soldiers than flanked him before they came to one of the hotel's largest suites. They hadn't cleared out every room yet and one this size would be little more than a killing ground if enemy forces were waiting inside.

Doe crouched down and drew a strange pistol. Dragon had given it him in Chicago and he knew that the bullets it fired would give even their most powerful foes pause for thought. He silently gestured one of his aides to crouch opposite him on the other side of the heavy door with his own weapon at the ready. Moving slowly and quietly, Doe reached up to the door's handle and turned it experimentally.

It opened at his touch and the door swung inwards. Immediately the soldier lifted his gun and depressed the trigger, but he wasn't fast enough and was thrown back against the opposite wall with a dull thud, his body riddled with bullets.

Doe acted fast, rolling across the doorway and immediately seeing the source of the attack. A lone figure - human - with two silver Berettas that he was swiftly reloading stood in the palatial looking suite that was now mostly destroyed.

The Captain didn't hesitate, pumping three bullets in quick succession into the man's gut. He staggered back with an "Oof" of exhaled air, but didn't drop his weapon.

"Jones!"

Doe continued to fire as his other aide stepped into the doorway and unleashed a torrent of bullets from his M16 rifle, finally felling the lone assassin.

Taking only a second to look over the fallen soldier, Doe and Jones quickly stepped into the room, casting about with their weapons for any more assailants. When they saw none, the Captain went to check on the man they had killed.

"Jesus, look at the size of this guy..."

Standing at around seven feet tall, it was no wonder it had taken so much firepower to bring him down. He was bald and had the look of one of the grim-faced enemy warriors they had come to know all too well. A tattoo on his scalp showing the figure-eight snake eating its own tail told them whom he served. By his olive skin, Doe supposed he was European.

He looked around the rest of the room and sighed. "Looks like someone was here before this guy - and they'll probably come back."

"What makes you say..."

Jones's words were cut off abruptly as the French windows next to which he was standing imploded, shredding him into pieces instantly. Doe leapt back, raising his pistol again and driving a bullet through the skull of the first creature to enter the room from the balcony. It squealed and he let out another shot, this time piercing the thing's heart and turning it into ashes.

Another followed it and he disposed of it similarly before the room's real occupant finally arrived.

"Those bullets of yours won't be much use against me, Captain," Darkness grinned as his boots crunched on the bloody glass that now littered the carpet of the suite, "But feel free to try."

Doe didn't quail under the predatory gaze of the Vampire Lord, but he knew his chances of surviving this encounter were effectively nil. "I didn't realise you were here, Darkness."

The vampire walked slowly around the room before replying, giving his fallen assassin a sad look and then seating himself behind a desk littered with detritus. "I'm always at the head of my army, Captain, just as you are."

"Do you ever think that that isn't such a good idea?"

"Do you?"

Silence descended on the room and Doe wondered what his enemy was waiting for. "You know this hotel is filled with my soldiers, don't you? I could have this room filled with Special Forces in a heartbeat," he said after a while.

"It would do you little good. There is nothing in your arsenal that can stop me."

"How about mine, rookie?"

Doe and Darkness both spun ‘round to the window through which the vampires had just entered to see a figure standing there, greatsword in hand.

"YOU!" Darkness roared, surging to his feet and heaving the huge mahogany desk out of his path without apparent effort.

Dragon stepped through the ragged curtains and bared his teeth at his old foe. "Still got that bullet hole, I see," he remarked.

Darkness's brow furrowed around the ugly scar in his forehead to which Dragon referred, "It's the mark of your failure, Dragon - had you finished me off properly instead of letting your ego get in the way of a sure kill, maybe your world wouldn't be in ruins now."

The Slayer's face twisted, an expression that looked odd with the tattoos that covered his skin. Darkness had cut to the bone with that comment and it seemed like the vampire must be aware of the endless sleepless nights Dragon suffered as result of the moment's indecision in Cambodia that had cost him so dearly.

"That's the past, Darkness," he finally said, "Now I'll make up for my mistakes by finishing the job."

He brandished his sword and Darkness smiled, his fangs gleaming in the starlight. The vampire reached behind his back and drew his own blade, holding it before Dragon triumphantly.

"Do you know what this is, Shadow Slayer?"

Dragon looked at the weapon, his eyes wide.

"This is the sword of Aterius Angelus, the symbol of your Order. I clawed it from the cold, dead hands of The Bleeder himself and now it will give me immense satisfaction to kill you with it."

Dragon roared in fury and charged the Vampire Lord, swinging his heavy blade in a wide arc. Darkness lifted his own sword with one hand, effortlessly parrying the man's mighty two-handed blow and driving him back with a swift kick to the gut.

Doe acted quickly, aiming his pistol at Darkness and shooting him through the midsection. With a howl, Darkness dropped to one knee and turned his gaze on the Captain, "I told you that that would do no good...I told you..."

"Now, John!"

As the two men both rushed towards the shattered window, Doe pulled a detonation device from his pocket and pressed the button. Far below them, a dull rumble could be heard. On the balcony, Dragon sheathed his sword in the baldric across his back and hooked his wrist on the zip line that had brought him there while, beside him, Doe did the same.

As the hotel began to collapse from the explosives they had placed in the basement, the two of them glided to safety in the streets where the soldiers that had previously been in the hotel now stood, watching the building slowly tumble into its foundations.

"Do you think he survived?" Doe asked as they watched.

"Count on it," Dragon said grimly, "But we might have delayed him, at least."

"Delayed him?"

Dragon ran his hand through his closely cropped auburn hair which now sported a fine layer of dust from the collapsed building, "We have some intelligence...he's planning something...we think it should have been tonight, but now we might have some breathing room."

"How long?"

Dragon shrugged, "Three days, maybe?"

MAY 20, 2006

Trucks full of filthy refugees rumble through the ruined streets of Pittsburgh, better known to American soldiers as "The Pitt," on their way to Pittsburgh International Airport. The trucks are accompanied by military humvees, many showing visible damage from recent skirmishes around the city. At the head of the convoy, John Doe and the Shadow Slayer known only as Dragon scan the horizon for any sign of the enemy.

Doe: "Those super senses of yours picking anything up?"

Dragon: "I'm not a comic book character, Colonel."

Doe: "You're the next best thing."

Dragon squints into the afternoon sun. In daylight, the most urgent concern is an enemy rocket or roadside bomb. The enemy's human forces, many of them conscripts from Europe and Asia, had been driven out of the city, but small groups still manage to slip through the lines and attack any target of opportunity using hit-and-run tactics.

Doe: "Halt!"

The convoy comes to a stop. Ahead, a pile of debris blocks the road. Doe's men stop, look and listen for any signs of the enemy. A split second later, gunfire erupts from several buildings. The soldiers take cover and return fire. An RPG is fired into the humvee behind Doe and Dragon's vehicle, spraying the area with shrapnel.

Doe: "Down!"

He pushes Dragon. A bullet whizzes past the Slayer's ear. In a matter of seconds, Dragon's rifle is trained on the source of the sniper fire. With uncanny speed he zeroes in on the target and fires. The single bullet travels through the scope of the sniper's rifle and into his eye. The gunfire begins to trail off as the last of the enemy troops is cut down. Doe rises to his feet.

Doe: "Everyone back in the trucks. Load up the wounded, let's get moving now!"

He knows from experience, as do the men, that standing still invites another ambush. Within minutes the convoy is moving toward the relative security of the airport.

Doe: "Good shooting back there."

Dragon: "Thanks."

Doe: "That sniper knew who you are, didn't he?"

Dragon: "They all know."

The day wanes as the convoy arrives at Pittsburgh International. Fighter jets scream overhead, on their way back from another bombing sortie back East. A tank positioned on the road moves aside for the humvees and trucks. Inside the perimeter, they're met by several officers and one of Dragon's proteges. The young man sets down his axe and clasps Dragon's hand.

Drake: "Good to see you, sir."

Dragon: "How are things here?"

Drake: "Busy. Sun sets in less than two hours. They'll be coming again."

By day, the enemy's conventional forces have little hope of breeching the airport perimeter, but when darkness descends on the city the enemy's deadliest forces will inevitably continue their nightly campaign to wear down the defenses. Dragon can see the fatigue in the way Drake carries himself, in the young man's face. For weeks the Slayers have defended the city against these attacks, losing nearly half their number in the process. Drake had seen men and women he trained with fall to the enemy. Dragon knows the pain all too well. They were, after all, his students.

Dragon: "Gather the others. I want to speak with you all before sunset."

Dragon watches the refugees being herded from the trucks into the terminal. Some of them have been surviving in enemy held territory for months, surviving any way they could before U.S. forces retook the area. Their eyes are hollow, seemingly numb to the ongoing horror around them. Like hundreds before them, they'll board helicopters and planes bound west for the relative safety of government refugee camps in Utah, Idaho, Wyoming and Montana.

Doe: "Can I see you for a moment, Dragon?"

Colonel Doe ushers Dragon into a small office and shuts the door. Maps and surveillance photos are pinned to every wall.

Doe: "You've lost a lot of men these last few weeks."

Dragon: "They died to protect the world from evil."

Doe: "I know. But you Shadow Slayers are important. If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't no a fraction of what we do about the enemy's capabilities, and we wouldn't have been nearly as successful against them. Between the military and the militias we can fight the enemy's human soldiers. But those others ... the wolves, the bloodsuckers. Just a few of them behind our lines can do more damage than a platoon of armed conscripts. You Slayers know how to fight those things, and we need you to keep fighting."

Dragon: "The Shadow Slayers will fight to our last breath, Colonel Doe."

Doe smiles.

Doe: "I know. I've seen it. But you're too valuable to sacrifice. That's why I have orders to send you and your men back West on the last transport out."

Dragon: "You're sending us away from battle? On whose authority?"

Doe: "The order comes from Colorado Springs, from the president himself. A new offensive is in the works, and your talents are needed elsewhere."

Dragon's training hides his emotions, but inside he is seething.

Dragon: "I do not answer to your president, and I do not retreat from the enemy."

Doe: "There's nothing more you or your men can do here."

The colonel's words are oddly melancholy.

Dragon: "There's something more to this. What aren't you telling me?"

Dragon stares down Doe, hoping his fearsome tattooed countenance can intimidate the battle-hardened military officer.

Doe: "I've told you all I can tell you, Dragon. Please trust me when I say you and your men will be better off somewhere else."

Dragon: "I have my own intelligence, John. I know the enemy's forces are massing for another push into the Midwest. This city will face a full scale assault in a matter of weeks."

Doe: "Probably sooner."

Dragon: "Then why send us away now, on the verge of a great battle?"

Doe: "We'll deal with the enemy's forces from the air."

Dragon: "Another bombing campaign? Those have only had limited effectiveness, especially against the enemy's Wargs and vampires."

Doe: "This will be different."

The meaning of Doe's words slowly dawn on Dragon.

Dragon: "You can't mean ..."

Doe: "I didn't say anything. I can't say, can't confirm it, not even to you, until it's done."

Dragon: "This is madness, John."

Doe: "It's our only chance to stop them."

Dragon: "I won't ..."

Doe: "Get your men out of here. Keep fighting. We'll do the same for as long as we're able."

Dragon: "Very well."

Dragon hesitates at the door.

Dragon: "There is one thing. Jason Mann is still behind enemy lines. If your forces make contact with him ..."

Doe: "We'll do all we can to get him out safely."

Dragon nods. When he meets his Slayers, he gives them a far different speech than originally intended. Most are shocked by his announcement that they will be leaving the city before day's end.

Drake: "Who'll man the barricades tonight?"

Dragon: "Colonel Doe's men will see to it."

Drake: "Why do they want us to go?"

Dragon: "We are needed elsewhere."

The other Slayers aren't satisfied by Dragon's non-explanation, but know better than to question their commander. They gather their weapons and supplies in near silence. Dragon is the last to leave. He hesitates on the tarmac, gazing back at the soldiers preparing themselves for the attack to come. Such brave men and women. It tears Dragon's heart to abandon them. He nags his head and boards the plane, silently vowing that he will return with help as soon as he is able.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

MAY 21, 2006

Father Flint: "Are there really priests ready to follow that impostor?"

His guest, a white-haired elderly priest visiting from out of town, shakes his head.

Father McCarville: "When we lost touch with Rome, heard about the bloodshed and destruction, the church despaired. Some didn't think we could go on. But we did, tried to make do as best we could. Still, the idea of going back to the way things were is a powerful one."

Flint: "But he's obviously a puppet. He's working with the enemy."

McCarville: "False prophets are nothing new, Gideon."

Flint: "You can say that again, Father Mike."

A news brief on Flint's small TV catches his eye. He grabs the remote and turns up the sound.

Flint: "Have you seen this yet?"

Newsreader: "... Homeland Security director admitted today that video and audio messages being sent to national media and posted on the Internet have been confirmed as the work of the cult leader known to his followers only as 'The Master.' When asked how the Master had escaped detention, the director declined to comment."

Flint changes the channel, finally settling on pro wrestling. He turns the sound down as EWR's Shogun faces off against Shane Mathis and Q while Demolition Man looks on, world title slung over one shoulder.

McCarville: "The Master's followers are becoming more and more violent. Just the other day I heard that a young girl went into a busy military recruiting office in Denver with a bomb on her chest and blew herself to bits. Poor child ..."

Flint lights another cigarette, from his second pack of the day.

Flint: "It's insane. I don't understand it, any of it. What kind of hope can we offer when this is what goes on everyday?"

McCarville: "We have to be strong for them, Gideon. Lord knows someone has to be."

When Father Flint glances at the TV, he notices that the wrestling match has been replaced by the president, seated behind his desk in the executive office in Colorado Springs.

Flint: "What now?"

He turns up the volume.

President: "... have authorized the use of tactical nuclear weapons against enemy targets on American soil. Multiple enemy bases on the eastern seaboard have already been struck."

As the president speaks, the news crawl underneath the address tells viewers that America now joins Europe, the Middle East, Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent among the locations of nuclear attacks in the past two years.

Flint: "Holy Mary, mother of God ... that's it."

The remote control slips from Flint's hand and falls to the floor.

Flint: "What hope do we have now, Father Mike?"

For once, the elderly priest is hard pressed to answer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

JUNE 10, 2006

Father Flint doesn't hear the man behind him until he clears his throat.

"Excuse me, are you Father Gideon Flint?"

Flint turns. The voice belongs to an older man, probably in his early sixties, with gray hair and a chubby face. He's unusually well dressed, the impeccably tailored three-piece suit like something out of a distant, more normal time. He wears a heavy gold watch on his wrist and carries a dark leather briefcase.

Flint: "Can I help you?"

The man holds out a hand. Flint notices a large gold pinkie ring.

Man: "Pleased to meet you Father. I've heard a lot of good things about your work in the community."

Flint returns the handshake without a lot of enthusiasm. It's late, and he wants to crawl back to his apartment and sink into a blissful oblivion.

Flint: "Thanks. If you're here to make a donation, I'd be happy to meet with you first thing tomorrow ..."

The man chuckles and shakes his head.

Man: "Not exactly, Father. I just need a few moments of your time."

Flint: "Well, I'd really rather ..."

Man: "Isn't it terrible, Father, another city destroyed just yesterday -- Pittsburgh, if I'm not mistaken. Wars and rumors of wars, civil discord, a government using weapons of mass destruction on its own cities. These are dark days indeed."

Flint: "That they are, Mr. ...?"

Man: "It's a testament to the human spirit that men such as yourself can continue to uplift others in these circumstances. You've a very admirable fellow, Father Flint."

Flint: "I do what I can to help people."

The old man clasps his hands together.

Man: "You certainly do, and bless your heart for doing so much with so little. Can I let you in on something I've learned in my life, Father?"

Flint's shoulders slump. He won't be getting rid of this persistant visitor very easily.

Flint: "Of course."

The old man puts a fatherly arm around Flint's shoulder.

Man: "In hard times like these, there aren't any winners or losers, only survivors. How many survivors depends on whether or not there's anyone around to protect the weak, feed and shelter them, help them weather the storm. Have you seen the refugee camps?"

Flint: "Only on the news."

Man: "Terrible places, packed to the rafters, short on supplies, filthy hovels really. What those people need now is a man like you to reach out, do what you do best, what you were meant to do."

Flint: "And you can help me?"

The old man slaps Father Flint on the back. It's meant to be a friendly gesture, but the slap actually stings a bit.

Man: "Now you're getting it! The parties I represent want to ease the people's suffering, and we need experienced hands to lead the effort. We think you should be one of those leaders, Father Flint."

Flint swallows hard. Something is off. It just doesn't feel right.

Flint: "Sounds great. When do we get started?"

Man: "That's all up to you, Father."

Flint: "How so?"

Flint waits for the other shoe to drop.

Man: "To set a good example for the community, you have to be free of any ... questionable associations, wouldn't you agree?"

Flint: "I suppose so, but I don't see how that applies to me."

Man: "I understand. You want to see the best in people, that's an admirable trait too. But Father, sometimes that keeps you from seeing the bigger picture."

Flint: "Who are you talking about?"

Man: "A strange character people say they've seen around this church from time to time -- an albino, I believe."

Father Flint shrugs off the old man's arm and takes a step away.

Flint: "What about him?"

Man: "What do you really know about that fellow? 'Jason Mann?' That's a fake name if I ever heard one, and I've heard quite a few in my day. I'm sure he's told you some very believable stories about what he's doing, but let me set the record straight."

The old man opens his briefcase and hands Flint a folder. Inside are pictures of dead bodies -- men, women and children, all cut to pieces.

Man: "Almost 100 people in a single village. That's your friend's handiwork, Father Flint. He may claim to be on a divine mission, but he is no different than those mentally deranged cultists blowing themselves up in government buildings. Jason Mann is a dangerous zealot on a suicide mission, and sooner or later he'll take you right down with him unless you get free now."

Flint's hands are shaking slightly as he looks at the close-ups of gaping wounds.

Flint: "How do I do that?"

Man: "You just have to do the right thing. Tell us what you know about this Mann character, about his plans, so we can inform the proper authorities and see that he doesn't do any more harm. You'll be a hero for it, Father Flint, I can guarantee that."

Flint: "Who did you say you represent?"

The man hesitates for a second.

Man: "We don't have a formal name yet, but we're a group of leading community members focused on helping people through this crisis. And before we can do that, we have got to end the violence. We've got to get dangerous folks like Mr. Mann out of circulation if we're ever going to see an end to this terrible war. Are you with us, Father Flint?"

Flint hands the folder back to the well-dressed man.

Flint: "I'll need some time to think about it."

He starts to back away from the man.

Man: "I'm afraid time is a luxury we simply don't have."

Before Father Flint can take another step, the old man hits him in the face with a vicious backhand that floors the priest. Flint sees stars, and feels blood dripping from an open wound on his cheek. The old man rubs a finger across the surface of his ring, now marred by a spot of Flint's blood.

Man: "I'll have your answer now, Father Flint."

When Father Flint fails to reply, the old man kicks him in the stomach, then presses his wingtip down on Flint's throat.

Man: "What will it be, Father? Will you survive and help others to survive with you, or die for a man you barely know?"

The old man presses down harder. Flint can barely choke out a response.

Flint: "Al ... alright. I'll help you."

The old man allows Father Flint to stand.

Flint: "He ... left some boxes for me to store."

Man: "Do you know what's in them?"

Flint: "No. I can take you to them."

The old man smiles.

Man: "An excellent beginning. Lead on, Father."

Father Flint takes the old man to the church basement. He turns on the harsh flourescent lights and shows the old man the padlocked crates left by Mann and Drake over the past months. The old man examines the crates, then breaks one of the heavy padlocks with his bare hand.

Man: "Let's see what your friend the crusader has given you to hide in the house of God."

From the crate, the old man produces a vicious-looking sword.

Man: "As I suspected. Do you see now, Father Flint? This is Jason Mann's true nature."

The old man opens another crate, this one packed with military style assault rifles. Father Flint stands back.

Man: "Did he say when he would return for these weapons?"

Flint: "Not exactly ..."

Man: "Be honest, Father."

Father Flint takes a step towards the old man.

Flint: "Alright ..."

The old man turns towards Father Flint -- who lunges forward, burying a long dagger to the hilt in the old man's chest. The man pushes Flint away and pulls the dagger out of his body. Foul black ichor oozes from the wound. The old man's face begins to melt, to shift, becoming something else, something inhuman and terrifying. Clawed hands grab Father Flint, dig into his flesh, push him against the wall. He struggles, but to no avail.

"NOW I WILL FEAST ON YOUR FLESH!"

Jagged fangs descend toward Father Flint's neck. He closes his eyes and says a silent prayer. Then something wet sprays against his face. Opening his eyes again, Father Flint sees the top half of the creature's head is gone. It slumps against him, then collapses to the floor with a wet thud. On basement steps Jason Mann stands, pistol in hand.

Mann: "I'm so sorry, Gideon ..."

"I've been tracking him for weeks," Mann said as he ignored the shocked face of his friend and began rifling through the already opened crates of weaponry. "He already knew too much," the Slayer continued, "But this was the first time he let his guard down enough for me to strike."

"Right...right..." Flint murmured as he stood up and brushed himself down, "You look awful, Jason," he noted.

In other circumstances, Mann would have made a joke out of his blunt comment, but it was clear from the dirt and blood that covered the warrior's clothes as well as the wan, ashen lines of his face that he was in no mood for jokes. He didn't voice a reply, but continued to sort through the weapons, retrieving ones he thought would be useful.

"Where have you been, Jason?"

The albino finally looked at him, and Gideon was taken aback by the deep sadness in his eyes. It was a bleak hopelessness he never hoped to see in the face of the man who had been one of the few shining beacons of light in these dark days.

"Behind enemy lines," he finally said, "Doing what I could..." he trailed off, and the priest didn't press him for any more information.

With his arms laden with weapons, Mann wordlessly scaled the basement steps and into the church proper. Flint followed him, giving the heroic Shadow Slayer all the time he needed to give him the answers he wanted. Mann knelt down near the altar and dumped the weapons down in a heap. He paused for a second and then slung the bag he carried down from his back and produced something from it.

"What's that?"

"Something very important."

The vial seemed to radiate darkness as he lifted it up and held it to the pale moonlight that streamed through the stained-glass window above the altar.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Mann looked back at the priest and nodded. "I had to go through a hell of a lot to get this..." he said quietly. Once again, Flint didn't press for answers to the thousand questions that sprung up in his mind.

"Why not just destroy it?"

"It cannot be destroyed - it is a living demon; if I smashed this container on the floor, it would sit there on the flagstones waiting for someone to harness its power. If I threw it into the ocean, it would cling to the surface like an oil slick and eventually find its way to land."

"So...what now...?"

Mann stood up and carefully placed the vial on the altar without taking his eyes of it, as if he didn't trust the demonic essence even in its inert form. "It stays here. He's coming for it and when he does...we must be ready for him..."

Father Flint nodded silently. He didn't like the plan, but he knew it was their only chance now.

* * *

It was the closest thing to a ceasefire in three years. The skies were constantly overcast in a pall of radioactive dust from the detonations on the East Coast. There were all kinds of government warnings about how to deal with the toxic fallout that now covered the North American continent, but no one seemed to care very much.

If the radiation didn't kill you, the vampires would eventually anyway.

For half a century, nuclear weapons had been seen as the ultimate deterrent; the final devastating blow that would sound the death-knell for any enemy. But this time, they did little more than delay the inevitable.

The armies of the Abyss would soon recover and their vengeance would be terrible to behold.

Jason Mann spent his time during those strange days of peace in quiet contemplation. He'd been on the move for as long as he could remember, and now he had the time to finally think.

The events of his life were replayed over and over in his mind as he wandered through the gravestones of the churchyard, the dark pall of a promised nuclear winter hanging over it. As a young man, he had made his most terrible discovery; his heritage as the Son of Lucifer himself.

For years, he had struggled with this terrible knowledge, constantly caught between good and evil, striving to do the right thing and yet having no clear idea what ‘right' even meant. He despised his demonic side, and yet embraced what it could do for him.

As the head of a narcotics empire he had done many questionable things with his power, until his evil deeds finally caught up with him. It was because of those days that he fought so hard against this evil. The truth, that no one but him and a few others knew, was that the man who had come to destroy him was now their most terrible enemy...and he had once had the chance to kill him...

Jason Mann, Son of Lucifer, once stood with his blade to the throat of Darkness, Shadow Slayer.

Things were different then. Darkness was human and Mann was the demon; their positions reversed. Mann had hesitated, and he knew that it was that which had saved him. Darkness had seen that his abilities could be used for good, and he had become a Shadow Slayer.

They were closer than brothers, once.

It was a grim twist of fate that Mann had not been there in Cambodia when Dragon's second's hesitation had cost the world so much. Darkness, who had once been the mightiest Slayer of all, had become a foe too terrible to contemplate. How could Dragon have known who he truly was? That Darkness, of all people, was Azrael himself.

If they'd know that, they would have kept him locked in a cell somewhere until every vampire on Earth was destroyed.

Mann stopped as he came to one particular tombstone and sighed heavily as his eyes pierced through the unnatural mist. For a second, he thought it was her...standing there...her ghost in the fog, come to reassure and help him in this dark hour.

But it was not. Merely the exquisite marble statue in her likeness that adorned the tomb white tomb of his beloved. He knelt before it and bowed his head, letting his white hair hang down and cover his eyes. Pale fingers reached out and traced the simple inscription. Nothing more than a name; it was all he needed to remember what she was.

SELENIA.

The first casualty of the Last World War, though no one knew it. Darkness had taken special care over her and made sure Mann knew how she had suffered. What the monstrous Vampire Lord had left of her once beautiful form he had delivered to Mann and he had interred it here...that was how he had first met Gideon.

This was Jason Mann's chosen battleground. Here, where the woman he had loved now rested, was where he would draw his blade and finally end this age of terror and death.

"No more," the albino whispered, "We've made too many compromises already; too many retreats. He invades our lands, and we fall back. He destroys entire cities; and we fall back. Not again."

Mann stood up and turned to where the weakling sun shone through the nuclear fog low in the sky and fixed his eyes upon it. Slowly, he drew his rapier from the cane he kept always at his hip.

"The line must be drawn here," he vowed, "This far and no further..."

He looked down at his blade.

Amor E Morte.

Love is dead.

"...and I will make him pay for what he has done."

It was June 21st.

* * *

The doors of the church were forced open and a bloodied figure stumbled in. Quickly, Flint dashed towards him and supported his weight with one shoulder. He recognised the Slayer from Mann and Drake's descriptions.

"Dragon?"

"You must be...F...Father Flint," he gasped hoarsely.

The priest nodded as he helped the warrior to a pew and then left to get water and bandages to tend his wounds. As Gideon walked past, Mann stepped from the shadows and gave Dragon a flat stare.

The two men had never been friends, but they respected each other's abilities. Smirking, Dragon lifted up what remained of his greatsword, "Bastard broke my fucking sword..."

Mann nodded softly. "How far?"

"Not nearly far enough. I kept him busy for a while, killed those fucking dogs of his, but he'll be here soon enough."

"He's alone?"

Dragon spat out a gob of blood as Flint returned with first aid supplies and began dressing his many wounds, "Yeah, the nukes have left his army holed up back East. It's just him...but that's enough..."

Mann slunk back into the shadows of the church. Darkness would come, that was clear, but did he have the power to defeat him? Truly, he was the mightiest of all the Shadow Slayers that remained and, as Son of Lucifer, had many powers and abilities at his disposal. But if what Dragon said was true, would even that be enough to stop the vampire?

He didn't have to wait long to find out.

With a roar like a burst of thunder, the doors of the church exploded inwards, sending splinters of oak scything through the building. There, in the ruined doorframe stood their greatest enemy.

Darkness stepped nonchalantly into the church and Mann's breath caught in his throat as he saw, for the first time up-close, his former comrade.

Darkness's once-healthy skin was now pallid and rotten, sloughing off in places and exposing yellowed bone beneath. His eyes, formerly a thunderous steel-grey, like a stormy sky, were now pale orbs with only a tiny, pinprick pupil in the centre. White fangs, the only healthy looking part of his body, now leered out of his mouth. His black hair hung lank from his desiccated skin and his beard was patchy and grey where it still clung to his rotten flesh.

Yet there was still a terrifying power to him. His wasted muscles radiated an unholy strength and his majesty was still the same, though now warped into something terrible in place of its former glory.

They called him ‘Lord Abortion', and Mann could see why.

Dragon stood up, pushing Flint to one side and lifting the remnants of his weapon. "Will you end this, Nightcrawler?"

Darkness laughed a hollow, dry laugh at the nickname and walked towards Dragon without hesitation. As the Shadow Slayer stood up from the pew, he seemed to catch sight of something outside the church through the remains of the shattered doors. Curious, Mann adjusted his position to see what had caused Dragon's moment of hesitation and found his own knees growing weak.

In the church's grounds stood a number of huge wooden crosses, suspended upon which were a number of men Mann recognised. Drake...Nathan Bolas...Captain...no, he corrected himself, Colonel Doe now...

He could hear their screams; sense their pain.

All of a sudden, the crosses burst into flame and Mann could see the men and women that clustered around them, hands raised as if in worship of the barbaric spectacle.

Cultists. A man in white stood before them all, leading on the twisted congregation. They chanted a terrible mantra into the dull night sky.

"Archangel, dark angel, lend me thy light..."

The Archangel of which they spoke reached out to Dragon and lifted him by the throat. "Finally, I have you," Darkness whispered, "And you will die by my hand."

"Never!" Dragon bellowed, drawing a pistol from behind his back and squeezing the trigger, emptying the ammo clip into the vampire's skull. Darkness staggered back, his rotten hands clutching at his face. Dragon landed hard on the floor and scrabbled for another weapon, but when his fingers settled on a gun, it was flung from his hands as if by a gust of wind.

The Slayer looked up at Darkness and saw the terrifying sight of the vampire's flesh knitting back together literally before his eyes. He tried to stand, but Darkness threw out his hand and, like his gun a moment ago, Dragon was thrown backwards to crash unceremoniously through the huge stained glass window with a scream of agony.

Mann knew that the glass would have cut him to pieces almost instantly.

But now something had draw the dark lord's eyes. Moving as if with religious reverence, Darkness approached the altar beneath the window where the vial of black, viscous liquid stood. He reached out a hand as he fell to his knees.

"At last...it is mine..."

For just a moment, the vampire let down his guard and closed his eyes, succumbing to some kind of ecstasy of triumph...

Mann struck. He stepped from behind a pillar immediately to Darkness's left and, without hesitation, plunged his sword through the creature's heart.

"Arghhhhhhhhhh!"

The blow was the only sure way to kill a monster like this and Mann cleanly pulled out the blade and stepped back as Darkness arched back his head and bellowed into the night.

It was done.

Darkness slumped down and Mann breathed a sigh in the silence that followed.

"Is...is he dead...?"

Mann nodded in response to Flint's question and turned to the priest with a relieved expression. However, Flint's eyes had gone wide and his face pale with terror.

"You have miscalculated, Mann," a familiar voice behind the Shadow Slayer said.

He whirled, to see Darkness standing at the altar, the vial in his hand. He held it up and smiled, showing his lethal fangs. "This is not the Shadowman serum."

Mann frowned and took a step back. He couldn't find the words to voice his incomprehension.

"My followers had already procured for me the real serum - this is nothing more than a fake." With a smirk, the vampire flung the vial to the ground where it shattered and let its contents to seep harmlessly into the flagstones.

"Then..."

"Then it is done already, Jason..."

"...no."

"I am he whose coming is foretold. I am he who holds all the world in his palm. I am the one who has led the Abyss to victory in the War To End All Wars. I am the Marked One, who bears the Rune of Hades."

"It cannot be..."

"A SHADOW EVEN IN DAYLIGHT. A CHILL WIND EVEN IN SUMMER. A THUNDERBOLT FROM A CLEAR BLUE SKY; I AM THE ALPHA AND THE OMEGA...

"CONCIEVED IN HEAVEN, BORN OF EARTH AND TAINTED BY HELL.

"THE PRINCE..."

"Prince...?" Mann murmured, stepping back as Darkness seemed to grow in stature as his words echoed through the darkened church.

"...OF DARKNESS."

Mann simply shook his head as he tried to tighten his grip on his sword, but found his fingers wouldn't let him.

"I AM THE CHOSEN ONE."

"No..."

"I AM THE 666TH MARKED ONE, I..."

"No!"

"...AM THE ANTICHRIST!"

As he spoke that last word, his leather jacket fell off his shoulders and he arched his back. To Mann's horror, two hideous, bat-like wings erupted from Darkness's shoulder blades and spread across the space once occupied by the stained-glass window. Darkness drew his sword and held it aloft, causing the weapon to burst into flame.

With a laugh, Darkness raised his other hand and fire sprung up immediately to either side of them, consuming every surface of the building.

"This is the Endgame, Jason...I will kill you just as I killed your father and your wife."

Mann had nothing else left to say. As Darkness spread his huge wings and lunged at him, he could only raise his sword and fight to the very last.

That was the last thing Gideon Flint saw as tears began to blur his vision and he closed his eyes...